Vail, Colorado, September 7th, Monday
Carly
You know how they say Christmas is the most wonderful time of year? Well, September in Vail, Colorado, is the exact opposite.
There are no carolers singing, or nutcrackers dancing, or chestnuts roasting by an open fire. No rosy cheeks or groups of women posing for pictures at the bottom of the mountain in fur-lined coats.
I look around at the ski equipment on the inside of my shop and shed a virtual tear. It’ll still be almost two months before I can put any of it to real use—until I can feel the cold wind whipping against my face as I charge down a hill with reckless abandon—and the off-season is starting to feel like a whole lot of work without any bit of play.
Because I, Carly Page, am a ski instructor without any snow, and the weather needs to drop another twenty or so degrees before Mother Nature will even consider changing her mind. And boy oh boy has the disparity between pain and pleasure got me in a funk.
I watch as Brody organizes the shelves behind the counter, his perfectionist tendencies showing in every minuscule adjustment he makes to the brand-new goggles we just got in last week, and wrinkle my forehead dramatically. A little to the left, a little to the right, he won’t stop until everything is in its perfect place.
With peak ski season only a few months away, everything inside my little shop—Carly Can Ski—should be focused on getting ready for our busiest time of year. And it is. Or, I guess I should say, everything is focused but me.
I’m in the mood to shirk my work and complain.
Thankfully for my bottom line, Brody knows how to lay down the law like no one else, and up until this point in the day, hasn’t left much room for standing around and twirling my whiny wand.
Vail, Colorado, is a hot spot for skiers all across the country—the world, even—and once that first snowfall hits at the end of October, my shop will be hopping with customers looking for equipment and ski lessons to get ready for when the slopes open in November. If we don’t get inventory and setup done now, we won’t be ready. I know this.
I just don’t like it.
I run my fingers across the glass of the counter, and Brody groans.
“Carly, I swear, stop touching everything I just cleaned.”
I shrug. Grin. And then dance my fingers up and off the surface of his precious, pristine glass countertop like they’re a mini set of Carrie Underwood’s killer legs. “Better?”
“Yes,” he answers and turns back around to fix his goggle-display masterpiece. Clearly, he’s not as impressed by mini-Carrie’s performance as I was.
Brody Slack is like a brother to me. My right-hand dude and manager of my shop, he is the man who keeps everything together. Literally. He is the business to my boredom, the organization to my spontaneity. If it weren’t for him, everything would be a disaster. No doubt, at the very least, the glass countertops would be full of smudges, and the goggles would still be in the box the manufacturer shipped them in.
“So…” I pause and almost tap my fingers on the counter again but stop myself. “You think we’re about ready to call it a night?”
Brody glances over his shoulder and rolls his eyes.
“What?” I question and snag my favorite red lipstick from my purse. “We’ve been here since eleven this morning, Bro-man.”
“So?” he tosses out but doesn’t bother turning around this time.
“So?” I laugh, walking over to one of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors by the dressing rooms. “It’s almost seven,” I retort, carefully smearing a fresh coat of lipstick on my lips. “It’s been a long day, dude. A long-ass day.”
He laughs. “That’s only eight hours. A normal workday, Carly.”
“Yes, but normal workdays are mind-numbing, Brody.”
It’s not that I can’t work at all. It’s just that my whole vibe doesn’t like to follow the corporate work model. In fact, I was super productive up until about two hours ago, but once five o’clock hit, my brain turned to mush and anything revolving around work began to feel impossible. A girl like me needs to be moving, doing—feeling the action as it slaps me in the face.
Brody ignores my comment and adds one last row of goggles to the top shelf.
His back is to me, and his body is still perched on the stepladder. Maybe, if I try hard enough, I can will him into caving to my desires telepathically.
C’mon, Brody. Just…be done for the day. Be. Done.
Obviously, I appreciate his dedication to the shop—it’s why I pay him so well—but Lord Almighty, I’m tired, hungry, and I would love nothing more than heading back to my townhouse and taking a hot shower.
I try to focus on making a to-do list for tomorrow, but when I realize I’m doodling a picture of myself with a knife stabbed into my chest, I know it’s time to take things into my own hands.