3. Ginger
GINGER
"Hurry up, Mom!" Karl glares at me, his foot tapping an impatient rhythm against the floor while I assembled the final touches on his lunch. I laugh at the determined look I knew all too well—the one that appeared whenever Julian's name had been mentioned in the past week.
"You're having more fun here than I am."
"That's because you don't want to have fun." He gestures toward the window where fresh snow sparkled on the mountains. "There are a ton of fun things to do here."
He leans against the table, inching closer to me, his expression serious.
"Mom, you should come out today and have fun."
My gaze drops to the countertop. Six days of hiding.
Six days watching other families laughing on the slopes through the window.
Six days of excuses. The few times I'd ventured to the lodge, men's expressions transformed mid-conversation—polite smiles morphing into hungry calculations the moment someone whispered 'that lottery winner.
' Their eyes would flick to my left hand, then back to my face with newfound intensity, voices dropping to a honeyed pitch that made my skin crawl.
"I intend to do that today, Karl."
"Good." He narrows his eyes, studying my face as if trying to determine whether I was serious.
"Are you still not talking to Julian's dad?"
My hands freeze, the mayonnaise knife suspended mid-air like a conductor's baton halted mid-symphony. "What? Why?"
He shrugs, suddenly finding his shoes fascinating. "I think you don't like each other."
Heat creeps into my cheeks. 'What do you mean?
Of course I like him!' My voice pitching higher than intended—the universal tell of someone caught in an uncomfortable truth.
I shove the plate of chicken sandwiches toward him with trembling fingers, nearly knocking over the salt shaker.
I busy myself wiping invisible crumbs from the counter, avoiding his too-perceptive gaze.
Sharing the suite is surprisingly easy. We keep to our respective sides for most of the day, our paths crossed more frequently as the days passed. The initial awkwardness of two strangers forced to share living space gradually evolving into something resembling a comfortable routine.
"Coffee maker priority established at 6:45 AM for Mr. Reed," I'd announced on day three, sliding a hand-written schedule across the kitchen island. "Ms. Lawson retains exclusive rights from 8:00 to 9:30."
Tyler had laughed—a genuine sound that crinkled the corners of his eyes in a way business executives probably didn't allow themselves in boardrooms. "Negotiating coffee rights? You drive a hard bargain, Lawson."
"I don't mess around with caffeine," I'd replied, fighting a smile. "Some things are sacred."
Little moments like that accumulated: Tyler explaining the resort's best hidden trails while Karl and Julian built LEGO dinosaur lairs on the living room floor; me teaching him how to make my grandmother's hot chocolate recipe after they had a particularly frigid day on the slopes; both of us discovering a shared love for terrible sci-fi movies, which led to an impromptu movie marathon one night when the boys crashed early from exhaustion.
I noticed things about him I hadn't expected—how he always placed his coffee mug in the dishwasher instead of in the sink, the way he checked on Julian multiple times after he was asleep, how his forehead creased when he checked emails but relaxed when he was truly enjoying himself.
His laugh became familiar, a sound I found myself trying to elicit more often with my dry observations about resort guests and their ridiculous designer snow gear.
One thing that catches my breath is seeing this gorgeous man sipping coffee when I stumble out to get my first glorious hit of caffeine.
His hair mussed from sleep, dressed in worn sweats instead of the tailored clothes he wears in public, he seems more approachable, more human.
And more than once, I've caught him watching me with a curious expression when he thought I wasn't looking.
Last night, we'd stayed up talking long after the boys were asleep, sharing stories about single parenthood over glasses of surprisingly decent resort wine.
I'd forgotten how good it felt to have an adult conversation that didn't revolve around school schedules or my ex-husband's latest drama.
Tyler actually listened when I spoke, asked thoughtful questions, and shared his own vulnerabilities about raising Julian alone.
When our hands accidentally brushed as we both reached for the wine bottle, neither of us pulled away quite as quickly as we should have.
"Thanks, Mom." Julian say, breaking me from my thoughts and already moving on from the conversation. He takes a bite, then smiles at me, a speck of mayonnaise on his chin; the same innocent face that had been preceding requests since he was four. "Uh, one last thing."
I raise an eyebrow. "What is it, honey?"
