Chapter 88 Derrick
DERRICK
The morning comes way too fast. I wake to pale light seeping around the curtains and a dull, thudding ache in my cheek. The other side of the bed is empty, the covers cold. For a split second, panic skitters through me.
Charlie.
I drag myself out of bed, shuffle into sweatpants and a hoodie, and step out quietly. He’s lying on the couch, blanket half kicked off, one arm over his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept at all.
“Hey,” I say softly.
He jerks, arm dropping, eyes going straight to my face. His expression crumples when he sees the bruise.
“Fuck. D,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry.”
“We’re not starting the day with that,” I say firmly. “New rule.”
His brows pull together. “With what? Me apologizing for punching you in the face in my sleep?”
“With you flogging yourself,” I correct. “You apologized about twenty times last night. I accepted. The contract is binding. No more apologizing unless you actually do something wrong. And PTSD is not wrong.”
He stares at me like he’s not sure whether to laugh or cry. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet you still love me,” I say, dropping onto the edge of the coffee table so we’re eye-level. “How did you sleep?”
He huffs out a humorless breath. “Didn’t.”
“Okay. That’s not going to fly long term.”
“I know.”
“Then we’ll figure it out,” I say simply. “Therapist, doctor, whatever we need. But right now, I’d really like coffee.”
That finally pulls a tiny smile from him. “You and my mother are the same person.”
“Terrifying thought,” I mutter, getting to my feet. “Come on. Let’s face the firing squad.”
He grimaces as he grabs his leg. “They’re going to treat me like a bomb.”
“They’re going to treat me like a porcelain doll, and you like you’re made of glass,” I say. “So, let’s go act aggressively normal and short-circuit it.”
Aggressively normal lasts exactly seven seconds. The moment we step into the dining area, all conversation stops. Caroline is at the table with her phone, and Robert with his newspaper and a pot of coffee. Everly and Faith are stuffing themselves with croissants.
All four heads swivel toward us in perfect synchrony.
Caroline’s eyes go straight to my cheek, and she gasps softly, hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, sweetheart.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, holding up a hand. “I swear. It looks worse than it is.”
“That’s because it looks like you’ve been in a bar fight,” Everly says, trying for light, but her eyes are too wide.
“Technically, I was in bed,” I point out. “So, y’know, maybe we call it a pillow fight gone wrong.”
Robert snorts despite himself.
Charlie steps away from me slightly, arms crossing, putting actual physical space between us like that will protect me.
I hate it.
“Coffee?” Caroline offers, already pouring.
“Yes, please,” I say, moving to sit beside Everly. “And if anyone asks, I ran into a door.”
Faith arches a brow. “You’re really going to use the door excuse?”
“You’re right.” I sigh. “I tripped over my own fabulousness.”
That gets a proper laugh out of Everly at least.
Caroline slides a mug in front of me and brushes my hair back gently so she can inspect the bruise. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”
“Just the regular amount,” I joke. “No concussion symptoms, promise.”
“Good,” Robert says. “Because I already googled the nearest hospital last night just in case.”
“You would,” Charlie mutters.
“Of course I would,” Robert shoots back. “You’re my son. Derrick is family. I plan ahead.”
“I’m sorry about last night,” Caroline says quietly, eyes on Charlie now. “If I pushed too hard …”
“You didn’t,” Charlie says quickly. “Mom, this isn’t … it’s not about you. Or the speech. Or the trip. It’s just … my brain being an asshole.”
She blinks rapidly, fighting tears again. “Well, your brain is wrong. You are safe. You are loved. And nobody here fears you.”
“Speak for yourself,” Faith says dryly, nodding at my face. “I’m watching that right hook.”
“Not really helping, Faith,” Everly tells her.
She shrugs. “What? Dark humor is our family’s love language.”
“She gets that from me,” Robert says proudly.
Charlie finally looks at me, guilt still written all over his features. “D, seriously, if you want to take it easy today, stay in, spa day, whatever, I get it. You don’t have to …”
“I want to ski,” I cut in. All of them stare at me like I’ve just announced I like women. “What?” I ask. “We came all this way. There’s snow. There are mountains. I want to ski. I’ve never skied before.”
“You hate sports,” Charlie states.
“Seems like today is a good day to start loving them,” I tell him.
“I refuse to let one bad night turn this into the Charlie Trauma Show. We’re here to have fun.
So, I’m going to get Everly to put concealer on my face, then we’re going to go up a mountain, and I’m going to humiliate myself in front of rich Swiss people. That’s the plan.”
