Jason helps Charlie jam a carrot into the middle of our friendly giant’s face, and the two are impressed when I offer up my own contribution—the coal from the kitchen grill for eyes, a smiling mouth, and a few classy buttons.

  After that, we lazily decorate the field with snow angels: small (Charlie), medium (me), and large (Jason). I can’t help but feel like the snow angels make the perfect family.

  Before we know what’s happening, the sun sinks low behind the Roussillon, and our tired bodies are left in the shadows. Charlie’s nose is red with cold, and my fingers are turning icy due to wet mittens. When Jason suggests that we head in for some food, I’m more than happy to agree.

  Now, we’re back at “our table,” as we’ve collectively dubbed it.

  Dinner is simple: a loaf of French bread, a few blocks of cheese, slices of meat, and vegetable sticks.

  Plus, a bottle of wine.

  Charlie is busy cutting the cheese with a butter knife—which isn’t the ideal tool for the job, but it’s the only knife that Jason will let him use.

  Jason lifts the bottle of wine and looks pointedly at me, over Charlie’s head.

  He’s offering some to me, and I nod without needing to say a word.

  He lifts a glass and fills it halfway, and then hands it over to me. Our fingers brush as I accept the glass. The exchange feels intimate yet familiar, like we’ve been doing this same routine for years. For a brief instant, I have this crazy fantasy: this is my family. Jason is my husband, we’re the tired but happy parents, relaxing with a glass of wine after a day of running around with our child.

  The fantasy is wonderful, but as the bubble pops, I’m left with an empty feeling. Hold on there, sister, I school myself. You just met these two. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Soon, this little dream-like vacation would be over, and I’d be on my own again.

  Don’t get too attached.

  I know my wise, cynical self is on point, but I can’t help but resent her advice. I don’t want to think about going home.

  I want to be here—now.

  I want to have fun.

  I sip the glass of wine in my hand. Charlie successfully cuts off a big hunk of cheese. It’s almost the size of a deck of cards, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. He places it on a torn piece of bread, then heaves the whole thing toward his mouth.

  Jason intercepts, and wordlessly edits the out-of-balance sandwich, slicing the cheese thinner and adding a piece of meat before handing it back to his son. He’s a good dad. I make myself a sandwich too, and Jason does the same.

  I’m almost done with mine, plus my glass of wine, when Charlie jumps up onto the couch. He bounces a few times, and then lifts a cushion off of the couch and throws it onto the floor.

  Jumping off of our couch, he lands on the cushion. Then he springs, like a wind-up-toy, over to the next couch in the lobby. Each of the lobby’s seating areas are about five feet apart, and he looks proud of himself that he crossed the gap without touching the floor.

  I can tell Jason’s about to tell his son to pick up the cushion. But Charlie looks so darn proud of himself, and I don’t want to see his cute little face fall. Also, I recognize the game he’s playing. I used to play it all the time, growing up, with my brother. Hot lava!

  I used to be quite a champ. I could get from the living room to the kitchen to grab a juice box from the fridge without one touching the floor, which was—in our minds—swirling with molten hot lava. It makes me sad to think that Charlie’s never had a sibling to play the game with.

  Before Jason can cut his game short, I jump up on the couch to the place where Charlie was just standing. I bounce over the pillow, and then up onto the couch with Charlie. He lifts his hand and gives me five.

  Now both of us are on the new couch—like explorers on a foreign island. We look over at Jason, whose mouth is hanging open.

  The decision is his.

  Is he going to be the serious adult in this situation, or is he going to play along?

  I feel like I’m holding my breath as I wait.

  Jason lifts his wine glass, drinks the final sip, and then places it down carefully. Then, to my utter amazement, he steps up onto the couch. He jumps up and down a few times, bending his knees and then springing up gently. He’s warming up.

  After a big build up, he leaps to the cushion in the middle of the floor. Charlie and I clap and pump our hands in the air.

  We move over, making room for the third explorer in our lava-evading group.

  Jason lands next to me on the couch, and I feel the unmistakable magnetic field of our attraction fill the space between us. Before I can overthink things, Charlie has us moving again. We leap after the energetic boy, sometimes following him from couch to couch, and sometimes forging our own paths to separate seating areas.

  My sides ache from laughter. Jason reaches the edge of the lobby, and he waves us over. Charlie and I make our way to him, and Jason points to a luggage cart.

  “Do you think we could get to the kitchen?” he signs.

  Charlie loves this idea. “Marshmallows!” he signs. “Dad! You’re a genius!”

  “I was thinking salad,” Jason signs.

  Charlie refuses to hear this. “Marshmallows and chocolate and graham crackers…for s’mores!”

  Jason and I laugh.

  I toss a pillow out to the floor, and leap out to it. Stretching my arm as far as I can from my wobbly perch, I manage to wrap my fingers around the brass sides of the cart. I roll it over toward Charlie and Jason.

  Jason grabs it, and then lifts his son into it. He climbs in too, as if it’s a sled.

  “What about Harper?” Charlie asks.

  “She can come too!” Jason signs. “Harper, come on!”

