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In a twisted way, she resembles the skier or the mountain climber. One imagines her asking, "Will I make it again this time?"
—Dr. William A. Frosch, Con Women of the World
The sky burns. Streaks of yellow slash through an orange backdrop, clouds floating above the melting canvas like smoke. The city is bathed in a purple glow, patches of fluorescent light scattering throughout the landscape as dusk settles.
“By the way,” Kim calls through the open door, body turning to face the apartment. Her right wrist hangs over the balcony railing, cigarette dangling at the edge. “Kevin sent a thank you gift. For my work in Lubbock.”
From inside, she hears the fridge door shutting softly, the soft thunk hiss of bottle tops snapping open. Jimmy emerges from around the kitchen island, two beers clutched in one hand as he loosens his tie with the other.
“Yeah?” He steps onto the balcony, yellow-and-lavender-patterned socks bright against the stark cement floor. “What were the spoils?”
A final drag of smoke burns in her lungs, and she waves her free hand in response before accepting the beer held out to her.
“I left the gift basket for the associates to pick at. But,” she exhales, dropping her cigarette. “He gave us a weekend away. In Deer Valley, Utah. All expenses paid.”
Part of her is hoping that he’ll be too busy now that he’s practicing again, that Saul Goodman won’t be able to take that kind of time away from his new client roster. She thinks she might prefer it if he offers to make it up to her with a weekend at home, dinner and a movie.
But Jimmy’s face lights up, bright against the fiery sunset.
“No shit.” He grins, holding his beer up in a toast. “It’s like he knew. Partial credit where partial credit is due.”
She mirrors Jimmy’s toast with her own and he drinks, his profile outlined against the glimmer beginning to blanket the city. It stretches past him to the Sandias, beginning to coast upwards at the base of the mountains—and soon, Kim knows, the darkness will swallow those ridges whole, leaving small clusters of light winking in a gaping, empty sky.
She takes a swig of beer.
“Marcie said she’d set it up,” she says evenly. “Find a weekend.”
“Oooh.” Jimmy’s voice shifts up into a high-pitched, British accent. “Tell her to call my girl.”
She shakes her head, eyes rolling fondly. “You’ve still got her on your payroll?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says, voice dropping back into his normal cadence. “I make it worth her while.”
The warm spring air blows across her cheeks as she leans over the railing, and Kim closes her eyes. Her muscles burn as she stretches back, flattening her torso, and the tension of the day begins to drain. Wringing out of her like a sponge.
A dog barks, playing defense somewhere in the distance.
“You were right,” he says after a moment, and she opens her eyes. Her shirt scrapes gently against her cheek as she turns towards him. “Using our powers for good.”
She hums thoughtfully.
Music begins to play from someone’s nearby open window, and a soft rock melody drifts past them. Kim pictures the notes climbing the peak of her slumped figure and floating over Jimmy, following the lights out to the desert. Up the summit.
Closing her eyes again, she imagines the drumbeat knocking against the pit that has been settling in her stomach since the moment she had seen the gift basket on her desk. She envisions the bassline breaking up that hardening stone and sending it away to settle amongst the ancient rock of the mountain. All the way out into the darkness, ready to be swallowed whole.
When she opens her eyes, Jimmy is watching her.
She straightens up, raising her beer bottle to her lips. The word suckers rings in her ears and she tilts her head back, her tongue twisting inside her mouth as she swallows.
The streetlights in the parking lot before her seem to hum, and she wonders if the entire city would buzz if she could get close enough. If someone could hover over them and listen to the whole place roar.
Jimmy clears his throat and she turns, pulling a tight smile across her lips.
The breeze drifts through her hair and she feels it deep within her, blowing smooth over stone.
Kim steps off the jet bridge and the noise-seal lifts, the cacophony of the airport pummeling into her all at once. A lilting, robotic voice announces that a flight is now boarding, while a ticketing agent announces a name repeatedly over the loudspeaker, requesting that they please come see her at Gate C4.
Jimmy’s hand lands gently on her hip, nudging them forward. She’s loose with the alcohol they had on board the flight and she feels herself fizz under his palm, like bubbles are popping under her skin, being dragged to the surface by his touch.
Mesa Verde had booked them first-class tickets for the short flight, and she had downed her welcome glass of champagne quickly to avoid the scrutiny of people trudging by to economy, mindless stares that she imagined to say: How’d you get up here?
She had been glad to be the first group to de-board, her shoulders remaining tight even after passengers had settled and Jimmy flagged the flight attendant down for a second glass of champagne. The tension had flared over the roar of the engine in her chest, Jimmy’s shoulder brushing hers as he leaned over to peek out the window, bubbles sloshing in their glasses as the plane bumped over the mountains.
