Snowed in for Christmas

Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Benjamin

AT SOME POINT, WE wake, stiff from dozing off in front of the fire. We clean up our salads and check that the fire won’t burn down the whole house overnight. Then we stand awkwardly at the foot of the stairs, the inevitable question looming over us.

Jett cups my hands in his, his thumbs bumping along my knuckles.

“Will you sleep in my bed again tonight?” he asks.

My heart crumbles. I want to, and he clearly wants me to. My body is still reeling from what he did to me in front of the fire, and all I want to do is soak up the comfort of having his arms around me.

But the longer we do this, the more it’s going to hurt. Every moment in front of the fire, every night spent cuddling in a bed together, digs the barbs in deeper. Soon, very soon, our parents will arrive, tearing them out. How bloody and broken we find ourselves in the aftermath hinges on moments like this, moments when we could either give in to indulgence … or make the smarter choice, no matter how much it hurts.

“I don’t know if that’s the best idea,” I say.

Jett’s face falls, but he tries to hide it. “It isn’t going to make a difference,” he says.

“It could. If we keep doing this, it’s going to hurt more, Jett. We’re making it worse.”

“How can we possibly make this worse?” he says, voice rising a little. “We’ve already shared a bed. We’ve already slept together. We’ve already done so much. Is sleeping in the same bed going to make a difference at this point?”

I shake my head, but a kernel of doubt wriggles into my chest. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I should give in to the temptation while I can. But logic tells me it’s wrong, that it’s only hurting both of us more.

“I think we should sleep apart,” I say. “We’re going to make this worse.”

He frees one hand to cup my face. “I’m not going to stop wanting you just because I’m in a different bed. If you believe that, you’re stupid, and you’re damn near the smartest person I’ve ever met, Ben.”

I have to swallow down the lump of emotion that clogs my throat.

“I know,” I say, “but I’m trying to make the right choices. I’m trying to keep us from getting hurt.”

“We’re already getting hurt.”

I can’t respond. The emotion wins, stoppering my throat as surely as a cork plugging up a wine bottle. Nothing is getting past those feelings jumbled up inside me, so instead I simply lean forward and kiss him.

Jett understands without me having to speak. He holds my hand the entire way up the stairs, but he lets me go at the top, seeing me off to my own room without protest.

The bed feels cold that night. No matter how I pile up blankets and cocoon myself within them, I never seem to warm up. I toss and turn, trying to find a comfortable position, but the cold creeps in from every side, icy hands grabbing at my toes, my ankles, my hand, my heart. I think I hear Jett shuffling around as well, but it must be my imagination.

I DON’T KNOW WHEN I finally fall asleep, but a rich, fatty scent wakes me sometime the next morning. Sunlight streams into my bedroom, burning my eyes. I curse when I remember that my glasses are still downstairs, sitting on the floor beside the fire where Jett…

I sit up with a sigh, the sheets falling to my waist. I’m naked from the hips up, my sweater and shirts gone. Sitting here in bed like this, the cold barely grazes my skin, but that should be impossible.

I jump out of bed and race to the other side of the room. When I flick at the light switch, beautiful, artificial light flashes on, struggling to outdo the sunlight pouring in through the window.

I fly around the room, throwing my sweater and sweats back on. I all but run to the bathroom, and the tap actually works when I attempt to brush my teeth. I’m tempted to take advantage of a shower immediately, but the smells rising from downstairs are far too tempting, so I settle for brushing my teeth before hurrying down the stairs.

I find Jett in the kitchen, flitting between the stove and the counter. Cutlery and plates sit ready on the kitchen island. Even as I watch, the toaster pings, two slices of bread popping up. Jett darts over to them and sets them on a plate.

He whirls when he notices me, a spatula held in one hand.

“Perfect timing,” he says with a grin. “It looks like the power came back on some time last night.”

I blink, trying to clear my eyes, but the miraculous sight does not disappear. Jett turns back to something on the counter. The smell that woke me originates from the stove, where butter sizzles and spits inside a pan.

Jett marches up to me with a mug of coffee in his hand. It’s so fresh, so warm, so fragrant I could weep. When he offers it to me, I accept without a word of complaint.

