Chapter 8 Ransom
Ransom
As a rule, I don’t like to argue with the women I date. I went through plenty of that with my ex-wife.
I’m not trying to make a relationship work for the long haul—I just need it to work for the short time we’re together.
Calypso and I are arguing. Or rather, mostly, she’s being vociferous about my treatment of her.
In all honesty, when I met Calypso, I figured that, being in her late thirties, a world traveler, and an ex-model, she was sophisticated enough to have a friends-with-benefits relationship.
But here we are.
“You keep staring at her, Ransom,” she accuses me as we get ready for bed after spending the evening drinking mulled wine and eating gourmet s’mores.
I have a light buzz going, and I’m not in the mood for anything other than sleep.
I know what else is bothering Calypso besides her allegation that I keep looking at Ember.
We haven’t had sex since we came to Chamonix.
Granted, it’s only been three nights—but we’re a new couple and we don’t live together, so when we are in the same bed, we have sex. It’s what this relationship is about.
I haven’t been able to do it. Haven’t had the slightest bit of interest. It feels wrong, especially when I’m spending an inordinate amount of time remembering what it felt like to be inside another woman.
Seeing Ember again has brought it all back in painful, high-definition technicolor—every touch, every sound, every taste.
I remember how she looks when she comes. I remember how she blows me, sucks me off. I remember how she waves her hands as she speaks about something she’s passionate about. I remember how she kisses, how she hugs, how she likes to touch me even when we sleep, like she’s holding on.
This evening, I watched her—hungrily, avidly—drawn to the quiet mystery of her.
I wanted to know more, to understand what makes her who she is.
She’s always slightly apart, especially in a group.
Like tonight. She barely spoke while everyone else chattered on.
Not because she’s aloof, but because she’s content to observe.
Ember doesn’t need the spotlight. She listens. She absorbs. She belongs in silence as much as in conversation. Calypso, on the other hand, will always reach for the center.
It’s painfully clear to me now that, for all my past condescension about Ember’s age, she’s the one acting with more maturity.
Calypso might be older, but Ember—quiet, composed, self-possessed—has the steadier hand.
Maybe age really is just a number. Perhaps growth has nothing to do with years and everything to do with who you choose to be.
Ember and I were together for a year, and we never argued—not about our relationship or how I treated her or didn’t. Our conversations were about our work, about an article we read, about art, about….
“Ransom, are you even listening to me?” Calypso screeches.
She’s standing over me as I lie in bed. Like a wife, the thought emerges. Like Olivia, who was more often than not spoiling for a fight.
“Two things. First, keep your voice down. Second, what is it that you’re trying to achieve with your questions?” I keep my tone level. I’m not interested in getting into a spat with a woman who is a temporary companion.
She looks down at me, incredulous. “Ransom, you keep staring at Ember. Do you know that? Do you think I’m blind? Are you into her?”
I sit up. “What makes you think you can ask me any of these damn questions?” I swing my feet down, and she moves back, giving me space, both physically and metaphorically.
“What?”
“We’re friends, Calypso. You and I. We’re not girlfriend and boyfriend, as the kids would say.”
“Have you been cheating on me?” Her voice is raised.
I stand. “Jesus, Cali. That’s insulting to me and you.”
She throws her arms around me. “God, I’m sorry. I’m just…I’m feeling insecure.”
I hesitate, then wrap my arms around her. I am fond of her, and she’s here with me.
“What’s going on, Cali?” I ask, my voice low as I stroke her back, comforting, coaxing, easing.
She pulls back slightly, looking up at me. “I…I know you said we were just friends. But I want more, Ransom.”
I stare down at her beautiful, polished face, and feel that familiar pull of discomfort settle low in my chest.
The reason I spend time with women like Calypso, who are charming, fun, and uncomplicated, and not women like Ember, who are sincere, open, and frankly have stars in their eyes, which I can do without, is to avoid conversations like this.
But here I am, backed into a space that asks for more than I’m prepared to give.
Before I can say anything, she shakes her head vigorously. “Forget…just forget I said anything.”
How the fuck am I supposed to do that?
“Please. Just…please forget it,” she pleads. “What we have is…more than enough.”
I nod because that’s the easy thing to do.
The next morning, I wake up early with the kind of alpine clarity that makes the world feel like it’s been scrubbed clean overnight.
