It's the joy of the sport itself, of course: the exhilaration and the speed and the wind in her face as she tears down the hill, kicking up a cloud of snow behind her; the delicate feeling of floating as her skis cut through untouched powder like a wing moves through the air; the delicious sensation that comes from curling up at the lodge with a cup of hot chocolate slowly thawing her from the inside out. But it's also that for three days every year, she has her brother all to herself.

Their usual resort gets excellent cell reception, even at the top of the farthest lift, but by some unspoken agreement neither sibling ever uses their phone when they're together on the mountain. She supposes he uses his at night, after he's returned to his own room—he's always busy, has been busy since the day he was born—but as long as she's around, his focus is all on her. On the slopes, on the lifts, in the lodge, there is no one in the world but the two of them and nothing to distract them but the breathtaking beauty of snowy white mountains and dark towering pines and dazzling blue sky, and there, more than anywhere else, he opens and talks to his little sister.

(This is not to say he ignores her the rest of the year; it's just to say that she's finishing school and working and he runs a major company and is habitually quiet—has been quiet since the day he was born, just like he's been busy since the day he was born. She's fairly certain there's a connection there.)

When Will was seventeen and Gigi was nine, they talked on lift rides between runs about his concerns about going off to college, about does he pick Duke to please Mother or Harvard to please Father or Yale to please himself. When he was twenty-one and she was thirteen, he advised her on her recent habit of bickering with their mother, on It's part of being a teenager and I know you want to be allowed to make your own decisions but she's trying to do what's best for you. When he was twenty-three and she was fifteen they went alone for the first time, and when she unthinkingly turned around to wave at the lift chair behind them and caught her breath when she saw strangers there, he reached out and gripped her gloved hand tightly with his, and told her it was okay to miss them, he did too, and he'd always be there for her. When he was twenty-six and she was eighteen, he told her how proud he was of her getting into Stanford and how much he'd miss her, and she understood in that moment that though she'd lost her parents, her brother loved her as much as a parent ever could.

She's come to rely on those days of togetherness. And when he's twenty-eight and she's twenty, she needs that togetherness; she's needed for months now for him to open up to her. Something is going on with her beloved brother, and she's desperate to find out what.

She rather thinks he suspects he's going to get interrogated, because the entire first day he refuses to answer any questions about himself until he's heard all about her: how are classes and how is tennis and are you still getting along with your coworkers, and it frustrates her but if there's one thing she's learned about her brother it's that no one can make him speak if he doesn't have anything he wants to say.

But on the second day she gets her opening. The morning air on her face is icy cold and out of habit she snuggles next to him for warmth, although her ski parka is keeping her toasty, and his arm goes around her shoulder to pull her close. "I'm glad we're here," he says sincerely. "We haven't talked much lately. And I didn't even get to see you this summer."

"It was your idea I do that study abroad," she pointed out. "Broadening my horizons and all that stuff."

"And wasn't I right?" The corner of his mouth quirks up; she knows his quiet ways well enough to know that's equivalent to a full-on grin for him.

"Yes, it was awesome," she agrees, and then thinks of a way she can twist this conversation for her ends. "But it's not like you were alone all summer. You had Bing and Caroline, and you made new friends, right?"

Apparently she's hit the nail on the head (although she's still not positive what that nail is), because he stiffens next to her. "I met some people," he says stiffly. Yes, she was right, it's something about his summer friends that's had him so on edge lately. And if she had to, she's fairly sure she could put a name to that discomfort.

He's been odder than usual for a while now. Their communications with each other have always been regular and sincere but on his part not lengthy, but this past summer he was downright chatty. Something happened to him while he was down in Fresno and she was studying abroad in London; every time they Skyped there was a lightness in his tone, a smile in his voice that she hadn't seen since they were children. He refused to acknowledge there was a change, and from across the ocean she could do little but speculate, but she suspected it had to do with "this girl I met, Lizzie."

To which Gigi could only say, about time.

But then something changed, and since the autumn he's been withdrawn, even more so than normal, and this worries her; he's withdrawn enough by nature, and if he withdraws any further he might disappear altogether.