“I hope that’s how you like it,” he says. “I’m not sure if I remembered it right.”

I take a sip, and blessed caffeine seeps down my throat, warm and faintly sweet with milk and sugar.

“It’s fucking perfect,” I sigh.

Jett beams. “I’m glad. How do you like your eggs?”

My brain has to replay the question a couple times before I actually parse through what should be simple words.

“Any way you’ll make them,” I say. “I don’t care. However you like them. I … I’m still processing this.”

He chuckles. “Clearly. Your glasses are over in the living room. I put them on the coffee table. The fire is dead, but that’s kind of what we wanted, right? Plus, we don’t need it anymore.”

“Yeah, sure.”

I shuffle away with my coffee, using the excuse of needing to find my glasses to try to get my head to stop spinning. I know Jett went to bed hurt, so is this an act? He has to feel as relieved as I do about the power coming back on. We could both use a shower, and I won’t cry about being able to brush my teeth, turn on a faucet and sit around the house without shivering all day.

I set down my coffee on the table when I retrieve my glasses, cleaning them on my shirt before perching them on my nose. I glance out of the sliding glass doors and find snow dripping off the trees. I can’t spot any clear patches of grass yet, but the heap has shrunken significantly, and children play in the yard over. Everyone is crawling back out of isolation. The world is thawing around us, returning to normal.

To normal. The normal where Jett and I have to pretend there’s nothing between us. The normal where our parents are dating, and could some day be more. The normal where the past two days don’t exist.

I retrieve my coffee, desperate for the caffeine as too many implications click into place. Maybe Jett’s chipper mood is a coping mechanism. Maybe he’s living only in the moment instead of thinking about what all this means for us.

I should probably follow his lead, but even as I slouch onto a stool at the kitchen island, I can’t stop my brain from whirling. If the snow is melting here, it’s likely melting in the pass as well. The state will want to clear that pass as quickly as they can. If they can get it open sooner, they will. It’s not solely up to nature anymore. Our time is coming to a rapid end, and short of another blizzard, there’s nothing we can do about that.

Jett turns off the stove. When he faces me, he’s carrying two plates, both bearing a slice of toast drenched in a slab of melting butter and a heap of scrambled eggs speckled with onion and bell pepper.

“We had some stuff left over from the salads,” he says, “so I thought a scramble was best.”

“We might be able to get to the store tonight or tomorrow to get more supplies,” I say.

I immediately realize my mistake. The comment was supposed to be helpful, but it only paints our predicament in stark relief. Jett swallows, sitting across from me at the island and sipping at his own coffee.

“Yeah, that’d probably be good,” he says, but all his enthusiasm is gone.

I want to say something comforting, but it would be a lie. There is nothing we can do. The future is inevitable, and it is barreling toward us at breakneck speed now that the snow is melting. Whatever charmed moment we’ve been living in, it is over.

“Thank you,” I say. “For breakfast,” I add, but it’s a feckless attempt. We both know I meant more than the toast and eggs.

Jett munches on his toast. “You cooked for me,” he says. “All that ramen.”

I snort a laugh. “All that ramen you stole.”

“Is it stealing if you gave it to me? Besides, you weren’t going to let me starve. You like to act all cold and badass, but you’re a softie.”

He smiles at me, a secretive little smile, a smile that says “I’ve seen inside you, and you aren’t hiding from me.” And he’s right. Whatever else happens in the future, he knows me. He knows sides of me no one else knows, and I’ll never be able to hide them from him.

But I’ll have to.

We’ll both have to. We can’t go on as we have. When our parents arrive, when the world crashes back in, we can’t act like we’ve seen each other’s pleasure, tasted each other’s lips, learned each other’s most intimate, unguarded noises.

As though reading my thoughts, Jett reaches across the island, taking my hand. He doesn’t stop eating his breakfast, and neither do I, but I don’t let go of him either, clinging to him as I enjoy my toast and eggs and coffee. They’re delicious, but they’re a sign of the end, and we both know it. And maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s exactly what I tried to avoid last night by sleeping in my own bed, yet when his thumb rubs against my fingers, I can’t help the sense of comfort that washes over me.

If only it wasn’t about to end.