Page 9 of It’s Me, but Different
The laughter makes them temporarily forget about Esme. Wine flows, memories and anecdotes intertwine, and for a moment, everything returns to normal. Until Ivy decides to drop another bomb.
“Their father's death must have been really hard on the kids. Especially being so young.”
“They were six,” Anika confirms. “They were just starting school. And now Esme… having to raise them alone… whew.”
Luckily, Ivy comes to my rescue when she sees I'm not comfortable.
“Changing the subject,” my twin interrupts in an attempt to give me a break. “Did you hear there's a woman asking questions in town about our family?”
“What kind of questions?” Harper asks, frowning.
“Nothing specific,” Ivy responds, shrugging. “Meg, the new girl at the coffee shop, told me some woman with an East Coast accent has been asking about the resort, about the family's history, that kind of thing.”
“Probably another journalist looking for an easy article,” River growls with a dismissive gesture. “Ever since Harper appeared on the cover of Forbes, they keep showing up.”
“Whoever it is, if she wants to talk to us, she knows where to find us. Or she can also contact our pressdepartment. She doesn't need to go around asking questions in town, unless she's looking for some kind of scandal or something like that,” my older sister protests.
The conversation soon shifts to more everyday topics: the possible Michelin star for River's restaurant at the top of the mountain, Julie's new glass designs, the company's expansion plans. Little by little, the tension leaves the dinner. The lasagna disappears, replaced by a delicious chocolate dessert shaped like a snowy mountain that makes us all forget our worries.
It's later, while the others move to the living room to play a board game that has become our tradition after dinners, when my older sister takes the opportunity to talk to me alone.
“Are you okay?” she asks in a low voice, taking me by the elbow. “Really.”
“I don't know,” I admit with a sigh. “Esme is the only person who's made me question what I want in life. If I had been a little more mature and hadn't let her go, maybe now…”
“You can't keep living on 'what ifs.' The decisions we make throughout life define us, for better or worse.”
“I know. It's just that…” I stop, searching for the right words. “In the end, the bronze medal is stored behind a display case, and the injury took me out of competition anyway. I sacrificed what could have been the love of my life for a dream that didn't even last.”
“Sloane, listen to me. You can't change the past. And even if you could, you have to remember that Esme is no longer the same twenty-year-old girl you met in college. She's lived an entire life without you. She got married, had kids, lost her husband…”
“I know,” I interrupt her, raising a hand to quiet her. Imagining all those moments I wasn't part of because I was stupid is still too painful.
“What I mean,” my sister continues, raising her eyebrows, “is that any... any attempt at reconnection between you two would be infinitely more complicated now. It's not just Esme who's at stake. It's also her children and the memories she holds from all these years.”
She's right, but that doesn't make her words hit me any less hard. It's not just a matter of two ex-girlfriends meeting again. There are two eight-year-old kids who have already lost a father.
“I haven't talked about picking up where we left off,” I murmur, though part of me rebels against that idea. “I'm just processing the fact of seeing her again. Nothing more.”
“I understand,” Harper assures me, squeezing my shoulder. “Just… be careful, okay? With her feelings and with yours. Now, let's go with the others,” she suggests, nodding toward where the rest of my sisters are with Julie and Anika.
Chapter 6
Esme
“Please, can you stop already? My head is going to explode,” I protest, maybe raising my voice more than necessary.
Ana Sofia's complaints about her ski boots are driving me crazy. She's been complaining all morning that they hurt her ankles, and no matter how much I try to reposition them, tighten the buckles, or loosen them, nothing seems to work. I watch her limp toward me again, with that characteristic gesture of frustration, identical to the one her father made when some situation overwhelmed him.
“Mom, I really can't,” she insists, taking off her boots and throwing them on the ground. “They're destroying my feet.”
Theo watches us from a few yards away, already tired of waiting. We're an hour behind schedule, and the day threatens to become a real disaster.
“Look, let's go to the ski school, see if they can do something!” I give in, picking up the boots from the ground with a gesture that's maybe too brusque.
But when we arrive, I immediately regret it.
“Well, I didn't expect to see you here,” I sigh.