She presses forward delicately. "It seemed from what you told me that you were pretty close to some of these people. I mean, they got you to go to a bar, and drink beer and play video games. That's not the sort of thing you usually do."

He's clearly uncomfortable but tries to laugh. "Well, I didn't actually play any video games."

"Why—" she says but he's swinging the lap bar up.

"Top of the lift," he says, and she sighs and follows him off the chair.

One run later, they're back on the lift. "So," she picks up again immediately, "tell me about these friends you made. I hear Bing was dating one of them." Someone else's relationship ought to be neutral conversation territory, a good segue into her desired topic, but to her surprise that makes him uncomfortable too.

"Jane," he says shortly. "She was a neighbor. She stayed with us for a while."

"Tell me about her," she says, partly because she wants information about this girl she knows is Lizzie's sister and partly because she's genuinely curious. "Fitz talked to Bing on the phone right after they started dating and he said Bing was totally smitten. Well, I mean, Bing's smitten all the time but Fitz said he seemed really serious about this girl."

He squirms in his seat like an anxious child, and she wonders why this subject makes him so uncomfortable. "Red hair," he says. "Very pretty, in a way. You know how in books, people use the phrase 'porcelain skin'? She has it." He chuckled a little. "The whole family does." And then he stops and looks uncomfortably out over the snow.

"Was she nice?" she prompts. "I can't imagine Bing dating someone who wasn't as nice as him."

He chuckles again, this time humorlessly. "She's extremely nice," he confirmed. "Almost overwhelmingly sweet. The kind of sweet that—" He paused. "Where you might mistakenly think that it's too nice, that she's faking it. But—" Another pause where he takes a deep breath, and when he speaks again there's self-deprecation in his voice. "I think she genuinely might be that nice." A wry smile. "She was always extremely kind to me, even though I never really reached out to her. One or twice she took my side when someone was saying something about me."

"About you?" she demands. "Will, was someone badmouthing you?"

"Watch this skier in blue take these moguls," he says, pointing. "You see how he moves his legs? That's what I was talking about."

And it's such an obvious dodge but he doesn't give her a chance to call him on it because he talks about moguls all the way up to the top of the lift, and then he makes her follow him down the hill he'd been pointing to, and she stumbles through and remembers why she hates moguls.

On the third lift ride up, she tries to think of another way into that conversation. "I remember Caroline told me Jane had a younger sister who was kind of a partyer."

Now this is a subject he isn't uncomfortable with, and he tells her stories all the way up the lift about how crazy Lydia is and how often she was at that bar and the time she met a guy when they were all at the bar together and started making out with him right at their table and he's never been so embarrassed for anyone else in his whole life.

"Wow," she says. "She sounds . . . interesting."

"She's fearless," he says. "I suppose I have to give her that. But rather too energetic." But something's wrong with that word, and he gets quiet and fidgety again, and Gigi doesn't mind because she has a lot to think about on the rest of the ride. This summer her brother sounded more animated when talking about this Lizzie girl than he has in years, and she's ecstatic. Will's never really cared about a woman before, and she worries about him being so alone, and if he's really fallen for this Lizzie Gigi's prepared to love her for his sake, no matter what she's like. But her sister sounds like a handful, and she wonders if Lizzie is anything like Lydia.

But as she carves down the hill, she realizes no, of course not; her brother could never fall in love with a girl who was irresponsible and loud and badly behaved. In fact, he could never fall in love with a girl who wasn't entirely extraordinary. So she makes up her mind to love Lizzie again.

"All right," she says as the chair lifts them into the air, their skis dangling over the snow many feet below them. "You're told me about Jane and about Lydia, but when we were talking this summer, you had the most to say about the third sister."

He is silent.

"Will."

"Yes, they have a third sister who I . . . became acquainted with. We haven't spoken in some time, though."

"Will."

A rebellious pause, then, "Lizzie." And if she hadn't been sure about the way he talked about her in the summer, she'd be sure now, because although it comes out reluctantly, he says her name like it's a delicate flavor on his lips, to be savored. "She was . . . lovely. But we really haven't spoken in a long time."

She lays her hand on his arm. "Will," she says, "I'm not blind. I saw the way you talked about her this summer. She mattered to you."