  The cart is awfully small, but it looks sturdy enough for the three of us. It’s just going to be a tight fit.

  Not that I mind being close to Jason.

  Not at all.

  I jump over the couch and then slide in behind Jason. I take the very back seat, and I have to part my legs so that they’re around Jason.

  Sitting this close to him is heavenly. He smells so good. He feels so good—muscular, sturdy, strong.

  He reaches behind us, and braces his hand against the couch. For a brief moment, while his body is turned for our send off, his face is inches from mine. The feeling between us is absolutely out of this world. His features, from this close up, are even more attractive. I can see his sandy blond stubble, and the fullness of his lips.

  I want him to kiss me.

  Before I know it, he’s pushed off, and we’re sailing out of the lobby and down a wide corridor toward the industrial kitchen.

  An hour later, our bellies full of s’mores, we all lay back on the couch. Charlie’s lying down again, and I can tell he’s moments from passing out cold from exhaustion, just like he did the night before.

  Actually, my eyelids also feel droopy. Charlie might not be the only one of us whose head is heavy with sleep.

  I look around us and see pillows on the floor…everywhere. There must be a hundred of them. Our dishes from dinner are scattered all over the table. I have no energy for cleaning up, and by the looks of the way Jason’s head is lolling back against the couch cushions, neither does he.

  “Should we clean up?” I sign, hoping that he’ll say no. I’m getting really used to signing everything, as we spend more and more time together. It’s just like it was when I was a kid. I remember that my parents used to sign, even when my brother wasn’t around. It was just the way we talked.

  Jason glances down at Charlie, whose sleepy little face is covered with smears of chocolate.

  “I better get this little champ up to bed,” Jason signs. He begins to shift in his seat, moving Charlie’s pillow slightly as he does so. Charlie takes the cue and sits up as well. “Let’s leave this for the morning. It’s not like there’s anyone else here to see it.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I reply. We all get up and head toward the staircase. Charlie perks up momentarily as we near the stairs.

  “Let’s take the elevator!” he signs. “Dad, can I press the button?”

  There’s an elevator by the grand staircase. I’m so tired, the idea of saving myself a flight of stairs sounds just fine to me. Charlie presses the button, and within minutes, the steel doors open up to us and we step in.

  Charlie hits the button for the eleventh floor, and as the doors begin to close Jason looks over at me. This time, he talks out loud. It’s just as wonderful to hear his deep voice and lilting Irish accent as it is to sign with him. His voice is tender and hoarse, just like I can imagine it might sound in the morning, after he hasn’t used it all night.

  “What floor are you on?” he asks.

  His question gives me butterflies in my stomach. Though he’s simply asking me for a practical answer, I feel strangely flattered by his inquiry.

  “The first,” I say aloud. “I’m in room one seventeen… Just in case you need me.”

  Jason reaches out and hits the button for my floor, and the elevator begins to move.

  Is it weird that I told him my room number? The small space is heating up with tension—that same crackling, electric feeling that I’ve noticed so often around Jason. The sense of intimacy is compounded by the fact that I said my room number aloud—as if it was information for adult ears only.

  Does Jason think that was a come-on? That I was inviting him to my room, by telling him exactly where I am? Why would he “need me”? What did I mean by that? I’m blushing now, and regretting my words.

  There’s no time to clarify my statement, however, because now the doors are opening up. We’ve reached the first floor.

  “Goodnight,” I sign, before stepping out into the hallway.

  Jason seems not quite sure what to say. He opens his mouth, but before he gets any words out, the doors are closing between us. Charlie, half asleep, signs goodnight, and before I know it, I’m standing in front of closed silver doors. My cheeks are still burning.

  I take a few steps, until I reach the solid wall. I lean my back against it, and close my eyes.

  What just happened? Did I just awkwardly invite Jason Raynes to my hotel room?

  He asked me what floor I was on, and I told him my exact room number.

  I didn’t have to—he didn’t ask me— but I did.

  And, as I stand here, leaning against the wall and trying to breathe deep, I know why. I want him to come find me. I want him to need me.

  I want to close the gap that’s been barely there between us, all day. I want his face to be inches from mine again, just like it was in the luggage cart, but this time, I want him to kiss me.

  I want to kiss him back.

  Chapter 7

  Jason

  “This one,” Charlie signs, pointing to a battered old comic book.

  “Where did that come from?” I ask.

  “The library. Remember?”

  I turn down the covers on the queen-size bed, and Charlie climbs in. I managed to get him into a quick bath, and then helped him brush his teeth, even though I can tell the kid is tired.

  “That’s where I made friends with Harper,” Charlie signs. He lays his freshly washed head against the pillow, and I perch on the side of the bed, the comic book in my hands.

  “That’s right,” I sign.

  “Dad, when are we going to go home?”

  “When the road clears up.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Soon, buddy, probably tomorrow.”

  “And then we’ll go back to New York?”

  “That’s right,” I sign.

  “I don’t want to go back home. It’s more fun here.”

  I sigh. “It’s been fun, champ. But it will be good to get home, too. You’ll get to play basketball in the gym, see your friends and all your stuffies.”