"Can you make an extra plate for Julian? Please?" He clasps his hands together in exaggerated pleading.
"Of course."
"Yay! Thank you!"
He bounces on his toes, arms windmilling in excitement until his elbow caught his glass.
Juice sloshes dangerously close to the rim.
I steady it with a quick hand, my smile faltering as I watch him.
The same excited dance he'd performed when making his first friend in kindergarten, before we'd had to move again.
Before yet another new school had reset his fragile social progress.
My throat tightens at the calendar of empty playdates stretching behind us.
He pushes the last piece of sandwich into his mouth and chewed quickly. "I'll see you later, Mom. I got to go."
I push Julian's wrapped sandwiches toward him. "Here, have fun," I say, unable to keep the wistfulness from my voice.
He takes the package, then glares at me, a look so fierce I almost laughed despite my melancholy. "Mom, let's go out together. You haven't even tried to ski. Come on."
He sits back down, crossing his arms with the stubborn determination he'd inherited from me. "I'll wait for you to get ready."
"It's okay, Karl." I wipe my hands on a kitchen towel.
I am tired of being approached by men who found me fascinating now that I had a winning lottery ticket in my back pocket.
I wasn't in the mood to be someone's retirement plan, and getting into a relationship ranked somewhere between 'voluntary tax audit' and 'wisdom tooth removal' on my priority list.
"No, Mom." The determination in his voice surprises me. "Just be quick. You stay here all the time, I want you to have fun too."
Karl's eyes, hazel like his father's but infinitely kinder, narrow at the corners.
His small mouth presses into a determined line that belonged on someone three times his age.
The same look he'd given me when I'd forgotten to eat during those first awful months after the divorce. My resistance crumbles like wet sand.
"Okay, okay."
I dash into the bedroom while Karl's impatient footsteps pace the living area. My eight-year-old drill sergeant, waiting to inspect my winter gear.
I emerge moments later, bundled up against the mountain chill, arms spread for inspection. "All right, Sergeant Karl. I'm ready for duty."
We leave the suite together, stepping into the wide hallway with its plush carpet and elegant lighting.
The resort hums with morning energy; families heading to breakfast, ski instructors gathering their groups, the distant sound of music from the main lobby.
Karl walks ahead of me, practically bouncing with each step, eager to meet Julian.
As we approach the slopes, I inhale the crisp mountain air filtering through the windows. My chest expands with something besides anxiety—for the first time since arriving, a flutter of excitement about joining the activities instead of being a spectator to other people's joy.
"Hi uh, Ginger?"
I turn at the unfamiliar voice. A woman stands there, chestnut hair catching the sunlight.
Her snow gear, pristine white with crimson accents, hugs her figure, the designer logo emblazoned across the chest. Fine lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes when she smiles, her lipstick a perfect matte red that hadn't cracked despite the dry mountain air. My own lips are chapped and flaking.
"Hello." I return her smile, though mine felt stiff by comparison.
"Ginger, right? I'm not sure I remember correctly."
"Yeah, have we met?" I study her face, searching for any hint of recognition.
"Oh no, no. I'm sorry. My name is Olivia Rawlins."
We continue walking, Karl had already darted ahead, making a beeline for Julian who waved from the bottom of the gentle training slope.
"Nice to meet you, Olivia." I smile, the kind of smile I'd perfected for brief encounters that wouldn't lead anywhere.
"It's nice to meet you too." She shifts, adjusting her designer scarf. "I've seen you around the resort a few times. Are you enjoying your stay?"
"It's beautiful here," I reply, my standard response when people asked. Neutral, pleasant, revealing nothing.
We walk alongside each other, following the path towards the slopes. The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable, just the natural pause of two strangers with no real reason to connect.
"The views from the north-face are spectacular," she offers. "Do you ski?"
"Not really," I admit. "I'm more of a 'hot chocolate by the fireplace while everyone else risks breaking their necks on icy slopes' kind of person."
She laughs, the sound genuine and warm. "I can appreciate that. Though you're missing out on some incredible slopes."
I nod, watching Karl's animated gestures as he talks to Julian. "Maybe I should try. My son seems to be loving it."
"First time here?" she asks, her tone conversational rather than probing.
"Yes. I wanted something special for Karl this year." I hesitate, then add, "We needed a change of scenery."