“You don’t have to hide it. A lot of beginner skiers have black eyes.” She smiles over her mug of coffee.
“Good to know, but I’m vain, so …” I smile.
Charlie watches all this with a strange expression, like he can’t quite believe I’m not shriveling up in a ball in the corner.
I catch his eye. “We’re okay,” I mouth.
He swallows, nods once.
Ten minutes later, I’m sitting at the dining table with a beauty blender dabbing at my face. “Your skin is flawless,” Everly grumbles.
“It’s my gay superpower.” I smirk at her. “Plus, moisturizer is my religion.”
“Okay, turn,” she orders.
I obey.
She taps, blends, and dusts, then sits back, satisfied. “There. You look like yourself, just … slightly less assaulted.”
I check my reflection in my phone camera. The bruise is still faintly visible if you know where to look, but it’s muted, softened.
“It’ll probably show through more when the swelling goes down,” Everly warns. “But for today, on the mountain, you’re good. Helmet and goggles will cover most of it anyway.”
“Helmet?” I echo weakly.
Faith smirks. “What, you thought they’d just let you hurl yourself off a mountain with your raw skull?”
“Honestly, that sounds very on-brand.”
Charlie comes over, fingers brushing my shoulder lightly. “Are you sure about this?” he asks. “We can also just take a walk, get hot chocolate, sit by the fire …”
“I am going to be terrible at skiing,” I tell him. “I am going to complain the entire time. I am going to fall on my ass in front of small children and Italian men in catsuits. But I want to go. I need to do something that’s not … this.” I gesture between my face and his chest.
He searches my eyes for a beat, then nods. “Okay. We’ll take it slow.”
“Good. I’m not breaking a leg on this trip. I have fittings when we get back.”
Caroline claps her hands, instantly sliding into Mom Trip Coordinator mode. “Wonderful. I’ll call down, have them get our passes ready at the concierge desk, and let them know we need rental gear for Derrick. We’ll go after breakfast.”
“Are you coming up with us?” I ask.
“Are you kidding? I’ve had my ski gear planned for weeks,” she says.
Fast-forward an hour, and I’m standing at the base of the mountain, encased in layers, boots locked into skis, helmet on, goggles pushed up on my forehead, questioning every life choice that brought me here.
“Okay, you look like a skiing Ken doll,” Everly teases.
“I feel like a newborn deer on roller skates,” I say.
The slope in front of us is allegedly a beginner run, but it looks vertical to me. Tiny children zoom past like suicidal marshmallows.
Charlie adjusts my poles, patiently. “We’re starting on the baby slope,” he reminds me. “No heroics, no black diamonds.”
“The only black diamond I know is in Harry Winston,” I mutter.
Charlie steps in front of me, skis parallel to mine. “Okay. Pizza and French fries, remember?” he says. “V-shape to slow down, parallel to go straight. Keep your weight forward, not back.”
“I thought this was supposed to be fun,” I complain.
Faith slides by us effortlessly, like she was born with skis attached. “It is fun,” she calls over her shoulder. “Once you stop fearing death.”
“Cool, cool, very reassuring, thank you so much,” I shout back.
Charlie smiles softly. “We’ll go together. I’ll stay right next to you. Statistically, you’re also the one most likely to take me out if you wipe out,” he tells me.
I look at him, really look at him. The tired eyes, the faint bruise under one of them from lack of sleep, the way he’s carrying himself like he deserves to be punished.
“Let’s do this.”
His throat bobs. “Okay. Ready?”
“Absolutely not, but I’m not going to waste this outfit,” I say. “Let’s go.”
He laughs, pushes off slowly, and I follow.
The first thirty seconds are … chaos.
My legs feel like they belong to someone else. The skis try to cross. My brain screams at me about gravity, velocity, and bones. I somehow manage to move without immediately dying or breaking a limb.
“Good!” Charlie calls from beside me. “You’re doing great!”
“I am absolutely not,” I yell back. “My quads are on fire. My ass is clenched. This is a hate crime.”
A tiny Swiss child in a neon snowsuit shoots past me.
“Fuck off, toddler!” I shout, which makes Charlie howl with laughter.
We reach the bottom of the baby slope without me eating snow. I’m sweating under my layers, heart pounding.
“I did it,” I pant. “I am a god.”
“That was the flattest part,” Faith points out as she glides to a stop, barely breathing hard. “Wait until the top.”
“I don’t need that negativity,” I tell her.
