Chapter 8
“I HOPE YOU DIDN’T LURE ME HERE to murder me.” Ryan was peering over the tips of his skis as he and Simone rode a chairlift over an icy chasm that looked more than happy to swallow them whole.
“Be nice to me, or I’ll consider it,” Simone fired back.
Ryan let out a nervous-sounding “Hah,” as though he wasn’t a hundred percent sure she was joking. Good, Simone thought. Let him fear me. She felt intoxicatingly powerful.
Ryan cleared his throat. “So… uh… you mentioned that you just came out?”
As powerful as she felt in this moment, she would still need some time to get used to Ryan making non-hostile conversation. It was weird. “I did,” she replied.
“Congrats. That’s awesome.”
“Thank you, Ryan. That’s very kind of you to say.” Her tone was coming off sort of patronizing, but she didn’t mind it. After the way he’d treated her, it felt good to put him in his place.
“In the car the other day, you said something about wanting to have the queerest holiday ever?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What does that mean, exactly—to have the queerest holiday ever?”
She dropped the patronizing tone. “That’s a good question, actually.
” Simone considered it for a moment. She was so new to being out that she didn’t even know the full extent of what was possible.
What she did know was that she craved that electrifying feeling she’d had at karaoke night back in Toronto.
“Anything that makes me feel excited to be out?” she ventured.
She thought of making out with Kenzie on the dance floor that night. “And maybe meeting women,” she added.
“If you’re bi, that means you’re also into men, right?”
“Well, yeah, but using my first Pride to meet dudes feels like…”
“… a waste?”
“Exactly.”
“Makes sense.”
They lapsed into an oddly peaceful silence as the chairlift glided over a peak that gave way to a valley thick with trees. The snow sparkled in the late-morning sun like it was made of crushed diamonds.
“This is really nice,” he said.
She nodded. “I can’t believe the view from up here.”
“I meant… this.” He gestured between himself and Simone.
For the love of God. “Okay, now I really am going to push you off this chairlift,” Simone warned him only half jokingly.
“What did I do?”
“You’re only just now realizing how nice it is to have a non–openly hostile conversation now and then?” She rolled her eyes, then remembered she was wearing reflective goggles. “Just so you know, I’m rolling my eyes right now.”
“Thank you for the clarification.”
“Seriously, though, look at how nice and easy it is to not be a giant dick.” She stopped herself from adding, “No offense,” because he had been a giant dick, and she wasn’t afraid to say so. “I don’t get why this was so hard for you.”
Now it was Ryan’s turn to mull things over. “Lately, whenever I’m around people like you—”
“People like me?” She arched an eyebrow behind her goggles.
“People who are upbeat,” he clarified. “Whenever I’m around that energy, it just reminds me how shitty I feel, and I end up acting like… like a giant dick, as you say. My buddy Dom has been calling me out on it, too.”
Simone wondered what had put him in such a funk, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of asking about it. If he wanted to share it with her, he could work up the courage to do it himself. “I’m shocked to hear you have a friend,” she said instead, which, to her credit, was also true.
“Well, I’m usually a lot less of a miserable gargoyle.” For the first time ever, Simone detected a trace of playfulness in his voice. “Sometimes I’m actually fun.”
“Oh yeah?” Simone huffed out a laugh. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
The chairlift deposited them far above the tree line at Little Whistler Peak, where they circled up with Simone’s guide group at the top of a blue square.
It ran along a serpentine mountain ridge, which looked to Simone like the back of a sleeping, snow-white dragon—a dragon so massive that the skiers and snowboarders looked like dots in the distance.
She was as awestruck as if she really had stumbled upon a mythical creature.
Ryan took off slightly ahead of her. If there was one thing about him she didn’t have to question, it was his assertion that he’d been skiing his whole life.
He flew along the mountain ridge like his body was made to do it, his torso still while his legs swung left and right, his skis perfectly parallel.
As Simone carved her own path through the snow, she tried to take in the sprawling views, but her eyes kept darting away, kept scanning the run for Ryan’s white helmet and charcoal-gray jacket.
Why was she so obsessed with keeping him in her sights?
He was perfectly capable—obviously. And Margot had given them clear directions to where they were going to circle up next.
It wasn’t like she was picturing his abs, quads, and glutes working underneath all that outerwear.
