Chapter 19 Ember
Ember
The streets of Chamonix sparkle. The snow is falling in gentle flakes.
I walk on the cobblestones, my breath coming in visible plumes.
It’s cold. It’s beautiful. It’s peaceful.
It’s Christmas Day, and everyone is back at the chalet.
I slipped away, telling Freja I needed something from the pharmacie. She nodded in understanding. She knew I needed out. Knew that I was holding myself together by a thread, as the cliché went.
I need space. Need distance. Need a time out of that house where I broke last night.
Just broke.
I’ve been recycling Ransom and Calypso’s conversation inside my head, dissecting each word, the tone of his voice, her voice, my shameful reaction.
Is it healthy? I don’t think so.
Is it necessary to eventually get healthy? I think so.
Can I do it right now? Absolutely not.
No one from my family has checked in with me, which means Freja has made sure they won’t. I wonder what she told them. Maybe I was sick. Maybe I was sleeping. Maybe I ran away with a gypsy. Maybe….
The snowfall becomes more insistent, and I walk into Aux Petits Gourmands, off Rue du Docteur Paccard.
The popular patisserie has a gorgeous tearoom where the windows are fogged up with warmth. Mama likes their famous 4810 chocolates, which are shaped like Mont Blanc.
The scent of coffee offers a momentary balm.
I order a café crème and sit by the window, cupping the warm porcelain in my hands, trying very hard to vacate my mind, not think, just be in the now.
The world outside is achingly beautiful.
The Alps rise like ancient gods beyond the rooftops. The ice-skating rink down the street is crowded with children.
Couples in ski gear walk hand in hand.
Everything is postcard-perfect.
And I am a bruised heart trying to keep from bleeding all over this charming town.
I sigh, annoyed with myself for the indulgent self-pity I’m drowning in.
“Her age is the reason we didn’t work out.”
“She was twenty-five, inexperienced.”
Words like knives. Words that rewrote everything I thought we shared. Words that made me feel foolish and disposable.
Just a day ago, he asked if we could be friends. I considered it. Hoped because of it.
How ridiculous to pretend friendship is possible when the echo of him has haunted the past five years of my life! And my heart is locked in a box with his name etched into the lid.
So melodramatic, Ember.
I sip my coffee, staring aimlessly out the window, now replaying what he said in the orangerie—words I’ve ached to hear for years.
“I just wasn’t ready to fall in love with someone, and then I fell in love with you—"
The irony of it is that after having him say the words I crave, I don’t believe him.
I don’t want his guilt. Or his regret. I want the truth—what I know he gave Calypso when he talked about me.
“I think you’re amazing.”
“Please, baby, don’t let it end like this.”
I press my fingers to my lips, as if I can physically hold back the pain. But it’s in me now, threaded through every nerve. This ache. This anger.
How dare he?
How dare he try to make me believe I was too much and then not enough, and now more than enough?
A man walks by the window, bundled in navy and wearing ski goggles pushed up onto his forehead.
For a second, I think it's Ransom.
My stomach flips.
A second later, I can see it isn’t him.
I finish my coffee. Since the snow has stopped falling, I get back on the cobbled streets dusted with powdered snow.
Chamonix in winter is like a town out of a storybook. The rooftops wear frosted hats. Shop windows gleam with fairy lights and glossy ornaments. All things that make me smile. It’s like the town itself is trying to console me.
But I don’t want to be consoled. I want to be angry. I want to be over it. I want to feel powerful in my heartbreak.
Is that even possible?
After walking around for half an hour, I decide I need a drink, which is very apropos since I’m on Rue des Moulins, Chamonix’s most famous party street, where you can go from bar to bar, all evening long.
I duck into one of the après-ski bars, Bar’d Up, which sits just off the main drag, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it tavern carved into a weathered chalet, its windows glowing gold against the snow-drenched day.
Inside, timber beams, ski memorabilia, and low-hung Edison bulbs welcome you.
The walls are cluttered with vintage snowboards, faded mountaineering photos, and a chalkboard listing the daily specials in loopy French script.
There’s a crackling fireplace in the corner, surrounded by mismatched leather armchairs, and the hum of conversation blends with mellow indie music and the occasional clink of glass.
Locals and tourists alike crowd the place—rosy-cheeked from the slopes—and the air smells like mulled wine, pine, and fried cheese.
Bar’d Up is warm, a little chaotic, and exactly the kind of place where no one minds if your boots are still caked with snow, or if you look like you’re about to burst into tears.
Which I am.
