I got home and chartered a private jet to Aspen. The next morning I packed a suitcase for myself and three for Marte. I popped her on board and we flew to the pristine mountain ski resort for Christmas. I nursed a scotch on the flight there and had about three plus hours to think about everything that had gone down.

Ryan Kessler was Charlotte’s ex-boyfriend. Ryan Kessler was also the monster that had killed my Zoey, and gotten a slap on the wrist sentenced to minimum jail sentence and then probation.

There were strict laws as to how deer hunting season played out. The dates you could hunt. Doe vs. Buck. Gun vs. Bow and Arrow. But Ryan Kessler and his buddy didn’t give a rat’s ass about any of that. They got wasted while they watched a game, egged each other on, and headed out to the marsh to shoot something. Anything. Plenty of animals in the marsh. Turkeys, skunks, rabbits.

They commandeered a stand built by a legitimate hunter who owned the property and picked off a few squirrels and a raccoon. But they were hoping for a deer. Much more fun to shoot something big when you’ve got a sizeable amount of steam to blow off. The problem was, it wasn’t yet deer hunting season and they didn’t have licenses. The bigger problem was that they were drunk and entitled.

That late afternoon on Green Marsh trail, Ryan Kessler saw movement and thought he’d lucked out and spotted a deer. He lifted his gun, aimed, and shot Zoey in the chest. His family had the money to hire the best lawyers to negotiate a plea deal for their scum son. His buddy, who was now in jail serving time for manslaughter, followed up with the shot that killed her.

Post-mortem determined the first bullet had punctured her lung. The second penetrated her heart. And this was how my happily-ever-after died. Not after thirty years of benign neglect, but collapsed in the weeds, assassinated with a bullet to the heart. It disappeared in a ragged breath with a broken promise and last words clinging to cold blue lips.

Contrary to the turbulence inside me, the flight from Chicago to Aspen went smoothly and we touched down ahead of time. Daniel sent a town car to pick us up at the Pitkin County airport and drive us to his place in town. The village was picturesque, covered in snow with cute trendy shops, and the right mixture of singles, families, and holiday cheer. Daniel was right. Aspen was the perfect place to go for the Christmas holidays.

I got Marte squared away at the townhouse and spent the rest of the afternoon skiing. I worked my way from the moderate blue runs to the black diamond slopes, attempting to clear the cobwebs in my brain and trying to wrench the knife out of my heart. After four hours, I skied back to the residence and shook off the snow.

I knocked on Grandma’s bedroom door but she was napping. I found my room, crashed for a few hours, but couldn’t sleep. I flipped through cable channels, switched to my iPad and scrolled Netflix. There were too many Christmas movies. Jimmy Stewart was busy in Bedford Falls reviewing his wonderful life, Hugh Grant was falling for his young secretary, and Bill Murray was getting scrooged. What the fuck was I doing?

Daniel had invited a few friends and his new girlfriend over for a catered turkey holiday dinner with all the fixings. Twelve of us gathered around the table and enjoyed the spread. We took a break before dessert and hung out in the living room. The windows looked out onto the mountain, the dark punctuated by LED lights for night time skiing. A fire crackled in the fireplace. It was gorgeous.

I was suffocating. I felt like I was breaking out in big, red, scratchy hives after donning a stifling wool sweater. Good God, when could I get the hell out of here? I wondered what Charlotte was doing. I glanced at Marte sipping a cup of hot chocolate. Her feet were up on an ottoman, a comfy throw draped over her legs. “How are you?” I asked.

“Better than you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Have you looked in the mirror recently?”.

“No. Why? Do I have spinach in my teeth?”

“Worse. You look like you ate bad nachos. The ones you get at the convenience store late at night when you’re drunkity-drunk.”

“I’m not drunkity-drunk, Grandma.”

“I beg to differ. Everything was going just swimmingly. I hired you a matchmaker. You were smiling again. Humming Christmas carols under your breath. Then out of nowhere you went and hired a plane, stuffed me on it, and the left the only other person who really mattered to you behind. What kind of Christmas present is that?”

“Crap. I left your Christmas presents back in Chicago.”

“That’s not what I meant. What do you want for Christmas, Joe?”

I thought about it. The people around me were pretty, the fire was warm, the skiing awesome—but all I could think of was Charlotte with her pouty lips.

Charlotte with the determined thrust of her chin.

Charlotte’s big warm heart.

Charlotte laughing at the dog park.

And Charlotte calling out my name, over and over, like a prayer when she orgasmed on top of my desk.

“I want a second chance, Grandma. I want Charlotte.”

“I sampled the apple pie when I was in the kitchen and it sucks. It’s from a frozen food company that’s trying to knock off Marie Callender’s but it isn’t even in the same ballpark. If I were you I’d skip dessert, stop dicking around, and go get Charlotte. Unlike the pie — she’s the real deal.”