Chapter 19 Skylar
Skylar
I’m on a helicopter.
A scenario I’d only imagined in the event of an emergency medevac.
But this is a private chopper, arranged by Pike’s friends for backcountry snowboarding.
Being dropped off on a remote part of the mountain with avalanche gear sounds risky, but since Pike’s last helicopter ride was a medevac, I support his decision to join as a bystander.
As we soar over Blackcomb, I gradually adjust to the sensation, mesmerized by the vastness around us. The sky is a clear expanse of blue, the morning sun casting warmth on the pristine white landscape below. People become miniature. Soon, we’re far removed from ski lifts and groomed trails.
Today, Pike looks every bit the hot snowboarder, clad in a thermal shirt tucked into sleek black snowboarding pants, and his short hair concealed beneath a beanie. Grace, Jax, Macken, and Luce, another member of Pike’s crew, are all here.
They discuss snowboarding tricks while my headache intensifies from my tight headset.
I have earplugs in to mitigate the chopper’s noise, but it still triggers my IIH-induced hyperacusis.
Their conversation, peppered with snowboarding jargon and different accents, sounds like a foreign language to me.
I catch degrees of rotation and phrases ending with out: stomp out, pretzel out, wash out. I think.
“Pike.” Jax leans over from my right, his sexy rasp catching my attention.
Emy thinks he’s Pike’s hottest crew member and wants me to get his number for her. I don’t think he has anything on Pike, but he does have a jaw that could cut glass and striking green eyes framed by lush dark hair.
He raises a pierced eyebrow. “What’s with the ski shop gig?”
“Yeah,” Macken says. “Only people wanting discounts for equipment work at ski shops. The hell you need discounts for?”
“We can hook you up if you need anything,” Grace offers.
“I tried getting other jobs, but without a degree, opportunities are limited. Phone interviews went well, but when I showed up in my wheelchair, they’d mysteriously ghost me.”
“Yeah, right,” Jax says. “That shit’s illegal, isn’t it? Even in the States?”
“And yet…” Pike trails off, likely thinking what I am. Not worth explaining how much people ignore the ADA and other anti-discrimination laws. People don’t admit to denying you based on disability, but a lot of “mysterious” things happen once you reveal you need accommodations.
Another reason I’m grateful for my job. It’s a means to an end: insurance, a paycheck, and stability.
“I got more callbacks when I didn’t use my wheelchair,” Pike continues, “and even more when I forced myself not to limp without my cane. Super-demoralizing experiment.”
“But you’re not staying at the ski shop forever.” Why can’t Macken drop it? Who cares where he works?
“You could start an organization,” Grace suggests.
Oh, boy. I reach for Pike’s hand, already resting on my knee. We’re crammed so close together that every part of us touches from shoulder to toe. I intertwine my fingers with his and offer a reassuring squeeze. This can’t be easy for him.
His gaze softens with acknowledgment—and something deeper. It mirrors the look he gave me yesterday while we danced. Seeing the care on his face stirs something tender in me. When Pike looks at me that way, it makes me believe we could be something more. Something real.
I wink at him before I dissolve into a gooey sap in front of his friends.
“It’s a crying shame, what happened to Pike,” Jax says. “He really could’ve been something.”
Ugh. “He is something.”
Everyone turns to me, surprised.
“There’s more to life than snowboarding.”
“No offense, Skylar, but you have no idea,” Jax says. “Pike was a prodigy. It’s hard to understand if you’re not into the sport. To waste that talent?”
“He dedicated every moment of his predisabled life pursuing his passion. How is that wasting talent?”
“Skylar, it’s okay,” Pike starts.
“No, you got into an accident. That’s not your fault. That’s not wasting anything. Let’s keep things in context here.”
Macken barely conceals an eye roll. “We can’t be sad for our friend? Okay, peach.”
“You can, but it’s been almost two years. Maybe start supporting him in what he can do instead of making him feel bad about what he can’t?”
“Thanks, Skylar. It’s okay,” Pike says. “We’re just reminiscing. I miss snowboarding.”
“The good old days,” Jax adds, but thankfully, they move on.
When everyone else removes their headsets and prepares to leave, Pike wraps his arm around me. “Thanks for sticking up for me. I’m fine, really.”
Jax eyes us curiously, so I snuggle closer to Pike, fluttering my eyelashes adoringly. “I wish you’d stick up for yourself.”
He gives me a playful nip on the neck, and even though it’s pretend, goose bumps prickle my skin.
“Not the time,” he murmurs, giving his crew a final wave.