In the airport, she’s immediately absorbed into a sea of people, families chattering and businessmen weaving through the crowd holding nothing but briefcases. The wave sweeps her by a duty-free store with a sign offering Last chance!, past the security checkpoint and into a gleaming, stainless steel lobby.
Baggage carousels rotate slowly, a collection of suitcases and duffel bags parading by the crowd. Kim follows Jimmy towards the exit marked Ground Transportation, the glass doors sliding open for them.
A group of men in suits stand at the far end of the curb, all holding signs with names in neat block print. Kim scans the row until she spots “Kimberly Wexler and James McGill,” a bored-looking younger man holding their names aloft. It feels formal and stark—like the letters should be curled, winding their way above a date on stock paper. The couple formally requests your presence at...
The man lowers the sign as they approach, reaching for their bags and rolling them to the back of a nearby SUV, gesturing for them to climb in. The air inside the car feels thick and warm, like nestling into a snug blanket.
Jimmy scoots in after her and grins, his palms coming to rest lightly on the leather.
“Heated seats?” He mouths, and Kim arches an eyebrow.
The driver climbs into the front, rubbing his hands together, and she meets his eyes in the rearview mirror.
“How’s the temperature?”
“Great,” Jimmy says. “Thank you.”
“I’m Brian,” he says, pulling his seatbelt across his front. “You keep letting me know how it’s feeling. Drive should be just under an hour.”
Kim looks out the window as they glide smoothly away from the curb, weaving through airport traffic and past squat, beige buildings where American flags fly over rows of parked cars. When they make a turn, Salt Lake City spreads out before her: a flat expanse of road seeming to lead directly to snowy peaks rising in the distance.
But then they make another turn and the road twists, the mountains disappearing as they merge onto the highway. A plane rumbles overhead, and Kim watches it slide into view through her window, coasting towards the tarmac.
The landscape feels familiar, like she could be behind the wheel en route to Santa Fe: elevated freeway bridges criss-crossing over the leveled road, yellow grass stretching out in both directions, mountains appearing to move with the car like railroad tracks flying alongside them. Traffic signs reach up from the asphalt and extend over the road, curved arms pointing drivers towards their destination.
The driver flicks a button and the radio buzzes to life. Soft jazz fills the car.
As the highway rolls out ahead, walls grow around them like sentries, tips of greenery poking their way over the edges. The spies peer over at the hustle, poised to report back to the neighborhoods lining the expressway. Every few feet, billboards loom behind the overgrowth, advertising expensive watches, morning radio shows, steakhouses.
When the sound barriers eventually fall away, it’s as if the car had begun to sink into the pavement without their notice. The earth is no longer stretching out around them but growing up, hills with edges so ragged and dusted with snow that Kim can’t tell if she’s looking at crumbling dirt or rock face.
She realizes that they’re no longer approaching the mountains, but within them, and feels startled that there wasn’t a noticeable change in their journey. As if the car should have had to grind into an unimaginable gear to scale the elevation she had seen from the ground.
But they drift easily over the asphalt, towards jagged edges slicing through the gray sky. Tendrils of clouds plunge down like vines, stopping just short of the hilltops as if they’re being held back by the earth below.
The road stretches wider, additional lanes materializing as the distance between cars and sloped earth grows. A film camera panning out. She begins to see road signs alerting drivers to lodging and food at the next exit as they pass a parking lot dotted with RV campers, then an outlet mall. Handmade signs reading ROCK, SOIL, BARK, and COMPOST scroll by, affixed to the gates of a nursery. Businesses crop up in clumps, vernacular architecture behind wooden fence posts.
They’ve reached a peak, the world flattening out around them.
After a few more miles, fir trees begin to appear in clusters alongside the road, and the Stein Eriksen Lodge announces itself with a stone sign. Its name appears etched into the base of a mountainside, American and Norwegian flags whipping tightly in the wind above.
They turn up into a winding driveway, lodges bordering the route. Kim can see ski runs when she looks ahead through the windshield, and from here, people dotting the snow-covered ground look like ants. The ski lifts rise like distant power lines they had passed on the drive, black cables rolling and snapping against the scenery.
As they twist further, the people disappear, and the car pulls into a circular driveway. More flags hang from stone pillars lining the curved entryway, and each of the columns has a pat of snow on top—cartoonish and perfect, as if someone had placed them there intentionally.
In the center of the driveway, there’s a bronze statue of a man holding a pair of skis taller than his head, and next to him a torch rises still higher, its flame crackling and roaring.
The driver announces their arrival. Kim peeks over at Jimmy, who’s peering out his own window from the direction they came, as if waiting for a magician to reveal his secrets at the end of a trick. She leans across the seat and nudges him with her elbow until his gaze shifts to her and his eyes widen, a smile stretching across his face.
