Page 2 of The Snowflake Effect

Of course I’d rather suck kale through a straw than eat solid food.

Job promotion? Who needs it? I didn’t want a real life anyway.

Bring on the vanilla sex. Experimentation and excitement are overrated.

Every so often, though, I’d toss one of my hidden cookies into his smoothies…carbs and all.

But knowing I might have said yes to a proposal has anger bubbling up inside of me. I need to toss this bra, forget the Dick, and regain my confidence. I just wish I felt sexier in my equipment so I could get my flirt on with a rugged ski guy.

This helmet is the anti-sexy.

“Look, look, look!” Lily bounces beside me, the chairlift swaying in response. “That’s it, right?”

As we crest a rise, the pinks and reds and blues on the bra tree stand out in vibrant contrast to the white-tipped evergreens.

“That’s it, all right,” I say, my excitement growing.

A few skiers are attacking the narrow mogul run below us, their skis scraping and gliding between the massive bumps. Snowboard Dude horks and spits over the side of the chair, likely aiming for the man splayed on the snow, a yard sale of his gear smattering the uniform bumps.

Karma, my ass.

I scan the tree up ahead, cataloguing each brassiere I can make out. The hefty beige one looks more like a straitjacket than a bra, the thick material folded over a lower branch. It screams: dull, trite, supportive, and dead boring. Above it, a flirty number in bright purple and swirling lace dangles, its owner definitely more sassy than mundane.

Swallowing thickly, I glance at the black bra I once loved, hating what an easy read it is.

Classy. Conservative. Proper. Poised.

The perfect accessory to pressed suits and silk ties. The chosen undergarment to accent my slimming black dresses. The Dick.

“You better get ready,” Raven says.

We’re one chair back, and I raise my arm, readying to slingshot the bra, my past, and all things Richard into oblivion, but as I do, a red lacy bra catches my eye. This piece of feminine lingerie is the perfect combination of sultry and flirtatious, the elegantly patterned fabric dipping low in the center, punctuated with a red bow.

My heart quickens.

That is the woman I was, once upon a time. The woman who got smothered by the Dick. That bra screams spontaneous and confident, a little wild and a lot of fun. It’s the bra I’m buying the second we get to town.

“Come on, Shay.” Lily nudges me. “If you wait any longer, you’ll miss it.”

I clench my jaw, determination setting in.

Then I draw my arm back, whip my wrist, and let the fabric go.

My bra sails through the air in an elegant arc, my 34Cs taking flight, before being caught up in a gust of wind and tumbling down, down, down and landing smack on some guy’s head.

Amid his what the fucks, the girls and I giggle as Snowboard Dude scoffs with a snarky, “Karma.”

My bra may not have hit the tree, but it’s out of my life. Along with the Dick.

We push off the chairlift at the top, and I can’t keep my eyes from flitting around. I’m not wearing a bra. The secret is enthralling, wanton. A shiver of excitement runs down my spine, and a need for recklessness consumes me. Having grown up in a ski town outside of Toronto, I practically skied from the womb. Our hills are more like glorified mounds than towering mountains, but my parents put me in ski racing programs as a kid, and I can handle the expert terrain better than Lily and Raven.

Right about now, I could use the adrenaline.

“I say we call it early and have lunch in town. Last run of the day?” Lily asks as she zips the neck of her lilac jacket higher to protect her face. She tucks her blond strands into the back.

Raven jumps up and down, her skis smacking the hard-packed snow. “Bet your ass it is. There’s a hot tub and glass of wine with my name on it.”

I eye the large terrain map at the top of the lift. The girls will want to take an intermediate blue run down, but those expert double black diamonds have my name on them. The bra is gone, and my future is mine to control. “Why don’t you ladies take Ruthie’s Run? I’d rather take Schiller over to Corkscrew. I’ll meet you at the bottom.”