Calypso’s distress last night is still making my chest hurt. Usually, she’s bright, infectious, and can make even some of my crustiest colleagues crack a smile.
I don’t love her, but among the women I’ve spent time with, Calypso has been one I’m most compatible with. We get along. We have fun. I’d even let myself imagine that we might actually go the distance—not forever, but maybe something with no obvious expiration date.
I’m forty-five. I’m not interested in bed-hopping or playing games. Easy, enjoyable, stable—those things matter more now than whatever lightning bolt I once thought love had to be.
But in Chamonix, Calypso is different.
Maybe it’s the altitude.
Maybe it’s being surrounded by a family that knows each other down to the bone.
Either way, what felt easy in the Bay Area feels strained here, like we’re trying to waltz to the wrong rhythm.
I know the fault lies with me. I’m making her feel insecure because she’s seeing through me, seeing how I feel about Ember.
And how do you feel about Ember?
Fuck! Not going there with a ten-foot pole. I’m going to live in the now and not dwell on the past or worry about the future.
So I make a quiet promise to myself: make this vacation work. I owe Calypso that much.
Maybe we won’t last—but then again, maybe we will.
We don’t live in Chamonix. Back home, things work.
We get along, fit into each other’s lives with surprising ease.
We share the same values, the same rhythm.
Whatever the future holds, for now, we’re together.
And while we are, I owe her grace. I owe her my full attention.
Even if part of me is struggling to give it.
We meet Latika and the kids in the kitchen.
The kids have already been on the slopes.
Anika babbles about how fun it was to ski with her Auntie Ember, while Thomas wants everyone to kiss his boo-boo, the one he got when he tumbled down the bunny slope.
I crouch, kiss his forehead, and then his nose. “You doing okay now, Tank Engine?”
Thomas nods solemnly. “Mummy says that kisses are the best anti-totic.”
“Antibiotic,” Latika corrects him automatically. “Come on, bud, time for chocolate milk.”
“Aksel is back out?” I ask.
“Yeah, with Ember and Freja. Those three are going to kill themselves one of these days.” She’s smiling indulgently as she places a marshmallow on the whipped cream atop the chocolate milk.
“Why?” Calypso sips her coffee. “Are they not good skiers?”
Latika bursts out laughing. “No, the problem is that they’re too good. Aksel, as you know, skied professionally. National junior team. Ask him, he’ll show off until the cows come home. Freja is good. But it’s Ember they both want to beat. She’s the best.”
Calypso’s eyes darken. “Really?” There’s a challenge in her tone, which I don’t like to hear.
“Yes,” I interject quickly, before she gets any bright ideas about joining the Rousseau siblings in their unofficial who-can-survive-the-steepest-black-diamond death match.
She meets my gaze with quiet, simmering jealousy. “We’ll see.”
Fucking hell. The last thing I need is to end up in the emergency room because Calypso decides to ski beyond her skill level and snaps a leg.
Although, if I’m being honest, that might mean she’s off the slopes—and out of my hair.
I feel guilty the second the thought crosses my mind.
As we leave the chalet—skis slung over our shoulders, boots crunching through the fresh powder, I wonder if I’m just not built for this kind of togetherness.
In San Francisco, Calypso and I see each other a few evenings a week—dinners out, the occasional gallery opening, a nightcap at her place or mine.
Now, suddenly, we’re in each other’s pockets 24/7, with no room to breathe.
Maybe that’s why we’re sniping at each other like mismatched scissors.
Or maybe it’s because, deep down, we both sense this thing between us doesn’t stretch far enough to cover two full weeks in a snow globe.
I need a break from Calypso to get my thoughts in order. Today was supposed to be that day.
Calypso had plans—spa day with Heidi, Gisele, and Margot.
Steam rooms, glacier facials, cucumber water, the works.
But this morning, in what I can only assume was a last-minute burst of competitive flair—or jealousy—she swept in, wrapped in a designer ski suit, and declared she’d “give the slopes a whirl.”
So much for space.
I suspect it has to do with her insecurities around Ember, and not wanting me to be alone with her since she had said she’d be skiing today as well.
Is that why I wanted Calypso away so that I could spend time with Ember? Was I that much of a lowlife?
“How do I look?” Calypso asks as we step out into the sunlit cold.
“Gorgeous, as always.”
She preens.
She’s dressed in pristine white gear, all matching, all designer, with a pale pink helmet. She looks beautiful, sure. But uncomfortable. And she hasn’t stopped adjusting something or other for the past ten minutes.