“Wow,” he says, and she nods, snapping her seatbelt open.
An employee is already helping unload their luggage, and another holds open the front door of the lobby, gesturing for them.
“We’ll make sure we get those.” The man nods towards their bags. “Welcome!”
Kim murmurs a thank you as they pass through the entrance, blinking as her eyes adjust to the low light. The two-story lobby is warm: leather couches and chairs are spread around stone fireplaces throughout, animal heads hung proudly above the snapping flames. Low, wooden beams extend from the ceiling amongst steel chandeliers, their candle-shaped bulbs sitting amongst twisted shapes, reminiscent of antlers.
They make their way towards the check-in desk set into the wall. A woman in a blazer smiles cheerfully above a line of floral patterns carved into the wood-paneling.
“Welcome!” She says as they approach. “Checking in?”
Kim smiles back. “Yes. Hi. Kimberly Wexler.”
Jimmy leans against the desk, his thumbs tapping an unhurried rhythm against the marble. The woman—her Stein Eriksen Lodge-branded name tag says Paula—taps the computer keyboard, humming as she pulls up their reservation.
“Very good,” she says, eyes scanning the screen. “We’ve got you in a luxury one-bedroom suite for three nights, with a private deck, hot tub, and mountain view.”
Paula looks up expectantly.
“That, uh.” Kim pauses, blinking. “Sounds right.”
She nods. “And how many room keys do you need?”
Kim glances over at Jimmy and he leans an elbow on the counter. “Two would be great.”
She goes back to tapping at the keyboard and then pulls out two tiny envelopes, sliding room keys inside.
“We’ve got a card on file already for incidentals,” Paula says smoothly, laying the keys down on the counter. “So you’re all set. Room 210. Just out that door,” she gestures to her right. “And down the pathway. We’ll have your bags there shortly.”
“Thank you,” Kim says, sweeping the keys into her palm and Jimmy echoes her as they turn, making their way back across the lobby.
They pass glass cases displaying dozens of gold trophies and medals nestled amongst triumphant photos, down a carpeted hallway and through a door that leads them to an outdoor courtyard.
“So,” Jimmy shoves his hands in his pockets as the chill air hits them, grinning sideways at her. “Raiding the mini bar is on Kevin, then?”
She laughs, a disbelieving huff, eyes scanning the numbers on the buildings. Lights glow from inside each one, the interiors seeming to echo the staff’s salutations: Welcome!
When they reach 210, Kim slides one of the keys into the slot, and the lock responds with a whirring sound as the lights flash green, inviting them inside.
“Whoa,” Jimmy says quietly as they step in the door.
A lit fireplace is crackling merrily in the far corner, and a flat screen TV hangs on the wall beside it. Footage of a couple happily skiing down a snowy hill fades into shots of that same couple settling in by a fireplace, the woman cozily resting her head on the man’s shoulder. A sectional couch loaded with throw pillows brackets the area, and an adjacent dining table sits on the other side.
Just beyond, the mountainside appears through the patio doors like a painted backdrop.
Jimmy whistles as he makes his way through the space. “This is as big as home.”
“No kidding,” Kim says, drawing forward to the window. Clumps of trees are speckled against white, summits cutting edges into the late-afternoon sky.
When she turns, Jimmy is running his hand along the counter that separates the kitchen from the living area. He meets her eyes from across the room.
“Quartz,” he says. “Not blue, but close enough.”
“What was it?” Kim murmurs. “Good for healing?”
Jimmy nods. “My ass may need it after hitting the slopes.”
“Giving Albuquerque real estate a run for its money.” She turns in a circle, taking in the rest of the space. “What about the sink count?”
He snaps, turning and jogging into the adjoining bedroom. She hears the flick of a light switch, followed, triumphantly, by: “Two sinks!”
Her chuckle is interrupted by a knock on the door, where a young man is waiting with a luggage cart. Kim steps aside to let him in and considers how silly their bags look: two small carry-ons jostling together as the trolley slides into the room.
“Good afternoon,” he says politely, propping the door open as he lifts their suitcases off the cart. “Everything to your liking?”
“Oh, yes.” Kim reaches for her purse, pulling out her wallet, but the young man shakes his head.
“It’s covered,” he objects, his palm coming up in protest. “Please don’t worry.”
She hesitates for a moment, her hands hanging limply in the air before turning to deposit her wallet on the counter. When she turns, she sees Jimmy leaning against the door frame, arms drawn across his chest. The man notices him as well.
“And you, sir?” He asks, his head craning around Kim. “Anything you need?”
“All set.” Jimmy says. “Appreciate it.”
