The Snowflake Spark

Chapter 1

SHAY

You can tell a lot about a woman by the type of bra she wears. For instance, the silky black number clutched in my hand as I swing my skis on the chairlift, the one that makes my girls look some kind of wonderful, this one says: classy, yet conservative.

“How far is it?” Lily asks, her white-blond hair almost camouflaged by the wisps of snow collecting on her jacket.

March in Aspen and the snow is heavier than midwinter, the evergreens lining the runs sagging under thick pillows. My nose stings with each inhale. “It’s closer to the end of the lift. Trust me, you can’t miss it.”

“You sure this is a good idea? We could come back tomorrow, and you could wear a different bra and carry this one, so you don’t have to—you know, ski down without…” Her pale gray eyes settle on my jacket, about midchest. The area housing my braless boobs.

Raven leans her elbows on the safety bar and nudges Lily’s side. “What do you think’s going to happen? You think Shay’s loose boobs will get caught under her skis and send her hurtling down the mountain?”

The snowboarder at the end of our four-pack chairlift snorts to himself while Lily sinks against the back of our seat, reverting to her quiet-as-a-mouse routine.

I lick the snowflakes from my lips, knowing it’s now or never.

When we passed the bra tree on our last ride up the chairlift, its branches weighted down with lingerie, I knew what I had to do.

The instinct was instant. Visceral. My need to shed this bra and all it represented couldn’t wait another second.

One run and a quick trip to the washroom later, we got in line for this fateful ride.

“Thanks for the concern, Lil, but I’m pretty sure my skiing ability won’t be affected by my lack of undergarments. The bra tree will be getting another ornament.”

“You really want to go through with it, though?” she asks as Snowboarder Dude cranes his neck to check out the black silk gripped in my gloved hand. “I mean, it’s the bra.”

She’s right. It’s not every day a woman comes across the perfect balance of lift and shape, cleavage and support, no extra skin pushing out the sides or back.

Since its purchase, this has been my go-to bra.

I wore it the day Richard passed his bar exam, and every dinner where I tagged along with his law friends, forcing smiles as I tried to fit in.

I donned this black lace the day I got offered a coveted promotion.

The design firm I’d apprenticed at was closing shop to focus on their Montreal location, and I was asked to come along and help establish them as the front-runner of Canadian design.

I also wore this bra the night Richard told me he’d accepted a job working for one of Toronto’s top law firms, and while he convinced me to decline my promotion and stay in Toronto to support him and his career.

But my favorite event, the episode that inspired this moment of truth, was the evening I donned this bra and his favorite black dress—the one he said slimmed my hips—expecting a proposal from Richard.

After stumbling across an expensive Tiffany’s bill, I just knew.

That was it. We were going to take our next step as partners and spouses in support of each other.

I’d finally quit my soul-sucking job designing retirement homes, find something better in Toronto, and stretch my wings.

What I got instead was: I think we’ve grown apart.

More to the point, his dick grew toward Deena Wanger.

For five years, I put him first. His wants.

His needs. I wasn’t even second. A distant third, maybe.

I let him influence how I dressed, kept our apartment how he liked.

The man had me on regular juice cleanses, for Christ’s sake, to slim my hips.

The brazen, confident girl who grew up in a small town got swallowed by the city. And Richard.

Such an appropriate name, really. Even from birth, his parents knew he’d be a Dick.

I huff out a breath, sending a cloud of vapor curling through the cool air. “Oh, I’m sure, Lil. This forever-tainted piece of lingerie will adorn that bra tree. It will be the crowning jewel.”

“You can’t just chuck that,” Snowboard Dude says, his mouth the only thing visible under his massive goggles and helmet. “There are rules.”

Raven turns to him, her charcoal eyes likely squinting. “Rules? It’s an evergreen tree on a ski slope covered with colorful bras and tacky necklaces. She can launch it if she wants.”

He shakes his head and leans more heavily on his elbows.

“No way. Tradition is tradition. It’s gotta come from the evening’s conquest. You bag a chick, take her bra, and sling it on the tree to immortalize the moment.

Like I said, tradition. So unless you ladies got busy together last night, or at lunch”—a lazy grin sweeps across his face—“then pocket the bra.”

If he could see the tattoos inked over Raven’s skin, he’d maybe look a little less smug. One glance at her in a dark alley, and I’d cross to the other side.

“Let me explain something.” She squares her shoulders toward him, her head cocked in annoyance.

