“You think you should call her?” he said.
“I will,” I said. “But for now, I want to be right here.”
When we got back to the inn, Dad was already packing up the rental car. Eric went inside to get Fozzie some food. He said he’d be back out in just a few minutes. I went in to grab a muffin and some coffee. I had decided once I got home that I was going to tell my mom to start making an extra cup for me in the morning. I was an adult, after all. And besides, if it stunted my growth, that was fine. I was already almost six feet tall.
Eric came back into the dining room and joined me by a window.
“Okay! All set!” sang Dad, coming in behind him. Kathy quickly ran in, too. She winked at me.
“Actually,” said Kathy, “I think the trunk isn’t closing all the way. Can you give me a hand please, Judd?” She grabbed Dad’s arm and pulled him toward the front door.
“She’s really pretty cool,” said Eric.
“Yeah, she’s okay. It’s a good thing someone butt his nose in and told me to give her a chance,” I said, smiling.
He pulled out a piece of paper from his coat pocket.
“Well, I just wanted to give you this. It’s nothing big. I’m not much for good-byes, you know? So, how about I just say, I’ll talk to you tonight, and then I’ll see you soon, and we’ll … um … take it from there.”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
“I mean, once the busy season slows down a little, maybe I could take a drive down to New York with Fozzie. Like in March or April?”
“I’d like that a lot.”
“Yeah.” He swallowed.
“I’d really like that a lot.” I didn’t think I could say much more. And then, he just held me again with those arms. Those arms that had picked me up and led me down the mountain and into the most beautiful place I had ever been. And I breathed him in, the smell of his warm neck, like fir trees and cedar wood. I tried to take it all in. To hold it deep inside.
In the car, I waited until we were up the hill and past the main square of town. “Good-bye” I whispered to the snow-covered steeples and Canfield Corners. The road extended out in front of us like a dark ribbon between the mounds of fresh snow, the trees bending together to whisper among their branches. Dad was whistling and he had one hand on Kathy’s knee, keeping time to his tune. It slipped from “Paperback Writer” to “Eleanor Rigby” this time. Jeremy was leaning back and staring out at the mountains again. A low cloud of bluish-gray hung above the peaks, heavy with another snow about to fall.
I turned toward my window and slowly pulled out the piece of paper, then unfolded it delicately, spreading it out on my lap. It was a charcoal drawing of a girl, her head upturned, her eyes closed, her lips making a small circle. Her hair fell down long and straight across her shoulders. Her arms were outstretched and above her fell speckled bits of snow caught in midair.
It was me. I knew it was. But until this trip, I had never seen myself this way before. So relaxed, so carefree, so beautiful.
I turned the picture over.
Dear Sam,
I’m not sure what to say. As you said, “I’m not good at this.” But I just wanted to say, thank you for everything. For screaming at me outside. For sipping coffee by the fire. For walking to the Gallaghers’ farm with me and for sharing my favorite place in the world. For falling down and for picking me up. But most of all, thank you for teaching me how to kiss snowflakes. I hope we can do that again soon.
Love, Eric
I folded the paper back up and brought it to my lips.
That was one snowflake I hoped would never melt.
Craving more winter romance?
Be sure to check out MISTLETOE: FOUR HOLIDAY STORIES, featuring Hailey Abbott, Melissa de la Cruz, Aimee Friedman, and Nina Malkin!
Below, take a sneak peek at Aimee Friedman’s story, “Working in a Winter Wonderland.”
As Maxine wandered the crowded aisles of the holiday market, her eyes flicking over displays of beaded necklaces, velour gloves, and fat, scented candles, she wondered if a winter-break job might be the best solution to her money woes. After all, she reasoned, her home life was driving her nuts, and her social life would be laughable until New Year’s. If only she had the slightest idea where to find work. She cast a glance at a nearby stall selling hideous winter hats, as if a HELP WANTED sign might be hanging there.
A sudden, near-arctic wind tore through the market, rattling a display of glass bowls. “Damn, it’s cold!” someone cried in a Southern accent — a tourist, Maxine guessed, who’d been under the mistaken impression that New York City would be balmy on December 17. Shivering, Maxine hurried over to the hat stand, cursing herself for leaving her cloche hat somewhere in her messy bedroom. Whatever, she decided as she selected a fuzzy leopard-print number with earflaps. I’d rather look like a first-class freak than die of hypothermia. She was adjusting the hat on her head when she heard a familiar male voice behind her.
“Madeline? Madeline Silverman?”
Oh, God. Can it be —
Turning very slowly, Maxine found herself staring into the almond-shaped, bright hazel eyes of Heath Barton.
Yes, Heath Barton. His glossy jet-black hair blew across his dark eyebrows and a smile played on his full lips. Maxine noticed that his leather jacket hung open, revealing a black turtleneck and black jeans ripped at the knees. Dazedly, she wondered why he wasn’t freezing, until she realized that his own out-of-this-world hotness must have been keeping him nice and toasty. Maxine felt her body temperature climbing by the second.
“Madeline,” Heath repeated with utter assurance, his square-jawed face now breaking into a wide grin. “From high school. You remember me, right?”
You could say that.
“Oh … sure,” Maxine said, doing her best imitation of breeziness. She cocked her head to one side, studying him. “Heath … Barton, is it?” As he nodded, eyes glinting, she added, “And it’s not Madeline, by the way. I’m Maxine. Maxine Silver.”
Not that she necessarily expected Heath Barton to remember her name. Back in high school, he’d been the ringleader of the rich-boy slackers and always had some pouty groupie — Maxine had nicknamed them “Heathies” — on his arm. Ensconced in her artsy circle of friends, Maxine had outwardly mocked Heath and his ilk, but went all jelly-kneed at the sight of him. And there’d been certain moments that Maxine had caught Heath shooting her inquisitive glances that had clearly meant Hmm … maybe sometime. Maxine had been counting on New Year’s, but maybe the time was, well, right now.
Or could have been now, had she not been wearing a leopard-print hat with earflaps.
Just as Maxine’s hands were reaching up to remove the unfortunate accessory, Heath stepped forward, eliminating the space between them. “Maxine — that’s right,” he said, laughing softly. “My bad. I was close though, huh?”
He was certainly getting close. Maxine barely had time to notice that Heath smelled like wood smoke and cider and spice — and that he’d somehow become even hotter since high school — before he plucked the ridiculous hat off her head, his fingers brushing her sideswept bangs. As he set the hat down on the counter behind them, Maxine frantically tried to mash her post-hat hair back into some semblance of place.