14. Tyler
TYLER
The Great Snowboarding Preparation begins with an archaeological dig under Julian's bed. Among the artifacts discovered: one blue glove (victory!), three granola bar wrappers (concerning), and—inexplicably—a pair of swim goggles.
"Why are there goggles under your bed?" I ask. "In case the snow melts," Julian replies with eight-year-old logic that I can't quite argue with.
Disaster strikes in the kitchen when Karl, attempting to simultaneously drink hot chocolate and demonstrate his future snowboarding moves, creates an abstract art piece on his jacket. "I was practicing my aerial spin," he explains solemnly to his stained sleeve.
"Good news," Ginger announces, emerging from his room with a replacement jacket. "The backup jacket is clean. Bad news? It's the one with the unicorn patch your cousin gave you." Karl considers this for approximately two seconds. "I'll take it. Julian says real athletes don't care about fashion."
Someone—and the guilty party maintained impressive omertà—manages to create a milk slick worthy of a crime scene in the entryway.
While Ginger tackles that crisis, I discover a rogue LEGO piece with my left foot.
The resulting dance and creative vocabulary earns me a raised eyebrow from Ginger and muffled giggles from both boys.
"Language, Mr. Reed," Ginger warns, though her lips twitch. "Though I have to admit, I've never heard someone combine 'fudgesicle' with 'holy macaroni' quite so creatively."
The final miracle comes when Ginger—somehow channeling her inner bloodhound—tracks Julian's missing boot to its mysterious new home in the bathtub.
"Do I want to know why your boot is in the bathroom?" she asks.
Julian shrugs. "I was practicing my snowboarding stance while brushing my teeth."
"Multitasking," I nod sagely. "He gets that from me."
"Yes," Ginger agrees dryly. "Because you often practice extreme sports during personal hygiene."
After what feels like organizing a small military campaign, we finally had two properly outfitted young snowboarders. Ginger performs one last equipment check, tucking hand warmers into mittens with the efficiency of a NASCAR pit crew.
Twenty minutes later, we tumble into the resort shuttle, a tangle of equipment bags and limbs. The boys commandeered the back seat, their voices rising in pitch as they debate which snowboard tricks were physically possible versus "only in video games, Karl, duh."
Ginger catches my eye as she buckles her seatbelt, a strand of hair escaping her hat. Her lips quirk upward, eyes crinkling at the corners. I feel an answering smile spread across my face as the driver navigates the winding mountain road, snow-laden pines flashing past the windows.
"So," I say, lowering my voice so only she can hear. "About Karl visiting for spring break..."
"I think it's a wonderful idea," she says before I could complete the thought. "If you're okay with it."
"More than okay," I assure her. "But it does raise a larger question we've been dancing around."
She raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to continue.
"What happens when we leave?” I ask, the question that had been weighing on both our minds since our date night revelation. "When we leave here and go back to our separate lives."
Ginger sighs, her gaze drifting to the window where the winter landscape flashes by. "I've been thinking about that almost constantly."
"And?" I prompt when she didn't elaborate.
"And I think... I want to try," she says, turning back to me with determination in her eyes. "Whatever that looks like. Weekend visits, FaceTime dates, coordinating schedules—all of it. I want to see if what we've found here can work in the real world."
Relief floods through me. "I was hoping you'd say that."
"But," she adds, holding up a finger, "we have to be smart about this. Take things at a pace that works for the boys, be clear about expectations, communicate constantly."
"Agreed on all counts," I nod. "And speaking of the boys—what do we tell them?"
She glances back at Karl and Julian, engrossed in animated debate over video game battle tactics.
"The truth, I think. That we care about each other and want to keep seeing each other after vacation.
That we're going to be traveling back and forth between New York and Boston.
That we're not sure exactly what that means yet, but we're figuring it out together. "
"Simple, honest, age-appropriate," I summarize. "I like it."
"And maybe," she continues, her voice dropping further, "we should introduce some... boundaries for when they're around. Given last night's activities."
"You mean like no more walking around in just my shirt?" I tease, enjoying the blush that spread across her cheeks.
"Among other things," she confirms primly. "I'd rather not have to explain certain aspects of adult relationships to an eight-year-old just yet."
"Prude," I whisper, earning a playful swat on my arm.
"Boundaries, Reed," she repeats firmly, though her eyes sparkle with humor. "At least until we've established some routines."