The young man nods, his head tilted down as he pulls the cart out of their room, maneuvering through the door frame. “Enjoy your stay.”
When the door closes, Jimmy’s eyebrows lift as he pushes off the wall, turning back into the bedroom.
“Come on, you’re never gonna believe this,” he calls back over his shoulder. “There are only three closets in this place!”
Out of the corner of her eye, the couple at the Stein Eriksen Lodge on television silently laugh together. Like they’re in on the joke.
Kim fingers the stem of her wine glass, leather-bound menu laying open in front of her. Jimmy’s brow is furrowed as he studies his own menu, pointer finger rubbing his upper lip.
He looks up at her from across the table. “You ever have elk?”
“Yeah,” she says dryly. “My mom caught one every Sunday and prepared it herself.”
The candle in the center of the table flickers as he grins, shadows jumping across his face, and he looks down at the menu again.
“Jerusalem artichokes, hedgehog mushrooms...” he reads, shaking his head, and flips the page back. “Or the rabbit ragu. With—” he squints. “Cumin-spaetzle.”
Kim takes a sip of wine, setting her glass down she swallows.
“Did you master the Norwegian dialect just for this trip, or have you always been this good?”
“What can I say,” he closes his menu, bringing his whiskey to rest in front of him. The decorative glass around the candle distorts the amber liquid, creating the illusion of him concealing a second flame between his cupped palms. “I’m a natural.”
Their waiter approaches and Kim orders the sea bass, with Jimmy settling on the steak, medium-rare.
He compliments their choices as he collects their menus, and Kim’s eyes follow as he makes his way to the next table over a sea of white tablecloths and high-backed, wooden chairs. The atmosphere is homely, a stone fireplace roaring on one wall past frosted-glass sliding doors that are flung open wide on their track, giving the space an inviting feel—come on in, it seems to say, we have room for you.
Just past diners, the snow outside seems to glow blue in the evening light.
“What time do we have to be out there tomorrow?”
Kim’s focus lingers on an older couple being seated at the other end, a man holding his patterned tie to his chest as he pulls out his wife’s chair.
“We just have to let them know,” Kim says, watching the man’s hand rest on the woman’s shoulder as he makes his way around the table. “I think Marcie said it was a private lesson.”
She turns back to Jimmy and finds him studying her, his thumb and pointer finger slowly turning his glass against the tablecloth. When he lifts his drink, the flame shifts across his face. Shadows are pulled tight and then released, a spring snapping loose.
He softly smacks his lips and his eyes look beyond her, slowly scanning the room.
“You know,” he says, voice low. “Viktor and Giselle would have a field day here.”
She tilts her head to one side, and Jimmy’s gaze slides to meet hers.
“We’re here as Kevin’s guests,” she replies, her tone light.
“Oh, I know.” Jimmy waves his hands. “Trust me, I’m not trying to jeopardize this cash cow. But,” he tilts his head to meet hers. “You see it, right?”
She doesn’t reply, drawing her upper lip between her teeth.
He opens his mouth again and then seems to think better of it, bringing his drink to his lips instead. Their silence brings the low murmur of conversation around them into focus, bits and pieces of chatter condensing into one dull buzz.
Someone approaches their table and sets down a plate, a complimentary bowl of marinated olives resting in the center.
“Enjoy,” the server says, smiling as she backs away.
Jimmy wrinkles his nose as Kim picks up the tiny fork resting on the plate, spearing a green olive and popping it into her mouth. The briny taste unfurls across her tongue, and she savors it against the fruity, acidic bite of her wine.
She holds the fork out to Jimmy. “You should try one.”
“No, thank you.” He throws up his palms, mouth twisting into a grimace. “All yours.”
She jabs another olive and delicately uses her teeth to pull it off the fork, watches Jimmy’s eyes flick down to her mouth.
Chewing, she spins the utensil between her thumb and forefinger. Back and forth.
“The thing about everyone here,” she starts, her voice slipping back into a light tone. “Is that they’re smarter than you.”
Jimmy’s eyebrows shoot up, shadows sliding as his expression shifts. “Hey, if this is about my taste in appetizers—”
Kim shakes her head, setting the fork down on the plate.
“Everyone here,” she continues, “they’re the ones who know how to order the best thing on the menu, or get the best room, or—” she waves her hand, shrugging. “Whatever they want.”
She glances away, her eyes landing on the older couple again. The man now has a cocktail in one fist and is leaning over to the table next to them, speaking conspiratorially to a man who could be his mirror image, give or take thirty years. Their respective wives both smile politely.
Resting an elbow on the edge of the table, she settles her chin in her palm.
“Because they always do,” she says, feeling her lips move against her fingers, testing the words coming out of her mouth.
