Page 16 of Jack Frost
Finally I slump against the wall, doubly exhausted now, but also strangely relieved, as if a knot that had been winding tighter and tighter in my gut has now unspooled.
"Oh god." I wipe my eyes. "You're an idiot."
"Yeah. I guess the bags didn't appreciate being spiraled, with the snow and all."
"I guess not."
"It was stupid." His mouth twists wryly.
"Stupid and sweet. And very stalker-ish."
"Sorry." He pokes at the mess. "I think most of this is salvageable. I'll sort through it—you got a trash can for the stuff I can't save?"
"Under the sink. There's a little tub for recyclables in there too."
He picks through the groceries while I shove boxes around, looking for one that has a "Kitchen" label. But of course I don't have a knife, or scissors, or anything to cut the tape that holds it shut—layers and layers of tape, because I'm an anxious person with very little to her name and I was bound and determined that none of it would be damaged. Curse my excellent packing skills!
"Here, let me." Jack leans over, producing a blade of gleaming ice from thin air. He slices the tape with it, then lays the knife in my palm. It's chilly, but not unbearable, thanks to my new resistance to cold. "It won't vanish until I leave. Use it as much as you want."
I should kick him out. I should yell at him for coming into my private space unannounced, for acting like we are long-time best friends instead of very recent acquaintances. But I press my lips together, and I don't say anything, because truthfully I'm glad he's here. The place is brighter and warmer with him in it. Not literally warmer, of course. Every time he opens the fridge, frost creeps over its handle.
"You got a frying pan?" he asks. "The eggs are cracked, but salvageable. We could use them right now. I'll make you an omelet."
"Don't you have fiery battles to fight?"
A twinge of resistance crosses his face. "I've been fighting for two hundred years. I deserve a break." He sets the egg carton on the counter a little too hard, and something crunches inside it. "Besides, it's a hopeless attempt. She's stronger than me. I can't hold her back."
"She? I thought there were several of these Horae."
"If you let me cook you dinner, I'll tell you more."
I tilt my head, eyeing him reproachfully.
He nods. "Right. You're not interested. I'll cook, and then I'll leave."
I don't contradict him, because I'm struggling, debating internally, vacillating between what my logical scientist brain tells me to do and what my risk-taking, story-loving artist brain wants to do. So I keep unpacking, unwrapping paper from dishes and stowing them in cupboards, hunting down the implements Jack requests and handing them over. A small cutting board. Knives for chopping mushrooms, tomatoes, peppers, onions. A spatula. A cheese grater, because of course he didn't buy the bagged cheese.
"I'm surprised you know how to cook," I say, eyeing his progress. "You don't seem like the type to enjoy a warm meal."
"I always let my meals cool to room temperature before I eat them. To me that's hot enough. And you're right, I prefer cold foods. Doesn't mean I want to eat everything raw, though." He quirks an eyebrow at me. "So yeah, I cook."
"The ice castle has a kitchen?"
"It does. Would you like to see it sometime?"
"Wait—we could go back to Antarctica? Just like that?" It's hard for me to conceive of such rapid, easy travel. It took months of applications, approvals, planning, and training before I got to join that expedition—and even then, I only snagged the spot because a couple of other candidates became ill and weren't allowed to travel.
Now Jack is offering to take me back there, easy as snapping his fingers.
"It's the most convenient perk of being me," he says with a shrug.
"You can go anywhere? Literally anywhere? Like Rome, or Prague, or Hawaii, or Tokyo?"
"Anywhere." He grins. "Thinking about keeping me around?"
"Considering it." I turn my back to him and start tearing the packing paper off a stack of plates. I can feel his gaze on me, like a cool breath along my spine. "Careful, or you'll burn my food."
"Damn." There's a clatter and scrape behind me as he flips the omelet. My lips pull into a smile again. Why am I smiling so much? I must be tired. I should kick him out so I can eat and then go to bed in peace.