“It was so comfortable when I tried it on,” she complains.
“Once you’re on the slopes, you’ll be fine,” I say instead of being condescending, which was my first instinct.
I mean, you don’t dress for fashion when you ski, you dress to fucking ski.
We meet Ember, Aksel, and Freja waiting at the Brévent lift base station, along with two German snowboarders and a French family discussing après-ski plans.
Calypso keeps shifting her weight in those pristine white boots, fidgeting with her goggles, and reapplying lip balm. She smiles for a few selfies. She stopped trying to get me into any of them a month ago. She posts everything to her social media, which I’ve never been on.
“You ready, or are we fitting this into the next fashion week?” Freja snaps when Calypso struggles to get on the gondola because of…what the fuck ever.
Calypso glares at Freja, and that sets the tone of our cable car ride. She pouts while the rest of us talk. I’ve had it up to here with the woman. She’s behaving like a teenager, and I’m ready to throw in my scalpel and call it a day.
“I hear that you are a skiing champion?” Calypso flutters her eyelashes at Aksel, trying very hard to curry his favor.
Freja barks a laugh as she tightens her gloves. “He is! Even got a medal from some prince of Liechtenstein.”
“We met Anika and Thomas before we got here,” I tell the group, and then turn to Ember, “Anika said she’s almost ready for the tougher slopes.”
“She has a good seat.” Ember smiles fondly. I know she adores her niece and nephew. “Balanced, centered. She listens well, doesn’t fight the slope. For an eight-year-old, that’s gold.”
“She’s better than Aksel was at that age,” Freja ribs her older brother.
“My kids and my wife are pretty much better at everything than I ever could be,” Aksel concedes. “Speaking of spouses, where’s Jonathan?”
“His chief of staff wanted a meeting about a reconciliation bill that’s coming up.” Freja adjusts her goggles.
“It’s hard for me to see you with the DC set.” Calypso presses her back against my chest. I wrap my arms around her, resting my chin on her shoulder.
“Why?” Freja frowns.
Calypso shrugs. “Just that you’re very blunt…borderline rude, which I know doesn’t land well in politics.”
“Rude?” Freja repeats.
Calypso bites her lower lip, chagrined. She knows she said something she shouldn’t have, even if she did mean it.
Jesus!
I’m about to diffuse the situation when Ember speaks softly, with a slight curve of her lips to temper whatever she’s about to say.
“Freja is not rude.” Ember looks at her sister for a beat and then at Calypso.
“She’s honest and sincere, and without artifice.
She’s also a talented journalist and has to be extremely diplomatic professionally.
She’s at home with her family, people she loves; this is a safe space for her, and she doesn’t bother to have a filter. But she’s not rude.”
“I…I just….” Calypso moves away from me and brushes against her skis that are leaning against the cable car window. They clatter onto the floor. I help her get them in order.
I also take the opportunity to walk Calypso to the other end of the car, where the German tourists are taking photos.
“Cali—”
“I know,” she groans. “It just slipped out. But she is rude, Ransom.”
“No,” I disagree. “Like Ember said, Freja is among family and friends, and she’s being herself. When she’s with Jonathan in DC or working, she has to keep a tight leash on what she says and how she says it; here with her friends and family, she doesn’t have to.”
“How am I supposed to know that?” she hisses. “And…your Ember was just rude to me.”
Everyone looks at us because she’s so damn loud.
I rub my temple, shaking my head. “First, she’s not my anything. Second, she wasn’t rude; in fact, she was downright polite. And, third”—I let out an exhausted sigh—“let’s try and have a good day, okay?”
Her eyes darken, her lips pressing into a tight line. “I’d love to if you’ll just stop making me feel bad for being myself.”
She flounces back to where the Rousseaus are gathered, leaving a faint trail of perfume and bruised ego in her wake.
I hang back, feeling guilty.
Is she right? Is that what I’m doing? Giving her a hard time when she’s just being herself? I must admit that there is some truth to that.
But what’s also true is that Calypso is utterly incapable of reading the room.
You know who’s good at reading a room? Ember. She’s younger than Calypso by at least eight years, and yet she carries herself with a kind of grace that makes everyone pull in, not away.
Fuck me! I needed to pull my head out of my ass and be with the woman I was with instead of the woman whose heart I broke and cast away.