Her gaze flicks to Jimmy before reaching for her near-empty glass and tilting it back, swallowing the last of her wine.
Jimmy nods slowly. “They know what’s good,” he says. “Because they get what’s good.”
Kim hums.
Glancing to the right, she catches their waiter’s eye and holds her empty glass slightly aloft, smiling politely. He smoothly nods.
She looks back to Jimmy, and the flame burns between them.
A man in a powder blue ski jacket waves as Kim and Jimmy clomp out of the mountain lodge, ski boots leaving wide footprints beneath them in the snow. Kim steadies a pair of skis in her left arm just like the woman inside had shown them, her other arm thrown out for balance as she teeters towards the instructor.
It’s a bright day, the sun sparkling against the snow and creating the illusion that if the twinkle lasted longer than a second, you’d be able to see each individual snowflake packed onto the ground. A massive puzzle of tiny, angular crystals slotting into place.
“Hello!” The instructor calls out, and she hears Jimmy grunt as he raises his arm, waving back out of the corner of her eye.
As they get closer, the man’s smile seems to stretch across his whole face, perfect white rows of teeth gleaming against the fallen snow. Black gloves hang limply from each of his wrists like an additional limb.
“Nice to meet you folks,” he says. “When Kevin told me his lawyers were coming to stay and needed a refresh, I was happy to help. Taught his kids and grandkids how to master these slopes. Craig,” he says by way of introduction, extending his hand. Kim smiles politely.
“Kim Wexler.” The skis jostle in her arms as she shakes his hand, grip firm. “And this is—”
“Saul Goodman,” Jimmy cuts in, extending his own free hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Kim can feel her expression change as Jimmy peeks over at her but she smiles, covering up the fracture. Of course he’d introduce himself this way as a lawyer, she tells herself, and yet—
“Kim and Saul, you’re up from New Mexico. Is that right?”
“Yes,” Kim confirms, her smile straining at the edges. She wonders how Craig keeps his so wide.
“Not making it out to Taos much, then, huh?”
“Not as much as I’d like,” Jimmy chuckles. Kim glances over at him, and then back to the instructor.
“Well, you made it just in time for the tail end of ski season up here,” he gestures around them. “And we’ve got hills for all levels, so we’ll have you flying in no time. How long has it been since you two hit the slopes?”
Jimmy clears his throat. “It’s your lucky day,” he says. “You’ve got two first timers on your hands.”
“Oh!”
Kim watches Craig’s smile fade for just a moment and her jaw tightens, bristling at the surprise on his face even as he returns to beaming brightly.
“Well then,” Craig says, clapping his hands together. His disembodied gloves flop next to his arms. “Let’s start with the basics.”
He shows them how to clip in and out of their skis, moving around right outside of the lodge. After they’ve mastered gliding on the flat ground, Craig leads them over to a slight incline at the base of the actual hill.
“So when you’re soaring down these mountains, one of the most important things you’re going to want to be able to do is stop,” he says, and Kim glances down at her own feet. “The most common method is the snowplow.”
He bends his knees, squinting up at them. “You’re going to want to push the backs of your skis out,” he says, his toes slowly coming together. “Making a sort of pizza shape at the front.”
They practice with him. Kim sends herself coasting over the small ramp, gaining the tiniest bit of momentum before pushing her heels out until she feels resistance.
“Excellent, Kim!” Craig calls, clapping his hands. “Saul, don’t rely too much on the ski poles. They’ll leave you behind quicker than you can say ‘oops’.”
He shows them how to do what he refers to as a hockey stop next, turning both of his feet in one direction and bending his knees, placing weight into the downhill ski as he skids to a halt.
After a couple of practice runs, Craig shuffles them over to an area with a slightly larger hill that actually resembles something with an incline. Orange cones are set into lines, marking a slight zig-zag path against the shimmering white.
“Alright, we’re going to practice turning and stopping.” Craig demonstrates how to shift their body weight to change direction, narrating his own movements as he cruises slowly down through the cones. He gestures from the bottom for them to follow.
Kim tightens her brow as she pushes off, mimicking his movements and coasting through the cones. She can hear Craig clapping as she comes to a stop alongside him, his smile stretched even wider than before.
“She’s a natural!” He bellows, as if Kim isn’t the only person standing there with him. Her polite laugh comes a beat too late, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Saul,” Craig shouts, turning his attention to the top of the hill. “Let’s have a go!”
Jimmy starts out wobbly, the end of one ski knocking into a cone and throwing him slightly off-balance, but he coasts slowly, triumphantly raising his ski poles into the air as he makes it to the bottom. Craig whoops his approval and Kim finds herself genuinely laughing when she meets Jimmy’s eyes, fondness burning in her chest.