He looks away.

"Is she the reason you've been so withdrawn lately?"

His eyes snap to hers and she sees they're full of guilt. "Was I withdrawn? I didn't mean to take anything out on you."

"You didn't," she reassures him. "But I know you. You were happy this summer, and you aren't happy now. What happened?"

His expression is pained and he opens his mouth to speak, and then shuts it again, and in this uncomfortable silence they finish their ride.

When they get off the lift he takes off down a bruising black diamond, and she doesn't follow because he clearly wants to be alone and anyway there are easier ways down the mountain and she doesn't have anything to prove to herself. She's worried that he's upset with her, but when she reaches the bottom he's there waiting and his expression is placid.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I should have told you a long time ago. I just—I worry about you and I don't want to burden you with my problems."

"You're my brother," she replies. "I worry about you no matter what. If you don't tell me anything, I just worry about the things you're not saying."

His smile then is small and rueful. "How about lunch?"

She agrees even though she's not hungry yet because she's sure this will get her answers quickly, but she's forgetting that this is Will, who must have things well-ordered. Before he'll tell her anything they have to stash their skis by the lodge door, find an empty table by the fire to put their gloves and goggles on, order and pick up lunch at the counter, and sit down to eat. And only then, with their soups steaming and the fire roaring beside them, does he speak.

"Her name's Lizzie," he repeats, "and she's lovely. Strong. Funny. Smart. Opinionated—really not afraid to tell you what she thinks. I can't tell you how many girls I've known who think I just want them to smile and agree with everything I say" (he doesn't say Caroline's name, but they're both thinking about her) "but Lizzie challenged me, made me think. And she has this energy to her, this passion; she's not afraid of her feelings or her words or her thoughts. She's . . . captivating. I means she's pretty but even if she weren't she'd catch your eye, because everything she is always seems to be bursting out of her at the seams. When she speaks, everyone listens."

It's the most he's ever said about a girl.

"She does sound lovely," said Gigi. "So have you been out of sorts because you're trying to figure out what to do?"

He's been looking at his soup but at this he looks up, an odd expression on his face.

"You've already tried something," she interprets. "Did you ask her out?"

He shakes his head.

"Did you . . . tell her you like her?"

A nod but also a shrug, and his expression becomes embarrassed and a bit guilty.

She stares. "Did you tell her you love her?"

He sighs. "Yes, I did."

"Before your first date?" she demands. "Will. Will. Of course she got scared off. That is the very definition of moving too fast."

And at this his shoulders slump and his eyes return to his food. "I don't think she cared how fast I moved."

"What—"

And it's clear that this confession costs him but he's trying to see it through. "She hates me."

There's a pause. "She doesn't hate you."

"She absolutely hates me," he confirms.

"She told you that, to your face?"

"Not in so many words, but it was definitely there in the subtext. It wasn't a very . . . civil conversation. On either of our parts."

Gigi doesn't know what to say. She's not sure the Lizzie she has built up in her head would uncivilly tell a man she hated him after he confessed his love, but she doesn't have a hard time believing that her brother could unintentionally upset people with his sometimes distant and high-handed ways. She settles on, "I'm sorry."

But he's not done yet. "There's one other thing you should know. The reason I'm sure she hates me." And suddenly he's talking very quickly. "I should have told you this a long time ago, because I'm sure you'd have found out eventually, and I'd hate for you to see these without any context or warning."

"See what?"

He takes a deep breath. "Lizzie has a video blog."

"Sounds cool," she says, not really understanding.

"She has a video blog," he continues, "that started right before we met, and she spends about half her time talking about how much she hates me."

"Oh," she says. She pauses, and then, "Ouch." And then, "I assume you didn't know about these before you poured your heart out?"

He shakes his head.

"Did she tell her viewers about you confessing your love?"

She hasn't seen him look so uncomfortable in a long time. "It happened on camera."

She doesn't mean to, but she can't help laugh a little. "Oh, Will, you saw the camera and you went through with it anyway?"

"I was foolish, there's no two ways around that," he says seriously. "But that's not why I'm telling you this. The videos . . . they involve you, in a way."