"Fine," I sigh dramatically. "I suppose I can respect your prudish Boston sensibilities."
"I believe last night—particularly that thing with the ice cube—conclusively proved I am anything but prudish," she whispers, the heated look in her eyes sending a jolt through me. "But children have a way of interrupting at the worst possible moments."
"Another excellent point," I concede. "Boundaries it is. For now."
The shuttle pulls up to the terrain park, and the boys shoot out like cannonballs, not waiting for us and racing toward the registration desk.
The terrain park bustles with activity—instructors in bright red jackets shepherding groups of children, teenagers attempting increasingly dangerous-looking stunts, parents alternating between filming proudly and covering their eyes in terror.
The air smells of pine and the peculiar metallic scent of cold, while speakers mounted on poles pump out upbeat music that somehow makes everything feel more exciting.
"Walk, don't run!" Ginger calls uselessly after them. "Kids and snow. It's like they have no concept of physics."
"They think they're invincible," I agree, helping her down from the shuttle. "And, at that age, they pretty much are. Bones made of rubber, no fear whatsoever."
We follow at a more sedate pace, watching as Julian shows Karl his snowboard with elaborate gestures that suggests he was explaining very technical details that he only half understood himself.
"They're going to miss each other," Ginger observes, a note of sadness in her voice.
"It's only goodbye for a few weeks," I remind her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Then spring break adventures in New York."
"I know," she nods. "It's been nice, seeing Karl so happy, making a real friend. He's always been a bit of a loner."
"Julian too," I say. "Which makes me all the more determined to make this work—whatever 'this' is."
Ginger leans into me, her head resting briefly on my shoulder. "Me too."
The instructor was gathering the students as we approached, Julian bouncing impatiently in his gear while Karl stood to the side with other spectators.
"Okay, I'll stay with Karl," Ginger says. "You go be the proud dad with the embarrassingly large camera."
"How did you know about the camera?" I ask, patting my jacket pocket where said device was indeed stored.
"Because I've met you," she laughs. "Go on, document your son's snowboarding prowess for posterity. We'll be watching from the viewing area."
I kiss her quickly, still marveling at the freedom to do so without calculation or performance, then jog over to Julian for some last-minute encouragement.
"Remember what we practiced," I tell him, adjusting his helmet strap. "Low center of gravity, bend your knees, and if you're going to fall—"
"Fall on my butt, not my hands," he finishes, having heard the safety lecture many times. "I got it, Dad. I'm gonna try the jump today!"
"The small one," I clarify, trying to keep the parental anxiety from my voice. "Not the big one."
Julian rolls his eyes in that uniquely pre-teen way. "Yes, Dad. The baby jump. Can I go now? The instructor's waiting."
"Go, shred, be amazing," I say, stepping back. "I'll be recording every triumphant moment."
"And every wipe-out," he adds with surprising self-awareness.
"Those too," I agree with a grin. "Especially those."
As Julian joins his class, I move to the designated parents' area, camera at the ready. Ginger and Karl are already there, Karl bundled up against the cold like a small, enthusiastic marshmallow.
"Is Julian gonna do cool tricks?" Karl asks, eyes wide with admiration.
"Let's hope not too cool," I reply. "I'm a fan of tricks that don't result in emergency room visits."
"Tyler's being a nervous dad," Ginger assures Karl. "Julian's going to be great."
And he was. To my immense pride and moderate surprise, Julian nails his run through the beginner terrain course, even managing a small jump with surprising grace. Karl cheers wildly from beside us, jumping up and down with each successful maneuver.
"Your son's got talent," comments another parent watching nearby. "Has he been boarding long?"
"Just this season," I reply, unable to keep the pride from my voice. "But he's fearless."
"Gets that from his mother," Ginger quips beside me, before freezing as she realized the implication.
The other parent, thankfully oblivious to the sudden tension, nods and moves on to watch their own child's run.
"Sorry," Ginger whispers. "That slipped out."
"Don't be," I say, taking her gloved hand in mine. "I like the idea of us being a unit, even if we're still figuring out what that means."
She squeezes my hand, relief evident in her smile. "Me too. Though I should avoid referring to myself as Julian's mother in public until we've had that conversation with the kids."
"Probably wise," I agree. Though to be fair, Julian just called you 'Mom' by accident, so..."