“Okay . . .” I don’t know where this is going, but suddenly I don’t have a good feeling about it.
“I know things have been horrible the past couple of weeks.”
“Right.”
“The last thing I want to do is hurt you, Charlotte.”
“Not wanting to hurt me and not actually hurting me are two different things.”
She looks miserable. “True.”
“So? What do you want to ask me?” I say, swallowing nervously.
“Um. Well . . . how would you feel . . . I mean, that is to say . . . would you be okay if . . . ugh.” She groans. “If Edward and me . . . um . . .”
My eyes narrow. “Yes?”
She exhales sharply, all in a puff, as if gathering courage. “He’s asked me if there’s a chance for us.”
“A chance for what?”
“Um. You know.”
“A chance for winning the lottery? A chance for getting struck by lightning? A chance for what?”
“To . . . to be his girlfriend. I told him I’d need to talk to you first.”
My heart sinks.
“Get out.”
“But—”
“The fact that you would even have the nerve to ask me that.”
I don’t think I’d be this upset over Edward dating somebody else—it’s not like I still have real feelings for him. But it’s my sister. It’s Libby.
And of all the people in the world, why did they have to choose each other?
“I haven’t said yes! I told him if you weren’t okay with it, we couldn’t date. I would never choose a guy over you, Charlotte.”
Something in Libby’s voice makes me waver. If this were any other guy, I’d be thrilled for her. Am I being melodramatic? She’s always been so supportive of me—my biggest cheerleader. But then an image of the two of them looking at each other tenderly and kissing flashes through my mind, and I feel betrayed all over again.
“Except clearly you would,” I say. “Look, I don’t care what the two of you do. You don’t need my permission. Date him. Fall in love. Get married, for all I care. But if you think I’m going to hold your hand through it all, you’re deluded.”
She looks miserable. “Lotte, I’m a wreck.”
“Guilt is a funny emotion.”
“I love you. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. But I don’t know what to do—I’ve never felt this way about anybody. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. My stomach hurts. It’s an awful feeling. I hate myself for liking him.”
I pause. If she’s trying to get through to me, it’s working. I don’t want her to suffer.
But I need more time. I can’t let it go this easily. I just can’t. “You two deserve each other.”
She stands up, looking defeated. “I’m so sorry, Lotte.”
Libby walks out the door, and I close it behind her, immediately pulling out my phone to send a group text.
ME: Are you free? Wine in my room. Five minutes.
A few minutes later, India, Flossie, Alice, and Georgie have all piled into my room. I want to deep-dive into the news that Libby and Edward are dating—I need some friend sympathy over being betrayed yet again—but everybody’s too busy yammering on about skiing.
“We’ve started going to Zurs,” Flossie says.
“Not St. Moritz?” Alice asks.
“Daddy says he’s done with St. Moritz. Too many Russians.”
“We only do Gstaad, of course,” says India.
“But the skiing is better in Austria, I think,” Flossie says.
“Really?” India says. “Totally disagree. Switzerland or nothing. Maybe Kitz, but that’s it.”
“You’re all insane,” says Georgie. “Deer Valley smokes all those towns—the snow is like powdered sugar. Besides, Europe is overrated—unless you think skiing on ice is fun.”
“Says the American,” cracks Flossie.
“Says the half American who learned to ski when she was two,” retorts Georgie.
As I silently pour everybody cups of wine, they get into a serious debate about the best ski resorts—whether “Verb” or “Val” has the best après-ski, whether Gryon or Klosters attracts more royals, whether Zermatt or St. Moritz is flashier. I cross my arms, wedging myself into the far corner of my bed near the wall and feeling incredibly left out of this conversation. My family didn’t have enough money to take me skiing when I was a child, and if you don’t learn to ski young, you might as well not even try. The couple of times I’ve tagged along with Sussex Park teammates on ski vacations, they’d be whooshing down the black runs while I struggled on the bunny slope. Sometimes a friend would take pity and ski with me, but they’d never last more than half an hour before coming up with a lame excuse for why they needed to dash. I’d eventually find myself hanging out alone in the chalet, downing cup after cup of hot chocolate while waiting for everybody else to finish their runs. Unlike other tracks I can cover, the fact that I can’t ski well immediately marks me as an outsider in this world. It’s just one more reminder that my family might have money, but unlike everybody else, ours is very new.
“I almost broke my leg on one of the black runs, but luckily the ski instructor called a snowmobile to take me back to the lodge,” says Flossie. “Then he felt so sorry for me that we chatted by the fire for an hour.”
“And . . . ?” Alice asks.
“We didn’t pull, if that’s what you’re asking.”
She looks disappointed. “Damn.”
“It was still exciting. He was twenty-five!”
“Ew. Pass.” Alice wrinkles her nose. “Personally, I think eighteen is the perfect age.”
“Disagree,” Flossie says, stretching her arms over her head. Her tanned tummy peeks out. “If anything, twenty-five is too young for you. Everybody knows men remain boys until they’re at least forty.”
Now this conversation I can contribute to. “Forty? Gross. That’s my dad’s age.”
“I’m not saying you should date a forty-year-old. I’m saying age doesn’t equal maturity. And I’m sure your father is totally older than forty. Speaking of family—how are things going with Libby after she snogged Edward? I haven’t seen either of them since we’ve been back.” She looks around the room, as if she’s just recognizing my sister’s absence. “Where is she, anyway?”
Finally.
“You guys aren’t going to believe it, but . . .” I pause for maximum dramatic effect. “It wasn’t just one snog. Libby and Edward are dating—like, for real.”
They exchange looks.
“Um, yeah,” Flossie says. “Obvs.”
“Wait, you knew? How?”
Alice shifts uncomfortably on the floor. “More wine, anybody?”
“I tried to warn you,” says Flossie. “I’ve been telling you for months.”
I narrow my eyes. “So he was cheating on me with her.”
“Obviously,” says Flossie.
“No,” India says, frowning at her. “He was not cheating on Charlotte.”
I feel hot. “I’m so stupid.”
“You’re not stupid,” says India. “I suspected, but I didn’t know for certain. They must be trying to hide it.”
“Whatever. Let them date. Let them get bloody married for all I care. They deserve each other.”
Alice walks on her knees over to me, refilling my mug. “Here. You need this.”
India sighs. “I don’t like the way the whole thing went down. You’re right to be upset, of course. But he and Libby are quite well matched.”