I find a seat at the bar and nod at the bartender. “Un vin chaud, merci.”
He slides a mug of mulled wine in front of me. I drop a 10 euro note by the mug and tell him to keep the change. People don’t tip in Europe, but I’ve spent enough time in the United States that it feels wrong not to tip.
The coat rack is overflowing, so I drape my coat on the bar stool and sit on it. I place my woolen hat on the bar counter. It’s bright red and has a pompom on top of it. I glare at it.
Should a thirty-year-old woman be wearing a hat with a pom-pom? Is that too childish?
Damn it! Now I’m letting Ransom corrode even my simple choices, like a woolen hat I picked up at the airport because I forgot to pack one.
This is not good. Not nourishing. I don’t want to be the woman who keeps dissecting herself to learn what’s so wrong with her that the man she wants doesn’t want her.
I mean, if his type is Calypso, then I’m better off, aren’t I, not being wanted by him?
I sigh and slowly drink my vin chaud. Warmth blooms through my chest. I feel a buzz in my blazer pocket where my phone is. I ignore it.
I rest my cheek against the palm of my hand. My eyes unfocused as I scan the room, watching people without seeing anyone, lost in a tangle of unsettled thoughts.
I’m completely in my own world and am surprised when I hear someone speak close to me. “You look like you just survived a very intense Christmas with the family…or a terrible breakup.”
I glance sideways.
The guy is American, mid-thirties maybe, tall, bearded, dressed in a fitted sweater and a neck gaiter pushed down. He has a Colorado look about him: charming and outdoorsy, with a hint of a Patagonia catalog.
He’s grinning widely as he sits on the stool next to me.
A part of me wants to do what I usually do when someone approaches me in a bar—brush them off, say I’m waiting for someone. But there’s something disarming about this man’s easy smile, the way his blond hair flops over one eye, and how he seems so completely unlike Ransom that I smile back.
“Would you believe both?”
He laughs. “Oof. Tough day.”
“Week,” I correct him.
“I’m Owen.” He extends a hand. “From Denver. Here with my cousin and her family. They bailed on me for a hot tub and cartoons.”
Denver, Colorado. Nailed it!
“Ember.” I shake his hand.
“Ember,” he repeats. “Like the glowing bit of a fire?”
I chuckle. “Like that.”
“Fitting. You’ve definitely got that spark.”
I almost roll my eyes—but something in me warms, just slightly. “That spark?”
He tosses a shoulder up carelessly and gives me a sheepish smile. “Let me have a beer, and I promise to do better.”
He orders a dark beer on tap, which redeems him a little. If he’d gone for a Hefeweizen, I think I would’ve docked a few points—too light and summery for a winter evening.
At least he didn’t ask for a Budweiser. I cringe immediately at that thought. When did I become such a European snob?
“You here alone?” he asks.
“At the bar or in Chamonix.”
“Both…either.”
“Alone at the bar. In Chamonix with my family.” And my ex, who’s with his current.
The bartender sets a beer in front of him. Owen pulls out his card. The bartender brings over the payment terminal. Owen taps to pay. He doesn’t leave a tip.
He nods. “I thought you had the ‘alone-alone’ vibe. But maybe it’s the ‘I need to get the hell away from people’ vibe?”
I give him a sidelong look, aware that I’m flirting with a handsome stranger, which I normally don’t do.
“Are you good at reading people?”
“Only when I’m procrastinating on calling my ex-wife,” he jokes.
His candor is charming. I laugh, a real one this time, and he grins at the sound of it.
For the next half hour, we chat.
He tells me about running a climbing gym in Boulder. I tell him about MIT, a little about growing up in Europe and the States, and nothing at all about Ransom.
It’s easy, and I feel…good. Desired. Interesting.
At one point, Owen leans in a little and says, “You’ve got great energy. Like you’re not trying to impress anyone.”
I blush, stupidly, and cringe for being such an easy mark.
But it’s been a long time since I’ve been looked at like I’m cool.
It’s not the way Ransom looks at me—like he’s remembering something, not seeing me for who I am.
“So…getting over a break-up?” he asks when I finish my wine.
“Yes.”
“So…I shouldn’t ask for your number?”
I exhale slowly. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
When I finally stand to leave, I thank him.
“For what?” he asks.
“For reminding me I’m not invisible.”
He tilts his head. “Ember, anyone who doesn’t see you is blind.”
I step out into the cold air, my cheeks warm from the wine, the engaging conversation—and, for the first time since last night, I don’t feel like crying.