Page 5 of Frost
When he gets into his car and backs out of the driveway, I stand in place, doing nothing to stop him. What’s truly awful? Other than a bit of disappointment, I’m not upset by us breaking up. Even worse, a part of me even feels relieved by it. Without another person hanging around, I have more time to work.
If I can get past my writer’s block anyway.
I walk back inside the house just in time to hear my phone ring. I snatch it up from the kitchen table.
“Hello?”
“Merry Christmas, sweetie,” Mom says. “Your dad and I watched your interview yesterday, and we’re so proud of you. Are you home now?”
“Yeah, I got in last night. I’ll be over in about an hour. I just woke up.”
“Is Colton coming too?” she asks.
“Um. No. We kinda broke up.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. But your dad will be happy.”
I snort a laugh.
My dad never liked Colton. He said he was too much of a shallow pretty boy. But it doesn’t matter now. Colton is out of the picture for good.
I look out the kitchen window as snow starts to fall outside. Winter has always been my favorite time of year. Everything about it calls to me.
“Hey, Mom? You remember that cabin we stayed in over Christmas when I was little?”
“Yes. The one up in Vermont.”
Excitement tingles in my belly. “Do you think it’s still there?”
“It should be.”
My excitement grows as I make a spontaneous decision. “Can you send me the address and rental information?”
Maybe it’s dumb, but it’s the only thing I can think of that might get me out of my writing funk. To go back to the place where it all began.
Chapter Two
Three Days Later
The cabin looks exactly the same.
Snow weighs down the trees surrounding it, and even more continues to fall as I park and get out of the car. I breathe in the crisp, cold air and feel my whole body relax, as if I’ve held my breath for the past nineteen years and can finally release it.
I bought groceries on my way here so I can hole myself up in the cabin and, hopefully, make some headway on my next book. The change of scenery should help. What better way to channel my inner Jack Frost than to stay in the place where I first thought him up? Well, my version of him anyway. Stories of him have been around for hundreds of years.
After carrying in the bags and placing them on the small counter in the kitchen, I go back out to the car for my suitcase. The door to the back seat is wide open, and a bit of snow has blown into the cab.
“I thought I closed you,” I say to the door before grabbing my suitcase.
Back in the cabin, I unload the groceries and stock the fridge with eggs, bacon, soda, beer, and a million other things I impulse bought at the store. I rented the cabin for a week, but if progress goes well, I will stay longer.
The interior of the cabin is nothing fancy. The kitchen is small but functional, and there’s only one bedroom. A couch sits in the living room in front of a fireplace, and a desk faces the tall window overlooking the woods behind the cabin. I unpack my laptop and set it up on the desk before going into the bedroom and unloading my suitcase, putting my boxers, socks, and pants in the dresser and hanging up my shirts in the small closet.
Hearing a ding from the living room, I walk over to see a notification on my laptop. An email from my publisher.
Any updates on the next Jack Frost book? We need time to schedule the illustrator and editor.
Sighing, I type back a response.
