Chapter 2
NICO
Este Skylar is older than I expected.
I could’ve sworn it had only been ten years or so since Bryan called to tell me he and his boyfriend, Chris, were getting married, and he was adopting Chris’s daughters. But then, time more or less stopped for me when I was twenty-five, and everything since has blurred together.
Bryan invited me to their adoption ceremony.
I didn’t go. Nor did I go to the wedding, or any of the birthday parties, or the graduation parties.
I’ve picked up on fragments of information about Este and her sister over the years, absorbed from the texts Bryan sends to keep me updated, even though I never have anything to update him on in return.
Until last year, I did.
Last October, when Bryan texted me his bi-monthly update and asked if there was anything new with me.
Shay has a new girlfriend. They’re opening a bakery together.
Not necessarily new with me, but even as a kid, I found it easier to talk about my sisters than myself. And it opened the lines of communication on my end enough that his daughter is sitting in my living room right now. Clutching a stuffed bear named Amelia Bearhart—an objectively hilarious name.
Her face is whiter than the snow swirling around outside the cabin, but at least she’s conscious. She was only out for a few seconds, but it made a knot of panic swell in my chest.
She’s said nothing since I carried her inside and sat her on the couch—she’s just staring at the fire in a way that makes me think she’s not entirely mentally present. It’s a state I’m familiar with.
I keep an eye on her as I cross the room to the fridge and pull out one of the mini bottles of Gatorade I carry in my pocket when I’m doing particularly physical work, like processing and carrying big pieces of wood.
Este looks up at me, her chocolate brown eyes glinting in the firelight, as I pass it over.
“Drink.”
Her eyes widen a fraction. Shit. I sound like an asshole, trying to boss her around like I didn’t meet her ten minutes ago. Este doesn’t know me well enough to know I can be a little uptight when I’m worried about people.
Still, she unscrews the cap, and her lips close around the mouth of the bottle. She takes a sip and pulls the bottle away.
“All of it,” I say, trying to sound a little more gentle. I’m not sure I manage, but soft color floods Este’s cheeks, and it’s hard to feel bad when the Gatorade is clearly working.
The muscles in her neck flex as she swallows the neon blue liquid, and, as I watch the rise and fall of her chest even out, relief settles over me.
I’m towering above her, so I step back and sit on the old wooden stool I keep in front of the fire. I usually only sit here when I’m building the fire, but I don’t want to crowd Este by sitting beside her on the couch when she’s just had such a shock.
She screws the lid back onto the empty bottle and puts it down on the table before clearing her throat. “Are you a masochist?”
It’s not the first time someone’s asked me that, though I can’t say I expected it from her.
“Depends on who you ask, I suppose.” My sister would say yes.
As would the therapist I visited once, at my parents’ insistence, after the accident.
And the therapist I had a single appointment with at the start of this year—over video call—then never made a follow-up. “Why do you ask?”
“The road—actually, no. I refuse to call it a road. How the hell do you stomach driving up and down?” She shudders, her eyes drawn together in narrow slits, like she’s pissed off at the mere existence of the road.
“I don’t go down the mountain often,” I say, and she winces.
“Shit, yeah. I knew that. Sorry. Still, it’s awful.”
I chuckle at the disgust on her face. “My sister, Shay, hates it, too. I’m sorry—I warned your dad it wasn’t an easy drive so he could make sure the car they rent at the airport would manage it.
I assumed you’d all be flying in together until he called at the start of the week to say you were driving. I forgot to remind him.”
“He’s known I was driving for months,” Este says, rolling her eyes. “I think he was just in denial and hoped I’d change my mind and fly with them last minute.”
“Why didn’t you?” I ask. For a moment, she’s wide open, a mix of anxiety and regret sliding over her face. A split second later, it’s gone, a closed-off, blank mask in its place.
“I don’t like to fly when I’m not working.”
It’s a clear lie, but I’m not entitled to the truth.
If she wanted me to have it, she would’ve handed it over.
