Page 7 of Snow One Like You

“And you promised that if I ever did, you’d bring the sunshine.” Oh gosh, it’s catching.

Wanting to head this off at the pass, I helpfully point out, “You two didn’t get married.”

“Common law counts,” they reply, once more back in unison. They bicker all the time, yet I’ve never seen a union more solid than theirs. Ironic considering how flighty they can appear outside of it.

“But you, Snowflake,”— Mom’s choice for me, and not because she says I’m one of a kind, but due to my ability to “keep it frosty” – “will do the whole shebang. My only daughter will not rob me of the joy of trying on numerous dresses for the perfect mother-of-the-bride outfit, nor the chance to drive her crazy with wedding planning.”

When she’s gone on this tangent in the past, I’ve ignored her, uttering non-committal ‘uh huhs, I knows, and yeps.’ Now, though? Having met Calvin? I’m listening. Damn it. Is he that potent to my senses?

It’s a rhetorical question as I don’t have to actually debate the answer.

Not so surprising plot twist…he is.

I mean, you had to see that coming, even if I didn’t.

“Any contenders for the role of groom?” Mom wants to know. Distraction thwarted. Crap. Are they on to me? Usually it takes them longer to circle back around to the subject they’ve latched on after I divert them.

“Mom, the bat signal has been displayed. I gotta go. Love you both.”

I hear Dad cracking up as I end the call, as well as, “That’s probably for your mom. She’s batty.” I’m still grinning at their antics while I get ready. Calvin should be here within the hour and there’s much to do. Showering being at the top of my list.

By the time he arrives, I’m clean, moisturized, and dressed to kill. But when I open the door, his defeated countenance makes my heart ache. I mentally change our plans, take his arm, and lead him to the couch where I urge him to sit.

Cuddling against him, I thread my fingers through his, rest my head on his shoulder, and silently let him know I’m there if he needs to talk about whatever is bothering him. I don’t know how long I wait to see if he wants to, but when he begins speaking, I let him get it out.

“Hostage situation,” he states. “Man was upset he’d been fired, though the termination was legitimate.” He sighs. “Decided he’d show them.”

“Everyone okay?” I ask.

A nod. “Some injured, but all in all, they’ll heal.”

“Physically.”

“Yeah. Emotionally, though? It’ll haunt them.” And you, I think to myself. However, I don’t share it out loud, somehow knowing he doesn’t see it that way. Yet.

But he will. Hopefully, he’ll let me be there for him when he does. Until then, I’ll do what I can to delay the spiral.

Seeing he’s currently deep in thought, which may or may not be a good idea, I kiss his cheek, then whisper that I’ll be right back. I’m not sure if he hears me as I scurry out, wanting to get started on my plan. The quicker I do, the faster I can return to him.

Within twenty minutes, my idea taking a bit longer to implement as I couldn’t resist taking frequent peeks at Calvin to check on him, I rejoin him. I’m carrying a tray laden with Irish coffee – just a drop of liquor as I know he won’t want more in case he’s called in, soup, and homemade bread. I may eschew my parents’ preferred way of living, but in regards to matters of the kitchen? I bake and cook like a mother. Mine, to be exact.

Setting it on the coffee table in front of us, I place my hand on his knee, quietly getting his attention instead of startling him. When he glances at me, his unfocused eyes take a moment to clear. To remember where he is.

“You need to eat,” I urge, going so far as to grasp his hand and curl it around the end of the spoon. “Butter for your slice?” I ask, pointing at the loaf of French I’d made yesterday. I can do it completely from scratch, but when my time is limited, my bread machine is a godsend. “Silly question,” I respond to myself. It may seem as if I’m rambling, and you wouldn’t be wrong, but I’m thinking if I don’t give him a chance to revisit what went down, it might help him come to terms with it subconsciously.

Hey, I’m no therapist, yet I’m willing to give anything a try to erase the look of helplessness he had when he arrived.

Almost as if by rote, he digs in, the tension seeming to leave him with each bite. Once he’s emptied his bowl, I hurry to refill it, watching in awe as he devours it, too. I stand to do so a second time, but he stops me. “That was delicious.”

I grin, though I feel the need to tease him, a small test to gauge his mental state. “Wasn’t sure you tasted it,” I joke. He laughs, thankfully not offended.

“I’m a growing boy,” he retorts, patting his oh so flat stomach. A certain part under his jeans isn’t.

Letting my gaze linger there, I mutter, “I can see that.” His ears, however, pick it up, as I’d hoped, and I’m suddenly placed on his lap. Letting me feel just how correct I was.

It feels so right to be where he put me that I don’t react other than curling an arm around his neck and snuggling my face against him there as well. It must be exactly what he needs because I feel his body relax, his posture settling into the cushions of my couch. Calvin rests his head on my shoulder, his arms holding me tight, and lets himself feel.

Chapter Three

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