  I know how much my son loves to play basketball with some of the neighborhood kids. He’s also a huge fan of his vast collection of stuffed animals, and it was practically impossible to negotiate him down to only bringing two for the trip. He said goodbye to all of them, one by one, before we left for the airport. I had to remember every breathing technique I know so that I wouldn’t snap with impatience.

  “Yeah,” Charlie signs. “You’re right, Dad.” He reaches for the two stuffed animals that made the cut as his chosen travel companions: a bright red T-rex and a white teddy bear.

  Holding them close, he looks up at me expectantly. I see that it’s time to read.

  “Where should we start?” I ask.

  Charlie reaches for the comic and pulls it from my hands. He flips the pages seriously, until he finds what he’s looking for. He hands it back to me.

  I fluff a pillow next to Charlie, so that it’s propped against the headboard. I pivot my body around and lie down against the pillow, and then lean the comic book against my bent knees, so that Charlie can see it.

  But before I can start signing, Charlie asks a question. “Dad, why did the road close? Because of the snow?”

  “Yes,” I sign. “Too much snow in the road.”

  “But don’t they have plows in Switzerland?” he asks. “Like we have in New York?”

  “Yes, they do. But this snow came from way up on the mountain, and when falls into a pile at the bottom, it’s very hard packed. You can’t just plow it away.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, it’s like a rock.”

  “Why did it come off of the mountain?”

  “It slid. It’s called an avalanche. Sometimes, when a lot of snow falls all at once, the weight of it makes it fall.”

  “And it’s as heavy as a rock?”

  “Yes, by the time it’s at the bottom.”

  “What about all that snow that’s still up there? Could it fall?”

  I see my son’s face start to show signs of fear. He’s looking at me intently, and I really want to tell him something that will make him feel safe. But I also don’t want to lie to him. I want Charlie to understand the laws of physics—and how gravity and mass work. I’ve always told him the truth, even when it was hard to explain, or might make him feel nervous. It’s important to me.

  “It could fall,” I sign. “There’s always a chance of an avalanche, especially after we get lots of snow all at once. It depends on what the snow is like underneath it—if it is sticky enough to hold the new layer.”

  After explaining this, I make the fingers of one hand look like teeth, poking upwards. Next I make my other hand into pointy teeth facing down. I fit my two hands together, showing how my fingers interlock. Charlie copies me, making his fingers into interlocking gears.

  “It depends on the snow crystals,” I say, while he fits his fingers together.

  “If it was sticky enough, none of the snow would have fallen into the road,” he says.

  “You’re right,” I say. He is. He’s made a good point. When one avalanche happens, it’s more likely to see others, in close proximity, soon after, because the snow is unstable.

  “What if one falls on the hotel?” he asks.

  “That’s very unlikely,” I sign.

  “But it could happen?” His lip is trembling now. He’s close to tears.

  Great.

  I thought I’d learned this lesson long ago. When I tell my son a scientific truth—like “everyone dies eventually,” or “trolls don’t really exist”—I have to make sure to lay it out gently. It’s an art. Clearly, I haven’t mastered the craft, quite yet.

  I can see I’ve really scared him.

  “Look, Charlie,” I sign, wrapping one hand around him and rubbing his little shoulders. “Nothing is going to happen to you. I’m right here. Even if an avalanche did come down off of the mountain, all we’d feel is a rumbling—like a shaking feeling—when the snow hit the walls.”

  That’s the wrong thing to say. He starts crying.

  I am failing parenting basics here. Every time I try to dig myself out of the hole I’m in, I seem to only end up even deeper.

  “We’re fine, buddy. We’re totally safe. We’re talking really, really small chances here. And I’m right here. I’m going to be here all night, and if anything happens, I’ll—”

  “I want Harper,” Charlie signs, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  He’s only known her for two days. I can’t be that bad at comforting him.

  “Buddy, Harper needs to get some sleep. We already said goodnight to her.”

  And what a goodnight it was! I recall the tension that I felt in the elevator, when Harper told me her room number. It was unbelievable.

  “I want Harper!” Charlie signs, his little brow furrowed.

  “I didn’t mean to make you feel scared, champ. I shouldn’t have said anything about the avalanche.”

  The word “avalanche” throws him into more of a state. He scrunches up his eyes and wails.

  I hate seeing my son cry. I mean, I do everything I can—always—to surround him with happiness and peace.

  I don’t want him to feel pain. I don’t want him to feel afraid, or sad.

  Yet clearly, at this juncture, my parenting skills are failing to protect him from all three of those emotions.

  And I can’t help but wonder if his anxiety and sadness is about more than the prospect of a pile of rock-hard snow slamming into the hotel in the middle of the night—though now that I think about it, I haven’t exactly painted a lovely picture for him.

  Nope. This is about something else entirely.

  He misses his mother.

  No matter how hard I try to protect my son from pain, there will always be that wound that I can’t heal for him.

  How do I know? Because I have the same wound. I’m missing his mother too. I lost her five years ago, when Charlie was just a year old.

  On top of the pain of missing her, I also have to deal with my guilt. At least my son doesn’t have to feel the heaviness of guilt on his shoulders.