Still, I can’t help but wonder if her change in demeanor has something to do with why Bryan postponed the trip.
They were supposed to come in January, but he told me one of the girls was going through something and asked if we could push it back.
He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask, but there’s a jagged red scar from the point of Este’s eyebrow, curving down her cheek.
I’m familiar with scars, and I can tell it’s recent. Around six months old, probably.
She has chin-length dark brown hair with strands of gold painted throughout. There’s a constellation of freckles splattered across her nose, and light smudges under her eyes that make it clear she’s tired.
“You’re a pilot, right? Like your dads?”
“Yeah. Well, they’re captains, and I’m a first officer—a more junior co-pilot.”
I haven’t flown since I moved to Wyoming. Were pilots always so young?
I remember Bryan telling me they were teaching their daughters to fly—how proud he was that Este had decided to follow in their footsteps. Seeing her in front of me, though, it’s hard to imagine her in charge of a whole plane. Granted, my first impression of her hasn’t exactly been the steadiest.
“How old are you?” The question just slips out.
Este sighs. “Twenty-six. And before you say anything, it’s rare but not unheard of for someone so young to fly for a commercial airline.
And it’s really not that impressive. I’m a nepo baby—I had my first flying lesson at ten, and I didn’t have any trouble getting my job because my family owns the airline. ”
It’s clearly a rehearsed answer. I wouldn’t be surprised if she were questioned about it constantly.
“It’s still impressive,” I offer. I don’t doubt it was easier for her than most pilots, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t still work for it.
Este lifts her shoulder in a half-shrug. “How old are you?” she asks, changing the subject.
“Forty-seven.”
“Same age as my dad. Makes sense, I guess.”
I met Bryan in sixth grade, when he was new in school and sat beside me in homeroom.
We were best friends by the end of the first week.
It’s hard to believe we’re old enough that he has a twenty-six-year-old daughter who has a whole career.
I have two grumpy German Shepherds who hate everyone but me.
“Do you want a drink?” My knees burn as I stand up from the tiny stool.
“Oh. Sure. I’ll have what you’re having,” Este says.
I pause beside the couch. “I don’t drink.”
Este squints up at me. “But you have alcohol?”
“I’m having guests. It seemed like the polite thing to do.
What do you drink? I stocked up on pretty much everything—beer, wine, liquor, those hard seltzer things.
” Last week was the first time I’d been in a liquor store in a long time, and there were a lot more options than there used to be.
I had no idea what was trendy these days, and when I called my sister, she didn’t either.
But there are some perks to Shay having a girlfriend sixteen years younger than her—she put Noelle on the phone, and Noelle immediately switched to a video call.
She pointed out exactly what drinks I should get, sent me a list of snacks to buy, and a link to an ugly-ass T-shirt that said “Life is Wood” because it “made her think of me.”
I bought it.
Este draws her lip between her teeth. “Oh. Um. I don’t actually drink.”
“But you said you’d have what I was having when you thought it was alcohol.”
“Yes. Well, it seemed like the polite thing to do,” she echoes me.
Jesus. “Okay. What do you usually drink, alcoholic or otherwise, when you’ve had your nerves shot and almost passed out on a relative stranger?”
Pink shines on her cheeks. “I like herbal tea.”
“That I can do. Come on.” I reach to help her up, and she slides her hand into mine. It’s small, smooth, soft. But most importantly, it’s steady.
Still, I watch her like a hawk, ready to catch her if she falls again as we head into the kitchen.
“Where are your dogs?” Este asks as we pass their empty food bowls.
“I shut them in my room when I heard your car coming. They don’t really like people.” And they love any excuse to laze around on my bed for hours.
I open the cabinet above my tea kettle, and Este’s jaw drops. “Damn. You really like tea, huh?”
“It’s all I drink, and I like to have options.
” My cheeks burn because I can admit that the tea cabinet is a little excessive, considering I’m one person.
I must have over a hundred kinds in here, between the jars I pick up from the tea store in Jackson every time I go to town to stock up on supplies, and the blends I’ve made myself.