I stretch out, watching them get going, then shriek as Grace soars off a cliff and disappears from view.
Pike stifles a laugh. “She’s good, trust me.”
Once they’re out of sight, I turn back to him. There’s sadness in his eyes.
“You’ve considered adaptive snowboarding, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, “but the pain makes it difficult to stand for long, even with ski crutches. My knee also doesn’t bend fully anymore, which is dangerous if I fall.”
“Could you sit? Like some skiers?”
“I could, but it’s not the same. I know it sounds whiny, but sitting feels like sledding to me.”
“It’s not whiny. Give yourself some credit.”
He exhales deeply, as though allowing himself that luxury for the first time.
“I know I should be grateful to be on the mountain at all, but imagine a marathon runner only doing the fifty-yard dash forever. Maybe I’ll feel comfortable going down the mountain with adaptive equipment someday, but I wish I could still do my sport. ”
I brush my thumb slowly over the back of his hand, a quiet, steadying motion. A reminder that he doesn’t have to push the sadness away. That it’s allowed to exist.
“Before you ask about the Paralympics,” he says, “I don’t qualify. They’re for specific disabilities. Anyway, we should go.” He signals the pilot, once again surprising me with how fast he can flip off his emotions. “I have a surprise.”
“There’s more?”
“You don’t want to stay on the helicopter all day, do you?”
After we land, we take the lift up to a cluster of wooden lodges back in the resort. I follow Pike across the packed snow as skiers and snowboarders zip by toward the runs. I ignore the way my ears have been plugged like I’m on a plane all weekend, a constant reminder my pressure’s getting worse.
I need a nap. I’m not used to doing more than one thing per weekend, and that’s usually going to Wegmans. Tonight, we’ll be busy with the awards ceremony and after-party. But I want to see what Pike planned for us.
Closer to the mountain’s edge, there’s a cluster of people lying down.
On lounge chairs.
With blankets?
I tug on Pike’s jacket. “Wait. Is that…?”
“Apparently this is the newest way to get some rest around here. Come on, I reserved us three hours.”
He hands over a ticket, and a man with a coral beanie leads us to the last two chairs in the front row overlooking the mountain.
There’s no railing, just a drop. Skiers and boarders come and go (off the drop!).
The chairs have plush cushions and the option to recline all the way down, and are so wide Pike and I could easily share one. I’m grateful for the sun umbrella too.
The host hands us a tablet. “What can I get you?”
We settle on burgers and hot chocolate. I breathe in the crisp air. The enormity of the mountain makes my problems seem small. If we stay here long enough, we might even catch the sunset.
Pike adjusts his sunglasses and focuses on me instead of the view. “Good? Comfortable?”
Everything about this feels romantic. But this is his home mountain. It’s probably ordinary for him. “It’s…kind of perfect?”
“I assumed this was for people afraid of skiing. But it’s nice.”
“And we’ll get in less trouble lying around here together than in a hotel room.” It slips out before I can stop it.
Pike’s lip twitches.
“I have no filter,” I say. “Ignore me.”
His smile widens. “I know, and I won’t.”
A waiter brings our food. Pike slathers his curly fries in ketchup and devours his massive burger. I nibble on my kid-sized burger, pushing my bun and most of my fries onto Pike’s plate. Dr. Wharton said I need to drop two pounds a week, which is bullshit, but I want that brain scan.
I’ve severely restricted my calories for weeks, yet I’ve only lost one pound. It’s messing with me mentally, like every forced weight loss attempt. A few years into my diagnosis, I realized moderation and limiting sodium feels best for me, even if it doesn’t change the scale.
Pike gets a partial chocolate mustache on his stubble.
“I’m digging this mountain man look,” I say, unable to resist wiping at it with my thumb. “Even if you’re not boarding, you could still wear this outfit sometimes.”
His hand catches my wrist before I pull away. He sucks my thumb into his mouth, his tongue so soft it takes a second to register.
“Mmm,” he murmurs. “Chocolate.”
Heat rushes through me, but Pike resumes eating like that didn’t just happen. The barest hint of a smirk graces his lips, and I’m left reeling and needy, my breath shuddering out in small pants. Um. Sir? Was someone we know nearby? I glance around but don’t recognize anyone.
I go back to my hot chocolate and try not to think about lowering Pike’s chair and climbing on top of him just to see what might happen.
He watches the skiers and boarders, his chest rising and falling in slow breaths, face void of emotion once more.
“I’m sorry you can’t enjoy it,” I say.