We shuffle back to the magic carpet, the little conveyor-belt-thing that drags you uphill.
I almost fall just standing on it. By the third lap, my legs are shaking, my dignity is in tatters, and I’ve sworn in three different languages.
But I haven’t actually fallen yet, and Charlie looks stupidly proud.
“See?” he says. “You’re a natural.”
“I am absolutely not,” I say. “But I am stubborn, and that’s almost the same thing.”
Caroline waves at us from further up, elegant in a white ski suit with a faux-fur hood, looking like she stepped out of a luxury catalogue. “Come on!” she calls. “Meet us at the top for one proper run. Then we can have hot chocolate.”
“Hot chocolate,” I repeat, like a prayer. “Okay. For hot chocolate, I’ll risk my life.”
Charlie’s jaw tenses slightly, like the word risk lands differently in his head. He pushes past it, forcing a smile. “We’ll keep it slow. I promise.”
We take the chairlift up, me gripping the bar like it’s the only thing tethering me to the earth.
“This is high,” I say.
“This is medium,” Charlie replies. “You’re doing great.”
The view is disgustingly beautiful. Mountains stretching forever, powdery slopes dotted with skiers, the lake a little toy mirror in the distance. We dismount at the top with minimal drama. I only half stumble, and then we’re standing at the start of the green run. It looks long.
“Okay,” Charlie says, planting his poles. “We’ll do big, lazy turns. Take our time. If you freak out, we stop. Got it?”
“Define freak out.”
“Anything involving screaming my name like I’ve set you on fire.”
“Copy that,” I say. “Let’s get this over with.”
We push off.
At first, it’s okay. Slow, careful turns, my thighs screaming but manageable. Charlie stays just ahead of me, glancing back every few seconds, coaching. Caroline and Robert are dots further down the slope, Faith and Everly are showing off somewhere, carving back and forth.
Then I hit a patch of slightly steeper terrain.
My speed picks up.
Panic flares.
“Pizza! Pizza!” Charlie calls, motioning with his hands.
“I’m trying!” I yell, but my skis feel like they’re on greased rails.
The wind bites my cheeks, my eyes water, and the trees on the side of the run blur.
My weight tips back, skis shoot out from under me, and I go down on my ass with an undignified yelp, sliding for a good ten meters before friction and panic finally stop me.
I lie there, spread-eagled in the snow, staring up at the sky.
“D!” Charlie’s voice, closer now, anxious. “Are you okay?”
I groan. “I am one giant bruise.”
He shuffles down to me, snow spraying, and crouches beside me, breath puffing white in the cold. “Anything hurt?”
“Besides my pride? All of me.” I moan. “I think my soul dislocated.” A kid skis past and laughs at me. Fucking asshole.
Charlie snorts. “Can you move your legs?”
“Yes,” I grumble, wiggling them. “Unfortunately.”
“Then you’re okay,” he says gently. “Want to call it? We can walk down and go get that hot chocolate.”
I stare up at him, his brows furrowed, guilt lurking just under the concern.
Last night tried to drag him back into hell. Today, I’m not letting it.
“I’m not quitting halfway down a beginner slope,” I say. “Help me up.”
He hesitates. “D …”
“Help. Me. Up,” I repeat.
He offers his hands, and I grab them, letting him haul me upright. I wobble, nearly go down again, then find my balance. “You know this is miserable, right?” I tell him. “I am having a horrible time.”
“I know,” he says softly.
“But I’m glad I’m here,” I add. “With you.”
His eyes go shiny in a way that has nothing to do with the cold. “Me too,” he says.
We make it down the rest of the run in a series of awkward, stop-start turns. I fall twice more, swear creatively both times, and by the time we reach the bottom, my legs are jelly, and I’m sweating like I’ve run a marathon in a sauna.
But I’m also laughing.
So is Charlie.
So is Everly, when she sees the snow plastered to my back. “You look like you got into a fight with a snowman.” She cackles.
“I did,” I mutter. “He won.”
Faith claps me on the shoulder. “You survived your first real ski run,” she says. “You’ve earned your hot chocolate.”
Caroline links her arm through mine. “With whipped cream and extra marshmallows,” she decrees, leading us toward the slope-side bar. “My treat.”
Charlie falls into step on my other side, his gloved fingers brushing mine, just enough contact to say I’m here.
Last night was rough.
Tonight, might be, too.
But right now, in this moment, legs aching, butt bruised, face half-covered in concealer, surrounded by this loud, ridiculous, loving family, I feel like everything is going to be okay.