After a few more successful runs, Craig summons a ski mobile to run them over to the bunny hill, promising to meet them at the top.
They shuffle forward in line for the ski lift, safety bar creaking into place as they’re scooped into the bench. Kim squints into the sunlight when they begin to glide up, pushing above the skiers below.
The trees to their left throw slabs of shadow across the path, a striped blanket ahead.
“Man,” Jimmy says, his face turning with the scenery. “They do not make mountains like this at home.”
She nods. “I get why Kevin pushed so hard for us to come now.”
Jimmy mock-salutes, his ski pole jutting out into the air.
“It does feel different when you don’t know what’s down there,” he says. “It makes it, I don’t know...” he gestures to the side, “more magical?”
Kim turns to glance behind them, but Jimmy shakes his head.
“Not down there down there. I hope there’s whiskey and a burger down there,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “But...”
She turns to look at him as he trails off, and he gestures more widely around them.
“It doesn’t feel like real life is down there.” He shrugs. “Because it’s not, I guess. But it makes it feel like we’re getting away with something. Like we escaped.”
She purses her lips affectionately.
“We did,” she says, and then tilts her head towards him. “For the weekend.”
He laughs. “Yeah, yeah.”
They lapse into silence for a moment, watching the group in front of them prepare to disembark from their chair.
“I do know what you mean, though,” Kim says solemnly, leaning into his shoulder. “Kevin mentioned that he and his wife spent many romantic weekends here.”
Jimmy’s face twists into a scowl. “Aw, come on!”
She’s laughing as they emerge at the top of the hill, Craig greeting them as promised. His eyes dart between them as if he’ll be able to find the joke in midair. “We ready?”
They move into position, Craig reminding them of the proper form, and then Kim pushes off, skis scraping against the snow. The hill isn’t steep, but she gains speed fast: the tips of her hair lift off the back of her neck, wind whipping underneath her collar.
Trees skim past her, blurring together into a clump. She leans to one side, turning herself slightly to the right before maneuvering back, and a grin spreads across her lips. Maybe, she thinks, this is why Craig is always smiling—only having to exist on solid ground between sprints of unbridled momentum, feeling reckless and controlled all at once.
As they get closer to the bottom, she starts to twist to the side, pushing her weight into one leg until she comes to a steady stop. But when she turns to look for Jimmy, he’s still flying past her, his skis swiveling inward too fast.
Her stomach lurches as he trips, tumbling forward and landing hard on the snow.
“Jimmy!” She yells, shoving herself forward with her ski poles. Craig slides in first and comes to a smooth stop, leaning down to Jimmy’s level as she approaches.
“You alright, Mr. Goodman?”
Jimmy grimaces as he rolls over onto his back. One hand is rubbing his hip. “I’m good,” he manages, squinting up at them before pushing himself into a sitting position.
Craig helps him up, gingerly pressing his hand around Jimmy’s leg until he’s confident nothing is broken. He suggests they try again, if they’re feeling up to it, and Kim glances sideways at Jimmy.
“I’m fine!” He scoffs, mouth set in a firm line. “Let’s go.”
Jimmy is quieter the second time up the lift. The trees seem to hang heavier with snow, too, branches weighted down like they’re reaching for something below.
She stares ahead at the black cable propelling them forward, a fixed point against the bright blue sky. It creaks in the silence, groaning as the chair slides through a tower marking the halfway point. They rock slightly from side to side as it continues up.
Jimmy rubs at his leg, and she glances over at him.
“Your knee okay?”
“Fine.” His face warps into a self-deprecating expression. “It’s seen worse.”
She looks down, stretching her ankles. The tips of her skis flip up into view and disappear again as she flexes.
Suddenly, she says: “Were you doing the pizza?”
“Huh?” Jimmy turns to face her.
“The pizza.” Kim gestures down at her feet. She brings her toes together until the tips of the skis collide, clanking together. “To stop.”
“Oh, yeah,” he says. His brow is drawn together, confused.
“The second one felt more natural on the actual hill, for what it’s worth.” She shrugs. “I thought I was going too fast to stop the other way.”
“Okay,” he says, but a disbelieving smile curls at the edge of his lips, softening his knitted brow. “Good to know.”
They ride the rest of the way in silence, sliding off the chairlift to find Craig waiting for them again.
When Kim pushes off from the top this time, she takes it more slowly, edging behind Jimmy. She watches a gaggle of children hurtle by, sun glinting off their plastic helmets. The smallest one shrieks as they pick up speed, a joyful shout reverberating down the mountain.
Despite her slower pace, she finds the ground underneath her disappearing more quickly; the curving, looping lines in the snow engulfed by her own tracks. Her gaze moves to Jimmy, watching as he begins to shift his weight and bring his feet together, slowing well before other skiers.