“I’m enjoying a beautiful view with a beautiful woman. What’s there to be sorry about?”
It’s the sweetest line. He’s had a lot of those lately.
“It’s okay to still like snowboarding.”
Pike keeps his expression mild but stays silent.
“It doesn’t have to be all-or-nothing. It’s okay to cultivate new passions. It’s okay to miss it and be upset sometimes that you don’t have it anymore. It’s okay to have moved on.”
“The problem,” he says quietly, “is that I haven’t moved on at all.”
“You never mention it, though.”
“I can’t change it. Why bring it up?”
“It’s still a huge part of you.” I think back to some of the snow metaphors in his poem. “It must be painful to be back here.”
“I can’t figure out how to merge my two lives.”
“It’s the same life, Pike.”
There. He finally looks at me. “I thought you, of all people, would understand.”
“I do. But sometimes it’s a good reminder that even if it feels like a part of us died, we didn’t.”
“Even if we have to be grateful for scraps sometimes?”
“Especially then.”
He’s silent for a long time before he reclines to be level with me. “What happened when you first got sick?”
“It’s not that interesting.”
“Sure it is.”
I remember when I shared this with my uncle, who promptly fell asleep on the couch within five minutes. It’s hard to summarize how your entire life was derailed by chronic illness, and I don’t want to bore Pike, who thinks I’ve figured out the whole “disability identity thing.”
But he waits. “What happened?”
“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “I started birth control pills. Did you know they can cause intracranial hypertension?”
“Skylar, I hadn’t even heard of IIH until I met you.”
“Within sixteen hours of taking the pill, I started getting excruciating headaches. It was my first month at a marketing job. It felt like a chain was pulling me to the floor from the back of my head. Three days later, I started seeing double. I rushed to the ER, where they did an MRI. I stopped the pill, but nothing changed, so my doctors insisted it couldn’t be that. ”
“Sure, because no drug can give you lasting side effects.”
“Right? I’ve argued with Dr. Wharton countless times about that.
He ignores the fact that I was perfectly fine the day before.
He also overlooks new studies that suggest potential hormone issues related to IIH.
It’s always BMI, BMI, BMI. Anyway, weeks later, I saw an ophthalmologist who found papilledema and referred me to a specialist with better equipment to examine the optic nerves.
But I’d already started falling behind on everything at work. ”
I fell behind on life.
“Long story short, the second ophthalmologist diagnosed me with ‘likely’ pseudotumor cerebri, but I needed a neurologist to write me a prescription for a lumbar puncture in order to confirm the diagnosis. But his buddy neurologist wasn’t available for five months.
I asked for a different referral. He refused.
I remember crying in the reception because I couldn’t get my vision to focus enough to do my job.
But they called security on me for making a scene.
Then I got fired because no doctor would sign off on any accommodations. ”
“Is this Dr. Wharton?” Pike cracks his knuckles. “No reason. Just wanna chat.”
“Nope, just bad experiences all around.” I massage my sore temples.
“Eventually, I found a new ophthalmologist who sent me to a neuro-ophthalmologist. That’s how I ended up with Dr. Wharton, where I had to repeat all the same tests.
He finally ordered the LP and prescribed meds, and I’ve been stuck with him ever since. ”
“I despise that man,” Pike says. “I know people talk about it in the group, but it was shocking to witness how he treated you. My doctors have always been helpful.”
“You’re a celebrity. And a white man, on top of that. The more marginalized you are, the worse you’re treated in medicine, usually.”
“Luis says that too.”
“I may have finally found a new lead, though. My IIH group recommended this interventional neuroradiologist in Manhattan. No referral needed, just scans. I sent an old one before we left.”
“Would going around insurance help? Can I pay for a consult?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. I don’t think he means it with any strings. Most people, when there’s help involved—financially or otherwise—expect some kind of repayment.
“That’s really generous,” I say, my voice full of emotion. “But I don’t know. I’m not used to someone wanting to be part of this.”
“Skylar,” Pike says softly. He comes to sit on my chair and drops an arm around my shoulders. “Whatever happens, you can always call me. A year from now, whatever—I’ll try to help if you ever need it, okay?”
I appreciate the offer as much as I appreciate his warmth. I lean into his strong chest and pull the blanket over us. “If I can get into a specialist without insurance, I might take you up on that. Thank you.”
For a long time, we sit there watching the sun dip toward the snowcapped peaks, both of us eventually dozing off for some much-needed sleep. Before we leave, I make him take a picture with me for the girls.
And for me. I want to remember this moment for a long time.