Page 101 of When the Storm Breaks
Kissing, touching, licking, tasting—trading heat like we’ve got nowhere to be. Like time’s frozen outside and we’ve found the only warm place left on earth.
It’s a haze of skin and breath and soft sounds. A snow-globe of a morning, sealed off from everything else.
Eventually, we migrate to the kitchen, steam still clinging to our skin from two quick showers meant to scrub off the sweat and sin.
I grab the cereal and pour us both a bowl. She takes hers without a word, curling up in one of the kitchen chairs like she’s done it a hundred times. I take the seat across from her—the one with the perfect view of the winter storm still raging outside. It’s coming down harder now. Huge, heavy flakes stick to the glass, piling on the streetlights.
Calla follows my gaze, turning slightly to look out the window.
“I can’t believe it’s still coming down like this,” she says, voice soft with awe.
“It wasn’t like this when I ran out last night,” I say, spoon halfway to my mouth. “I mean, it was snowing, but not like this.”
She stands slowly, carrying the bowl with her, walking to the window like it’s magnetic.
I watch her from behind as she sets the bowl on the sill, both hands coming up to touch the cold glass.
“It snowed like this once, when I was a kid.”
I set my spoon down and join her, stepping in close and wrapping my arms around her from behind. She sinks into it immediately, and Irest my chin on top of her head.
“Yeah?” I ask softly.
“It was my first snow day ever,” she says, a breath of a laugh caught in her throat. “I was so excited. But my parents had to work from home that day.”
She sighs, like the memory is as heavy as the snow falling outside.
I start to gently rock her, back and forth. Not enough to throw her off balance—just enough to let her feel it. To let her know I’m here. That I’m listening.
“It was the first time I remember really wishing I had a sibling,” she says. “All I wanted was a snowball fight. Like in the movies—kids screaming, laughing, ducking behind forts. But I didn’t have anyone to play with.”
She pauses. Her head leans back against my chest, eyes fixed out the window like she’s seeing it all again.
“I went out anyway,” she says. “Started making snowballs. Neat ones, packed just right. I lined them up on both sides of the yard, like I was getting ready for a real fight. Like someone might show up.”
My jaw clenches.
The image of little Calla—alone in the yard, waiting for someone—anyone—to play with her?
It fucking guts me.
I didn’t realize she was always so goddamn alone.
“I waited for hours,” she says, softer now. “No one came. So I started rolling them into snowmen. I used every single one. I had a whole army by the time I went back inside.”
She pauses.
“And the next morning, before school, they were still out there.But they had stick arms, carrot noses, and coal buttons.”
She turns around, wrapping her arms around me like she’s trying to bury the memory somewhere warm. I fold her in, holding her there, my hands stroking slow lines down her back.
“I think my parents felt guilty,” she says into my chest. “They weren’t bad people. Just… busy.”
She stops herself—like she caught the edge of being too generous. Or maybe too vulnerable.
“They didn’t last, anyway,” she adds after a beat. “It got really warm a few days later.”
It makes me think about all the snowball fights Willow and I had. The snowmen that started as crooked, lopsided things and somehow ended up perfect—because our parents were right there.
