*
The first night of winter break, I sleep fitfully. Images of Tate crisscross through my mind, melting into my dreams. We are in my bedroom, alone, but it feels normal, like he’s supposed to be here. I can barely make out the features of his face in the dark, but I know his eyes are pouring over me, I can feel it. And then he reaches out and pulls me against him, kissing me. His hands move quickly and I feel dizzy even in the dream. My heartbeat quickens and his fingers are suddenly beneath my shirt, tearing it over my head and I am pulling him to my bed. And then his voice is there, clear and smooth against my ear, Charlotte. Charlotte.
But then the voice is too sharp, too loud. “Charlotte!”
My eyes flinch open.
“Charlotte.”
I sit upright. It’s Mia, standing in my bedroom doorway.
“Are you awake?” she asks.
“I am now.”
“Look out your window. You have to see this.”
“What?” I pull the blankets up to my chest. It’s morning, but it’s insanely early, the light outside still a dim bluish gray, the sun not yet up over the horizon.
“I noticed it when I got up with Leo. You have to see.”
“See what?” I ask, not wanting to leave the warmth of my bed.
Mia walks into my room, yanking open the curtain. “Look,” she demands.
I throw back the blankets and follow her to the window.
At first I can’t see; it’s brighter outside than I thought and I press my palms to my eyes—it reminds me of the night with Tate, when the photographer’s flash blinded us as we left Il Cielo. And then I realize why it seems so bright. Everything is white.
Snowy white.
The yard below my window is blanketed in fluffy, crystalized snow. It hangs over the limbs of the palm trees; a smooth, frosting-like layer. All the way out to the sidewalk, it coats our yard like a Christmas scene from a classic movie.
“How?” I ask aloud.
Mia shrugs, rocking Leo from side to side. He makes a little sucking noise, his lips puckered. “I have no idea. I don’t think it’s ever snowed in LA.”
“And it’s too warm,” I say, sliding open my window and sticking a hand out into the mild air.
Then our green eyes meet and we both know.
“Tate,” I murmur, closing the window. I grab my phone from the bedside table and see I missed a call from him five minutes earlier, since my phone was set to silent. Quickly, I go to the closet, grab a sweater, and pull it over my pajama shorts and tank top. But I stop short before going out the door. Mia is still standing beside the window, watching me. She could tell Grandma, she could go wake her up if she wanted to.
But then she shrugs, and gives me a little nod. “Go on.”
I smile at her, then hurry into the hall and out the front door.
It’s like stepping into a winter wonderland.
I’ve never seen real snow before, but it looks just as beautiful as I’d always imagined. Suddenly, I wish I had a professional camera with me so I could take pictures—the light, with the sun just about to rise, is pinkish and gorgeous, refracting across the crystalline layer.
Everything is quiet. A stillness that seems amplified by the snow. No one has walked through it yet, there are no other footprints—I am the first one. It feels powdery and icy and slightly crumbly all at once, sending shivers up through my feet, barely protected by my flimsy slippers.
How did he do this? And why?
At the side of the yard stands a picture-perfect snowman, catching some shade under one of the palm trees. A bright red scarf has been tied around its neck and two black stones sit in its snow-packed skull for eyes. And tucked in one of the twigs that form the snowman’s arms and hands is an envelope.
I carefully pull out the card inside.
The stationery is solid white, a hint of glitter sifting off the top. Written in cramped block letters, it reads: Look in the backyard.
Normally our backyard is just a sad square that backs up against a chain-link fence dividing our house from the neighbors’. But in the snow, it’s transformed. And there, sitting on the old rickety bench where Mia and I used to play pirate ship and capture-the-castle, is Tate.
His dimple flickers as I run to him.
“Why?” I breathe.
“You said you’d never seen snow.”
I’m smiling so big it almost hurts. “This is definitely a first.”
He taps my nose, gently. “But not the last. I want you to come home with me, to Colorado. For Christmas. A snowy Christmas.”
I can’t help it—I lean in and kiss him. And finally he doesn’t stop me, just pulls me onto the bench, which he’s covered with pillows and blankets that are soft against my bare legs as I curl up beside him.
“Are you warm enough?” he asks, his mouth close to my ear.