Page 13 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

“Just like that?”

She met his eyes. “Why not? You got your fuck. That’s what you came here for, right?”

He winced at the profanity, yanking up his pants. “You can’t go traipsing all over the world, Ronny.”

“Veronica,” she said. “And it’s not ‘traipsing.’ It’s a job.” She kept heading for her room. “A job I desperately need.”

He followed her, standing in the doorway as if they were still married, his hands on the doorjamb on either side. “And I’ve got a new baby on the way.”

“Not my problem.” She tugged a T-shirt dress over her nakedness. “You need to go.”

He came into the room, all six foot one of him, and stood over her. “I miss you,” he said in a raw voice. “The sex between us has always been—”

“Hot,” she agreed. “But that’s the last time.”

“Is it?” He started to press himself into her. “You say that every time.”

“I mean it this time,” she said, pushing him away. “Now go.”

As soon as he left, she collapsed onto the edge of the bed, flooded with shame. She did keep saying it was the last time, and she kept letting him in. Her therapist called itgrief sex.Storm sex, she called it, like storm eating. Her friend Amber said she was just horny and should find another guy to have sex with—but how did you do that when you were in your fifties?

She thought of Fiona with remorse and not a little anger. Her mind flashed images of herself, exaggerating her leering at the door, flinging off her shirt, crying out so noisily.

Never again. Never again. Never again.

Chapter Six

On the day of departure, Mariah awakened to the particular pale-blue light of a snowy day. For one second before she remembered, a swell of anticipation swept through her body, lighting all the cells that loved the taste of sharp, high-altitude air, the bite of cold. Happiness spread through her veins.

And then she tried to move, and her shattered leg reminded her that it would be a long time before she could ever hit the slopes again. The leg had no strength. All the metal holding her femur together would get freezing cold as soon as she exposed it to the air. She wouldn’t be able to even get off a lift.

But she didn’t move right away. For a minute longer, she could lie here, in her childhood bedroom hung with posters of Hannah Teter and Shaun White. She’d torn down her medals in a fit of fury not long after she’d come home from the hospital. No one had to tell her she’d never compete again. Her femur had not just been shattered—three inches had been basically pulverized, and so little had been left that the surgeons needed a lot of nails and screws and other metal to create a facsimile of her original leg. That she’d not bled to death on the spot was still considered a miracle.

Which depended on your point of view, she thought with some bitterness, an emotion she’d learned not to express aloud. Shewasgrateful she was alive, more or less.

But what would she do with the vastness of years that—presumably—stretched ahead? She couldn’t see anything on the path, just a dull, empty road filled with nothing.

Her phone started playing a wake-up ringtone, and she rolled over to turn it off. At least this one thing was a goal, a way to get moving, focus on something besides her ruined life. As she swung her legs over the side of the bed, gearing up for the discomfort that came from standing, she breathed deeply, offered one moment of gratitude. Her mom’s sister, Jill, had suggested the practice, and it had been immeasurably helpful.

“Thank you for something to do today,” she said to the emptiness.

Veronica arrived fifteen minutes early. Mariah was relieved. They’d only settled details of employment, as well as the visa, two days ago, texting back and forth.

It was still kind of a shock to open the door to her a couple of hours later. Mariah had been so sure she’d be traveling with a grad student, someone close to her own age.

Veronica was totally a mom person, with her inoffensive bob, her cheery expression, her predictable hiking pants and boots that admittedly did look as if they’d been used a lot, and an olive-green fleece. Mariah had been afraid that she’d be an overpacker, but she had only a backpack and a small suitcase.

The mom-ness gave her an unexpected pain. Unwelcome tears welled up. She wanted herownmother, not someone else’s. She’d hoped for a friend, not a ... companion, like somebody from an old novel. It embarrassed her that she even needed it. It was ridiculous that this was her life—Mariah Ellsworth, Olympic snowboarder and generally considered the strongest person almost anyone in her life knew.

“Hi,” Veronica said breathlessly after hauling the suitcase up the stairs. “I assume the Uber will be here soon, so I’ll just leave this on the porch, right?”

“Sure.”

“Do you need me to bring out your bags?”

Mariah blinked, heat and pain mixing in her throat. “Yes,” she said shortly, limping backward to reveal the suitcases behind her. “It’s more than you have.”

Understatement. Veronica stood just inside the door for a minute, eyeing the pile of luggage. Backpack, large suitcase, small suitcase. Mariah winced, suddenly embarrassed, an emotion that increased dramatically when Veronica asked calmly, “This is a lot. Do you needallof it?”