She was simply a lifelong skier impressed with a fellow athlete’s impeccable form.
That was all.
That night, Simone cupped her hands around her mouth and whooped as a drag queen in a blond wig and a pink minidress marched across the stage and grabbed the mic.
“Hell-ooooooooo, Whistler Pride! I’m Vajeena George, and I’ll be your host for drag bingo tonight! It’s cold outside, but damn, everyone is hot as hell in here!”
As the audience cheered, Simone looked over at Ryan.
Because for some reason, her eyeballs were still magnetically drawn to him, even though they weren’t on the mountain anymore.
His latest selfie station had three giant wooden blocks shaped like Tetris pieces, and he was busy nudging them this way and that in search of the perfect composition.
She didn’t know what was hotter: the way his forearms flexed when he moved the blocks, or how he furrowed his brow and stuck out the tip of tongue when he stepped back to survey his work.
The correct answer is neither, because Ryan is not hot, she reminded herself.
Although she had to admit she didn’t regret asking him to ski with her today.
They hadn’t squabbled once—except for at lunch, when Ryan bought them a plate of poutine to share, and they disagreed on the ideal way poutine should be eaten, Ryan suggesting the gravy should be on the side so that the fries didn’t get soggy, Simone adamant that the gravy should be on top so that the cheese got sufficiently melty. In the end, Simone had won. Obviously.
Fine, then. Simone could admit that she and Ryan were on their way to not exactly hating each other’s company.
She could also admit that Ryan possessed certain attractive qualities, from a purely physical and scent-related standpoint.
But she would not bestow upon him the sacred label of “hot.” There was no way in hell.
She turned back to the stage.
“Our first round is the warm-up round, where you’ll be competing to win”—Vajeena George yanked a metal cloche off one of the hidden prizes—“a deluxe body glitter kit! Whoever wins this one is going to look fabulous at the parade and can enjoy picking glitter out of their orifices for the next five years or so.” Then she made her way to a cage of neon bingo balls and kicked off the game.
The rounds moved quickly and the prizes varied dramatically, from a set of Pride-themed temporary tattoos to a brand-new Apple Watch.
Simone wasn’t playing with a card of her own—it would be weird if the sponsors of Whistler Pride took home prizes over the paying guests—but Glen and Phoenix were sitting nearby, and she was having plenty of fun rooting for her friends.
She didn’t care that she couldn’t win anything; the best prize of all was simply being at drag bingo as an out queer woman.
It was late in the evening when Vajeena George announced that the next prize would be the grand finale, and the biggest one yet.
“The winner of the next round will get… a four-night, all-expenses paid vacation for two to beautiful Vancouver Island, courtesy of our friends at Destination British Columbia! You’ll stay in a stunning wilderness lodge, where you’ll enjoy activities like ocean kayaking, hiking, and whale watching. ”
There were whispers of excitement around the room. At Simone’s friends’ table, Glen rubbed his palms together feverishly. Phoenix scooped up a handful of plastic chips and blew on them for good luck. Vajeena George picked up the first bingo ball of the round.
“B7!”
Glen and Phoenix both pumped their fists and reached for plastic chips.
Next came O63, G51, I23, and B4. Both of her friends were making progress, but Glen seemed to be surging ahead.
His hands were moving quickly, his brow furrowed with concentration behind his whimsical round glasses.
“Would you look at that,” he said. “I almost have—”
“N33!”
“BINGO!” Glen jutted his hand in the air.
Simone squealed with glee. She adored all her guide group friends, but Glen held an extra-special spot in her heart.
He was the oldest and wisest member of the group, and he had total cool-grandpa vibes.
Plus, the poor guy deserved a win. He’d taken a nasty fall on some moguls this morning and hurt his hip—badly enough that he’d had to pack it in for the day.
She raced to Glen’s chair and was about to pat him on the shoulder when Vajeena George made an announcement: “It looks like we have not one, but two bingos!”
“What?” Simone cried.
She looked out at the sea of people and her heart sank. Across the room, a jacked guy in a tiny tank top was also on his feet with his hand in the air.
“Let’s have each of you read off your numbers,” the drag queen said.
Glen and Tiny Tank Top each did as they were asked. Vajeena George confirmed they both had bingo.
“You know what that means,” she announced. Her voice had a mischievous edge to it. “There’s only one fair way to break this tie, and that’s a dance-off.”