Another couple glides past them, and Kim’s grip on her poles tightens as Jimmy wobbles in their wake. But he continues to decelerate and brings his feet wide again, the tips of his skis tapping together as he coasts towards the bottom.
He comes to a complete stop, driving his ski poles into the snow.
“Yes!” Kim shouts.
Jimmy turns around, grinning, but he realizes at the same moment Kim does that she’s still going too fast, was so focused on Jimmy that she digs her heels in too late, only now beginning to slow—
And she barrels right into him. She feels Jimmy grab her shoulders with an “oooof,” their ski poles clashing and tangling.
Somehow, they both remain upright, and when Kim straightens enough to look him in the face, they both burst out laughing. It flows out of her in gasps, relief and adrenaline pulsing inside her chest and bubbling up into her throat. She doubles over, a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to catch her breath, and she sees flashes of dimly-lit tiki torches reflecting in an empty pool, hears the blunt echo of the hallway door at the courthouse.
She wipes a tear from her wind-swept cheek, breathlessly choking out a heaving laugh.
And when she looks at Jimmy’s face, she thinks she understands what he means: it feels like they’re getting away with something.
Kim groans as she steps into the hot tub, the jets immediately pounding at her aching muscles.
They had indulged in room service that evening, too exhausted to shower and dress for dinner, but Jimmy had gone down to the gift shop to buy them each a swimsuit. Determined to take advantage of the private deck.
The new one-piece stretches across her back as she settles into the water and the mountainside sprawls out before her, hills cresting into the night sky.
Jimmy emerges from the room holding a bottle of tequila in one hand and two glasses in the other, placing them gently on the rim of the tub. He winces as he climbs into the water, lowering himself onto the bench across from her.
“Oh my god,” he moans, closing his eyes. “My legs.”
“I know,” Kim laughs. She watches him settle, momentary discomfort draining from his expression as he shifts on the bench. His forehead relaxes, shoulders dropping from around his ears as he releases a sigh.
She sloshes some swirling water towards him and he jumps, his eyes blinking back open.
“Saul Goodman ended up having moves out there.” She’s teasing, but she can feel herself poking at something, not entirely certain what she’s trying to pry loose.
Jimmy just dunks himself further into the tub.
“You thought that was good?” The waves lap at his chest, bubbles licking at his collarbone. “Wait until you see him in the courtroom.”
She wants to protest—I know—but she swallows it instead, throat clicking like her body is helping to lock it away.
“Alright,” she says, softly.
He closes his eyes again, exhaling as the water cascades over his shoulders.
The mountain rises even more imposingly behind him, and she pictures a disclaimer etched into the rustic wood cordoning off the deck: Human pictured for scale.
Despite the darkness, they’re close enough for her to make out patches of trees, stark against the shadowy, snow-covered slopes. The glow from the resort illuminates the terrain, too, artificial light emanating out into the expanse. Holding them contained as it reveals the landscape.
Jimmy pulls his body out of the water to reach for the tequila bottle, pouring some into a glass and handing it to her.
Kim brings it to her nose. It smells earthy, cloying.
The tequila rolls smoothly onto her tongue, and she lets the sweetness burn around her mouth as she sips. Her limbs are already loose from the wine they drank with dinner and the rollicking water makes her feel almost weightless, like she could be picked up and tossed away.
Jimmy has submerged himself again, one hand holding his own glass above the water. She wonders if he feels the same. When she takes another sip, wisps of hair tickle at her temple, curling in the steam rising from the water.
“I’m glad we did this,” she says suddenly.
Jimmy’s eyes are gentle from across the tub.
“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”
She watches him push off and wade towards the side, expecting him to reach for the tequila bottle again, but instead he places his glass down. Slowly drifting in her direction, he reaches out a hand to curl around her calf, letting the water push his body closer.
Despite the warmth, she shivers.
Then all at once, he plucks her glass from her hand and moves between her legs, kissing her as his palm slides up her thigh. His other hand winds around to cup the back of her head, thumb coasting over her cheek, and she opens her mouth beneath him.
She sighs as his tongue slides against hers, rich with the taste of tequila. His fingers press into the base of her skull, and all of her senses are alert—she's aware of the air pulsing around them, water thrashing, Jimmy’s weight simultaneously pressing her down and lifting her into him. A comforting force.
Her hands grip loosely around his ribcage and he makes a low noise in the back of his throat, pulling back. He looks down between them, breathing heavily.
“Cold,” he hisses, and she laughs in disbelief, plunging her hands into the water before tickling a path up his side. She rubs her hands over his ribs, back and forth.
