“How was the drive?” Nico asks as I hurry up the porch steps and take a seat across from him. The dogs lift their heads, glaring at me in unison. Like my brother, they’re not much for people. They barely tolerate me, but they love him.
Nico hands me a thermos, and I take a long drag of warm coffee before answering.
“Shit. It’s always shit.”
“You need a better car.”
I raise a brow at him. “You need a better address.”
“Better than this?” Nico gestures to the surrounding trees. Mountains tower over the horizon, and there’s a bird of prey calling somewhere in the distance. He has a point.
“How have you been?” I ask, changing the subject, because his choice to live up here is a dead horse at this point.
Nico shrugs, and I can see him clam up a little. “You know. Same old, same old.” His voice is scratchy, like it’s been a while since he spoke out loud. It probably has been. Our conversations are mostly texts, and he has exactly one friend, whom I know he barely talks to. He occasionally drives down the mountain for work or to stock up on supplies in Jackson, and he calls our parents every couple of weeks, but he’s not exactly chatty.
“How are things with you?” he asks.
“Pretty much the same. The movie’s going well. I think it is, anyway. We don’t have a lot to do with it beyond handing over whatever they’ve asked us to make, but everyone seems happy. And the town’s super busy, so that’s been good, customer-wise. Actually, I got an order last week for a birthday cake…” I continue to talk about everything and nothing, and Nico nods and grunts, absentmindedly stroking the dogs, and playing at paying attention. It’s the same song and dance every time I come here.
It’s not that he doesn’t care what I have to say; it’s just that whatever I’m talking about isn’t his main focus. He’d never admit it, but I know it’s hard for Nico to look at me and see anything but Georgie. We weren’t identical, but we were close. Her hair was a little lighter, her eyes a little darker, her nose a little sharper. She was objectively prettier, but that had everything to do with how she presented herself. It’s hard to imagine how she would be now, but I like to think we’d still look as alike at forty-seven as we did at twenty-five.
Forty-seven. God.
My parents struggle to look at me, too. It’s one of the reasons I finally gave up on California and moved out here.
Nico moved to Wintermore a year after Georgie died. She had two obsessions: France and cheesy holiday movies. WhenA Christmas Wish in the Mountainsreleased, she watched it on repeat for months. We were going to surprise her with a trip to Wintermore as a birthday gift, but we were on our way to our birthday dinner when the accident happened.
Georgie never did find out about the plane tickets tucked inside her birthday card.
I liked Wintermore the first time I flew out to visit Nico, but I didn’t make the move until my divorce. When the payment came through from my half of the house, at the same time as the café on Main Street went on the market, it seemed like fate. Georgie and I always talked about opening a patisserie when we lived in Paris, and suddenly I could make her dream come true in her favorite town. How could I not make it happen?
I naively thought it would bring Nico and me closer in more than proximity, but our relationship remains largely “how have you been?” and “anything new with you?” It’s like we’re scared to open up about anything of substance in case it brings up ghosts from the past. Everything always comes back to Georgie.
And every time I do try to talk, he shuts me down. There used to be nothing we didn’t talk about, and I miss it. I miss having someone to talk to, and Nico probably does, too. It can’t be good for either of us to keep things so surface-level.
I finish my coffee and clear my throat. “You know how I was kind of into women before Philippe and I got married?”
Nico’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flash of confusion in his eyes—gray, but darker than mine and Georgie’s. “Kind of into women?” he asks slowly. “What the hell are you talking about ‘kind of’? Shay, you exclusively dated women from the ages of sixteen to twenty-five.”
“Right. But it’s been a while, obviously. I haven’t thought about who I’m interested in since I was married for so long, and it’s not like I’ve dated since the divorce.”
Surprise lights Nico’s face. “At all?”
I shake my head, drumming my nails on the thermos. “I tried. I downloaded the apps, even spoke to a couple of people, but no one clicked.”
“And I assume, since you’re talking about it now, that you’ve met someone?”
“Kind of. Yeah.” I sigh, and Nico gestures for me to go on. “It’s complicated.”
“Because she’s a woman? You can’t seriously still be worried about upsetting Mom and Dad. I think enough time has passed since…” Nico trails off, shadows gathering in his eyes.
“It’s not that,” I hurry to say.
“Is she married?”
“No. She’s… thirty.”
Nico’s so stoic that even I can’t always discern what the micro-changes in his expression mean, but the eyebrow he raises is pretty damn clear. At least it distracts him from almost talking about Georgie. “Well, shit. I mean, thirty is young, but I guess it’s notthatyoung. Just feels like a lifetime ago.”
