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“She told me she was waiting for a lobotomy so she could forget that that rescue sled ever happened. Apparently, they were letting the rookie train with the sled on the easy runs, but they went so slow they got stuck,” Izzy said with a laugh.

Danica was still sitting on the ground, fussing with her bindings, and Pete knelt, helping her without a word. Danica looked up, a silent look of gratitude on her face.

“Should we figure out how to get Maggie home?” Danica asked, standing and brushing off her pants, the fabric swishing under her gloves.

Kiera had her phone out, her gloves dangling from where they were clipped into her jacket. “She says she convinced someone to give her a ride back on their snowmobile.”

“Isn’t the condo, like, just on the other side of the Chondola?” Pete said, looking toward the bunny hill gondola ascending to Mountain Village, where their condo was located.

“Classic Maggie,” Izzy said, and Danica chuckled.

Danica turned toward where the gondola was loading passengers. “Well, in that case. I think I’m going to go take ten muscle relaxers and be horizontal with my cross stitch until dinner,” Danica announced.

“Want to go check out the black runs off Lift 9 with me?” Izzy asked Pete.

Pete glanced back toward Izzy, getting the feeling that Danica wanted to be alone. “Sure.”

“You go cross stitch your heart out. We’ll be back soon,” Kiera said, nodding. “I’ll join you guys if that’s cool. I’ve been wanting to try East Drain again since it kicked my ass this morning.”

Pete’s eyebrows shot up — she was surprised Kiera wanted to spend time away from Danica — but Izzy nodded and said, “Let’s go, then.”

The four of them walked to the gondola, climbing into one of the cars. Kiera moved past Pete to sit next to Danica, turning and talking to her in a low voice. Danica explained Maggie’s fall again. Izzy scrolled through her Spotify playlists. Pete gazed out the window, a jolt of surprise hitting her as she saw Danica looking back at her in the reflection.

The day was so beautiful, so clear, and while a part of her was worried for Maggie, she was still wound up from her time alone with Danica. Even if they had just spent an hour inching down a run, they’d laughed and joked like they used to. Danica’s gaze didn’t linger on Pete’s again, but that one fraction of a moment was enough — just a flicker of interest that Pete would continue to think about for the rest of the day.

Had Danica felt what she’d felt while they’d hugged, before Kiera and Izzy showed up and turned the moment awkward? So many questions raced through her mind, and she did her best not to feel a stab of regret as the group parted, Danica separated to go back to the condo, and the rest of them hopped on another gondola to connect to their other lift.

Something had shifted between her and Danica. It was exciting; maybe old feelings would rekindle, or maybe it was something completely new.

CHAPTER 9

DANICA

“How doyou know this bar even hosts karaoke nights?” Izzy asked as the five friends stood on the sidewalk and looked up at the bar’s sign. In the breezy January night, the hokey old timey piece of wood swung back and forth over the door.

Danica shivered, pulled her coat tighter, and winced at some guy butchering Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing.” What did they ever do to that man to deserve that kind of treatment?

Maggie shrugged. “Google is your friend, Izzy.” She gave Izzy a teasing smile as she strutted through the doorway of the bar.

Kiera looped her arm through Danica’s and they followed Maggie in, Pete and Izzy right behind them. The bar was dimly lit by an elaborate chandelier that would have been more at home in Disney’s Haunted Mansion. Johnny Cash defiantly raising his middle finger on a painting over the stage as the centerpiece of a thrift store art collection on the wood-paneled walls, illuminated by a string of red Christmas lights that twinkled softly. It smelled like cheap beer and the floors were sticky. A lively and diverse mix filled the bar — tough-lookingbiker women in worn leather sat near tables of young men, their faces bearing the tell-tale ski-goggle tans.

“I owe you a drink,” Maggie said, pointing to Danica with her good arm. The other arm was in a sling, just like Danica had predicted, and wrapped in an ace bandage. Luckily, the wrist hadn’t been broken, and Maggie had been sent on her way with a recommendation to rest and ice her wrist.

“I think Pete owes us both drinks, considering she broke your arm,” Danica joked. She glanced back toward Pete, but didn’t find her. “Where’d she go?”

Kiera pointed toward the stage, where red lights cast a glow in Pete’s wild curls. The music had paused between performances, and Pete looked like she was savoring the drama of having all eyes on her. Of course she’d be the first to run up there, unable to resist a performance.

Pete adjusted the collar of her worn-in flannel shirt. The deep green and navy plaid pattern was faded from years of wear, its edges just starting to fray at the cuffs. Underneath, she wore a simple black crewneck t-shirt, its fabric soft and slightly stretched from frequent use. Her jeans, a pair of high-waisted, straight-leg black denim, were slightly cuffed at the ankle, revealing the worn leather of her sturdy Doc Marten boots. She nodded toward the man running the karaoke machine, then bowed low as she closed her eyes and began to sing, “Hey now, hey now.”

“Oh my god,” Danica groaned, wanting to cover her eyes but unable to look away as the cheesy, over-the-top synths and driving electro beats of Hilary Duff’s “What Dreams Are Made Of” pulsed through the room, a wave of early 2000s nostalgia washing over her. The crowd’s murmur of confusion shifted to amused recognition as Pete launched into her enthusiastic, almost painfully earnest, Lizzie McGuire-inspired dance.

Danica immediately flashed back to their college karaoke bar. The Inn had been notorious for not caring about fake IDs. It had a shitty carpeted — carpeted! — bar with a half-dead jukebox and bartenders who acted annoyed whenever someone ordered anything but a bottled beer. In the bartender’s defense, being the local bar for a college was probably not a profitable or stress-free situation, catering to a crowd of 19-year-olds with fake IDs and a love for dollar beer night.

Those were the days of wearing blazers, layered tank tops, or body con dresses to the bar, topped with a statement necklace and a Bump-It. Pete had gone through a phase of cargo shorts and Abercrombie polos, always with the collar popped. What they lacked in timeless style, they made up for in a startling ability to drink for hours, stay up late having sloppy drunk sex, and then go to an 8 a.m. class the next day. Ah, to have the metabolism and tenacity of a college kid again.

They’d had their first kiss immediately after a duet of this very song. The lingering scent of cheap beer and sweat hung in the air as Pete kissed Danica on stage, the room echoing with applause.

Maggie nudged Danica and she looked up to see that Pete was pointing at her. “Come on, Wendell, do the Lizzie part,” she said into the microphone, causing some in the crowd to glance Danica’s way.