Her palms burn with the movements, and she imagines friction sparking against his skin, blazing a trail under her touch, but then he’s kissing her again and her mind goes blank.
Water sloshes over the edge of the tub as he pushes closer, warmth rolling over her shoulders, skin prickling in its wake. Her bare back pushes against the seat as she bites at his lip and Jimmy grunts, his hand flying up to grip her shoulder.
She can feel each whorl of his fingerprints and his hands seem to be everywhere, ten spots of pressure marking her like a brand: squeezing against her scalp, pressing at her shoulder, dancing across her collarbone and dipping down to her breasts. His touch is feather-light over the spandex, teasing her. One of the swimsuit straps falls from her shoulder as she tenses under him, a groan spilling from her lips into his open mouth.
She brings a hand to his chest to steady herself, and his heartbeat pounds under her palm.
He pulls back, and when he meets her gaze again his eyes are dark, pupils swallowing flecks of gray. His chest rises and falls heavily under her hand.
And then he slides further backwards. His fingers graze the edge of her mouth, tracing gently around her lips as he shifts between her legs. Her tongue snakes out to brush his thumb and Jimmy’s own lips curl up in response, fingers tightening around her jaw.
Kim chases after another kiss, but his grip holds her in place as he continues down her body. His fingers trace around a nipple before dragging further, the base of his palm landing flat against her stomach.
Sound feels caught in the back of her throat. “Please,” she whimpers, surprising them both, and he leans in.
Her mouth tingles against his as his hand presses more firmly, fingers creeping lower.
They brush against the seam of her swimsuit, and desperation slices through her like a knife. Every sensation feels overwhelming—the tips of wet hair dragging against her shoulders; the cool rim of the tub pressing into her back; the space between them, gaping and too wide as the water churns. She wants to tear off the swimsuit, wants to feel his skin on hers, but at the same time he’s deepening the kiss and sliding his fingers beneath the elastic and she doesn’t want him to stop.
His fingers stroke against her, everything so warm, and her hips slide forward as she gasps into his mouth.
The elastic stretches tight against her skin as his other hand slides down to hold her in place and she leans back, blinking against the lights of the deck. Blotches of color flash in her vision, afterimages flaring and fading in time with her thudding pulse.
Jimmy moves lower and curls a finger inside her, adds another, and her mouth falls open as all of her breath leaves her lungs at once. Her chest flattens as if someone is pressing on her sternum, emptying her out, and she gasps for air.
One of her hands shoots out for leverage, fingers curling around his forearm. Rushing water sounds like the wind in her ears.
She’s falling and rising at the same time, weightless, drifting up into the dark of the mountains but speeding down a hill, cold air prickling against her arms and raising goosebumps even as her whole body burns.
His muscles jump under her fingertips, and she squeezes as pressure begins to build within her.
He presses kisses to the underside of her jaw and she breathes his name, squeezing her eyes shut as she says it again, and again: a steady stream of Jimmy leaving her lips, whispers offered up to the sky like a prayer.
And she thinks that maybe it doesn’t matter so much what he wants to call himself or who everyone else thinks he is, because she already knows, and together they’re this and together that’s good, and together they’re getting away with something—
His fingers press firmly inside her and she explodes, the water crashing around them.
Kim tugs blindly for the heap of blankets thrown to the edge of the bed. Soft cotton tickles her legs as the sheets settle gently over her and her chin nods against the fluffy collar of a Stein Eriksen-branded robe, head sinking deeper into a pillow.
A diminishing fire snaps and hisses in the fireplace, announcing its impending exit, and she can hear Jimmy rustling through the hotel binder. Paper swishes as he drags the pages over the metal rings.
“Fresh baked cookies, chocolate box...” he trails off, flipping another page. “Baked Alaska? These people ever hear of a late-night milkshake?”
She opens her eyes and finds him standing over the desk in his boxers. He’s shaking his head, squinting down at the menu.
“More food?” She murmurs. He glances over his shoulder.
“Why not?”
She yawns, letting her eyes slip closed again. “Not hungry,” she mumbles. “But go ahead.”
She listens to the quiet shuffle of pages, Jimmy’s wordless reactions lulling her to sleep. The fire sputters, finally losing steam, and Kim feels herself fading with it.
“Utah’s finest five-star spa,” she hears Jimmy read, tugging her back. “Couples massages. Or, oh, in-room massages!”
She wants to laugh, to look into his face again and trap that familiar intimacy, pull him back into bed with her; but she can barely keep her eyes open.
Instead, she murmurs: “I’m in.” A soft exhale against her pillow.
And she means it—whatever spa treatment he wants, whatever food he wants to order. But as sleep drags her under, she hopes he also somehow understands: she trusts him.
Whatever he wants, she’s in.