When you go through something traumatic, every person you meet seems to have a lot of advice.
Most of it, in my experience, is bullshit.
Herbal tea was a recommendation from my physiotherapist after the accident, and, though it didn’t change anything that had happened, it gave me fifteen minutes of calm and quiet while I focused on nothing but steeping and drinking the tea.
It’s the only thing I’ve really stuck to over the years.
“It’s amazing. You must have everything,” Este says, eyeing my collection. “Any recommendations to help with sleep?”
I nod and pull a chair out from the table for her. “Sit.”
Shit, I really need to re-learn how to talk to people without sounding like a dick.
But Este does sit, watching me as I pluck a couple of jars from the cabinet.
I measure out a few chamomile buds, some lavender, rose, lemon verbena.
It’s my favorite combination to drink when I’m struggling to sleep, which is most nights, so I go through it like water.
I feel her gaze on me, warm against my spine, while I pour the water and set the timer. I’m not much for small talk, and Este doesn’t try to fill the silence between us. When I place the steaming mug in front of her, she leans over and breathes it in, her eyes fluttering closed.
“That’s… wow.”
She sets her bear on the table so she can pick the cup up. I take a seat, eyeing the well-loved stuffed animal.
“Do you always take Amelia everywhere you go?”
“Amelia Bearhart—full name only,” she corrects, the corner of her mouth lifting.
“Of course. How dare I?”
“But no, not always. Just when I need her. I’ve had her since my dads got engaged. I know I’m probably too old—”
“You’re not too old,” I interrupt. The last thing I want to do is make her feel bad, even if the bear’s beady eyes are a little creepy. “I have a mouse.”
“A mouse?”
“Milo. I got him when I was born—my dad used to call me and my sisters his three little mice, and we all had them. He lives on my dresser.”
“That’s adorable,” Este says, smiling softly. She sips her tea and sighs. I’ve just met her, but already I can see there’s an exhaustion weighing her down.
We don’t talk again as we drink our tea, but it’s comfortable.
I was worried about having people in my house.
Shay drops by a couple of times a year, but she hates the drive.
Noelle’s sister, Rora, owns a cabin a mile away, and if she or her family are staying, they usually check in to see if I need anything.
Mostly, though, it’s been just me, and I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about having relative strangers here.
But Este’s company is easy.
I grab her bags from her car when we finish our tea and take her keys so I can move it to a more sheltered spot. The snow doesn’t look like it’s letting up anytime soon.
“Is this normal for April?” Este asks as we head upstairs.
“We get a light snow most springs, but it hasn’t been this heavy in a while.”
“We’re not going to get stuck, are we? Should I have stopped at the grocery store?” she asks, looking back at me, her brow furrowed.
“Unlikely. But if we do, I’m all stocked up, don’t worry. This is you.” I push open the door to her room.
Este steps inside and takes it in. “This is perfect. Cozy.”
My cabin has four bedrooms, which is four more than I need, considering how little I actually sleep, but the spare rooms were bare bones until I invited Bryan to stay, and I figured I should make them a little homier.
“There are extra pillows and blankets in the closet, and the bathroom is right across the hall. I’ll either be downstairs or in the room next door if you need anything.”
“Thanks.” She smiles, and my stomach flips. I barely ate dinner, because I was waiting for her to arrive and was worried about what to expect.
I tap the doorframe and turn to leave, but Este speaks:
“Oh, Nico. Before you go. I just wanted to give you a heads up that I have nightmares sometimes. Sloane says I can get pretty loud, so I’m sorry if I wake you.”
It raises more questions I want to ask but have no right to.
“Is there anything I can do to help if it happens?”
Este shakes her head. “I’m a shit sleeper, so if you just bang on the wall, it’ll wake me, and I’ll shut up.”
Well, I won’t be doing that.
I say goodnight and head downstairs to sit in front of the fire, wide awake, listening for any sounds of distress coming from Este’s room.