“My girl here just got dumped by a total douche, so we three are hating on men. Since you’re the only dude on this chairlift, I’d say your choice is simple.

She either hurls her bra on a tree covered in bras, or we channel our angry-girl hormones in your direction. What’ll it be?”

That sly grin slips from his face. “Whatever. You wanna spit on tradition, fine by me. But that shit is karmic.”

Raven’s long black ponytail glides along her jacket as she swings her helmeted head my way. “Forget him. That bra will be taking flight.”

I nod in agreement, my helmet bobbing with the movement. I may be hurt and pissed about how things ended with the Dick, but there’s relief, too.

Both Raven and Lily made it known they thought I could do better.

Thought I’d lost a piece of myself to him (like two dress sizes), but I was too scared to step out on my own.

Lily and Raven were away, all of us busy with our own studies, and I latched onto Richard, lonely and desperate to belong. I molded myself into his perfect woman.

Of course I’d rather suck kale through a straw than eat solid food.

Job promotion? Who needs it? I didn’t want a real life anyway.

Bring on the vanilla sex. Experimentation and excitement are overrated.

Every so often, though, I’d toss one of my hidden cookies into his smoothies…carbs and all.

But knowing I might have said yes to a proposal has anger bubbling up inside of me. I need to toss this bra, forget the Dick, and regain my confidence. I just wish I felt sexier in my equipment so I could get my flirt on with a rugged ski guy.

This helmet is the anti-sexy.

“Look, look, look!” Lily bounces beside me, the chairlift swaying in response. “That’s it, right?”

As we crest a rise, the pinks and reds and blues on the bra tree stand out in vibrant contrast to the white-tipped evergreens.

“That’s it, all right,” I say, my excitement growing.

A few skiers are attacking the narrow mogul run below us, their skis scraping and gliding between the massive bumps. Snowboard Dude horks and spits over the side of the chair, likely aiming for the man splayed on the snow, a yard sale of his gear smattering the uniform bumps.

Karma, my ass.

I scan the tree up ahead, cataloguing each brassiere I can make out.

The hefty beige one looks more like a straitjacket than a bra, the thick material folded over a lower branch.

It screams: dull, trite, supportive, and dead boring.

Above it, a flirty number in bright purple and swirling lace dangles, its owner definitely more sassy than mundane.

Swallowing thickly, I glance at the black bra I once loved, hating what an easy read it is.

Classy. Conservative. Proper. Poised.

The perfect accessory to pressed suits and silk ties. The chosen undergarment to accent my slimming black dresses. The Dick.

“You better get ready,” Raven says.

We’re one chair back, and I raise my arm, readying to slingshot the bra, my past, and all things Richard into oblivion, but as I do, a red lacy bra catches my eye.

This piece of feminine lingerie is the perfect combination of sultry and flirtatious, the elegantly patterned fabric dipping low in the center, punctuated with a red bow.

My heart quickens.

That is the woman I was, once upon a time. The woman who got smothered by the Dick. That bra screams spontaneous and confident, a little wild and a lot of fun. It’s the bra I’m buying the second we get to town.

“Come on, Shay.” Lily nudges me. “If you wait any longer, you’ll miss it.”

I clench my jaw, determination setting in.

Then I draw my arm back, whip my wrist, and let the fabric go.

My bra sails through the air in an elegant arc, my 34Cs taking flight, before being caught up in a gust of wind and tumbling down, down, down and landing smack on some guy’s head.

Amid his what the fucks, the girls and I giggle as Snowboard Dude scoffs with a snarky, “Karma.”

My bra may not have hit the tree, but it’s out of my life. Along with the Dick.

We push off the chairlift at the top, and I can’t keep my eyes from flitting around.

I’m not wearing a bra. The secret is enthralling, wanton.

A shiver of excitement runs down my spine, and a need for recklessness consumes me.

Having grown up in a ski town outside of Toronto, I practically skied from the womb.

Our hills are more like glorified mounds than towering mountains, but my parents put me in ski racing programs as a kid, and I can handle the expert terrain better than Lily and Raven.

Right about now, I could use the adrenaline.

“I say we call it early and have lunch in town. Last run of the day?” Lily asks as she zips the neck of her lilac jacket higher to protect her face. She tucks her blond strands into the back.

Raven jumps up and down, her skis smacking the hard-packed snow. “Bet your ass it is. There’s a hot tub and glass of wine with my name on it.”