"Me?"

"Lizzie—well, Lizzie dated George for a while."

She blinks. "George Wickham? How in the world did they even meet? And what are the odds of that happening?"

"Not small enough," he sighs. "He was in town and they met at a bar." He wrinkles his nose, which in Will terms is the same as making a disgusted face. "She was very attracted to his broad shoulders."

"At least we have something in common," she mutters.

"And I didn't want you to stumble across her videos that he's in. I didn't want that to trigger any bad memories—"

"Will, it's fine," she insists. "I'm not going to break if we talk about it."

"I might," he says softly, his eyes fixed on her face. "Sometimes when I think what he almost got away with—"

"He didn't," she says firmly.

He doesn't look like he believes her, but he respects her enough to pretend and move on. "While he was on the videos, he . . . made up some things about me. That I refused to give him the tuition money Father promised him." He presses on over her objections to that notion. "It was one more thing for Lizzie to hate me for."

"You mean she believed him? She put these lies about you on her videos without checking to see if they were true?"

"I don't care about that," he says, and his words are so calm, his face so serene, that she can only stare.

"You still love her, don't you?" He gives her a rueful smile and she sits back, marveling. Who knew her brother was such a romantic deep down that he'd keep loving Lizzie after all the things she put him through? But then she thinks, But of course, he's Will; he's never done anything halfway, he's earnest about everything, why would love be any different to him?

"The point is, when she made these accusations against me after my confession, I decided to defend myself via a letter detailing all my dealings with Wickham."

"A letter? Oh Will," she says fondly, "you are such a dork." Then the rest of his words sink in. "All your dealings?" she repeats.

And then his words come out all in a rush. "And I owe you an apology. I think the real reason I was hesitant to tell you all this is that I do feel terrible about the letter, and telling her about you and George without your permission. My reasons were partly noble; I was worried about how far she may have been taken in by him, because I know perfectly well what he's capable of and I didn't want her hurt. But—" he pauses and takes a breath— "I also wanted her to stop thinking so badly of me. And that's unforgivable of me, to tell someone you don't even know your personal business just to get her to like me. She won't tell anyone, I'm sure of it. But I shouldn't have done it."

She is quiet a moment, and then she makes up her mind and speaks. "Will," she says, "I don't mind. If it keeps someone else from getting hurt, especially someone you care about, then I'm glad you told."

He looks up at her from under furrowed brows, and she can see he's as uncomfortable with this as she is—they don't speak of it, usually. It hurts both of them too much.

"It was two years ago," she says firmly. "And in the end, nothing happened." She smiles. "Thanks to you."

He smiles uncertainly back at her, and though she's still trying to sort through all of this in her head, she decides it's time to lighten the mood. "So I guess now I need to watch these videos."

The sound he makes then is a laugh and a sigh at the same time. "I guess I can't stop you. Just—remember that I meant well. That I genuinely didn't know."

"I've told you a thousand times that you need to work on your conversation skills," she points out with gentle admonishment in her tone. "You can come off as kind of stuck-up to people who don't know you."

"Yes, I see that now," he grumbles, and he's teasing but she can still see a bit of discomfort in his face.

"Tell you what," she says. "We're up here to relax, not to make you uncomfortable. Let's just enjoy ourselves now. I can watch the videos when I get home."

He gives her a grateful little smile. "Call Fitz when you do," he says. "I'm sure he'd love to hear your reactions."

"Fitz has seen them?"

"Fitz is in them," he corrects. "Now come on, I want to see you do those moguls again."

She sighs and grabs her bowl to follow him to the trash can. She doesn't want to think about skiing when she's wondering what's in those videos, but she can focus on her brother while she waits to see them. She's never seen him so disappointed, and she wants to help, somehow. Now there's a thought, she decides. If Fitz knows Lizzie, maybe he can think of some way to help. Maybe together they can pull Will out of his poor mood.

Until then, she's got another day and a half to have her brother all to herself, a brother who's patiently holding the door open for her as she walks toward him, and as she passes through the door he slips an arm around her shoulders. "So that's enough about my tragic love life," he tells her. "Are you seeing anyone?"

She smiles and together they walk out into the snow.