Page 23 of Jack Frost
Jack is unresponsive, so I drag his tall form foot by foot toward the bathroom, cursing loudly because why couldn't he have just spiraled himself into the tub and why do I have to play nurse when I have my first day of work in just a handful of hours? I'm getting no sleep tonight. And what if he—
I look down at the wreck of him, at the pale expanse of his skin blotched with glistening red flesh and blackened edges. His face is whiter than ever, and there's a translucency to his features that scares me. His nose and cheekbones look sharper, like thinning shards of ice.
He's going to make it. He will be just fine.
Finally I manage to haul him into the tub. I arrange his limbs as best I can and fill the tub partway with cold water. "Do what you can for him," I tell the wraiths. "I'm going to get some ice."
Later I return, staggering under the weight of as many bags of ice as I can carry. I dump it into the tub with Jack, bag after bag, and then I hurry back to the car for more. The wraiths don't seem to have accomplished much beyond icing over the shower walls and turning the mirror into a piece of frosty artwork, but I don't fuss at them for it. Maybe their presence helps him in ways I can't understand—like mine does. I still don't get how just being around me gives him an energy boost; it's weird, and sounds like an excuse that a sorcerous stalker would give, if magical lurkers were a commonplace occurrence and not just one extraordinary man whose death would place the entire world in terrible jeopardy...
And I'm responsible for keeping him alive.
I can do this. I eat challenges for breakfast. And this is my chance to pay him back for saving my life. I won't owe him anymore; he won't be able to use the life-saving debt as an excuse to hang around and cook for me. We'll be even.
Of course he did kind of save me from the man in the parking lot—but that doesn't count because I could have gotten clear of that situation on my own. I was definitely faster than that guy; I'd have made it to the street, called someone—I would have been fine without Jack's icy interference.
Did the ice melt off the man as soon as Jack and I spiraled away? Judging from the way the ice box-cutter vanished after he left, I'll bet it did. So the guy would have been free to stumble out of there and find a way home. If he does tell anyone what he saw, they'll think he was just drunk out of his mind and seeing things. No problem there.
I'm not wasting another thought on that loser, or his acrid breath, or the spastic grip of his hands on my wrists. I will not imagine what could have happened, because it didn't. Nothing really happened, right? So why am I curled in on myself beside the tub, shaking so hard I have to clench my teeth to keep them from knocking together? It's not the cold; it's the aftershock of the trauma, flooding my system. Right now, I want nothing more than to crawl into someone's arms and be held.
My trembling hand inches over the lip of the tub. I fumble through the icy slurry for Jack's hand and lift it out by the wrist—but it's too blistered to hold. A wave of sympathy so forceful it's almost pain washes over me. Gently I release his hand, letting it sink back into the ice.
I suppose I could crawl in there with him. I have the Chill, so I won't go hypothermic. But snuggling up to him without his permission wouldn't be right—even though I'm fairly sure he'd give me enthusiastic consent if he were awake.
There's no one to hold me, or to help me.
I tug my phone out of my sweatshirt pocket. My camera equipment survived Jack's spiraling thing remarkably well back in Antarctica, and the phone seems to be perfectly functional, too. After setting an alarm, I wedge myself tighter into the corner by the tub and wait.
When my alarm chimes, I startle awake. My mouth tastes gross and fuzzy, and I have to pee. The ice wraiths are gone, and Jack is still unconscious, but he looks more solid now. His edges aren't so weirdly translucent anymore. Hopefully the danger of him fading into a wraith has passed.
Tugging the shower curtain across the bathtub space, I use the toilet and prepare for the day. Jack will have to be all right on his own while I'm at work, because I can't miss my first day. I think I've done my duty by him anyway.
When I get home that evening, I'm so exhausted and shaky I can barely insert the key properly into the lock on my apartment door. I've been running on leftover adrenaline and copious infusions of coffee all day, while various new coworkers trotted me around the offices and showed me what's what. Then I picked up an order of place-cards for the benefit and called around to some key potential guests who still haven't RSVP-ed. I got a soft confirmation from several of them, so that was good. And I helped double-check the inventory list and the appraised value of the items donated for the auction.
It was almost more than I could handle for a first day at work, operating on zero sleep. And it felt odd to be doing those small bits of busywork when just a few days ago I was in freaking Antarctica, so close to Adelie penguins that I could have touched them. No one here really gets how indomitable those little creatures are—the sturdy, gritty, sassy attitude that carries them through life in such a harsh climate. During lunch with a few of my new colleagues, I tried to explain my passion for the Adelies—but I've never been great with words, at least not in person. I can write a decent grant letter, an informative article. I've waxed passionate in emails and opinion pieces. But I'm better with my camera. Even now, in my exhausted state, I have the itch to go through some of the footage and photos I took on the trip; I've turned some of it in to my sponsors already, but there's more to review.
Or maybe I'll just have a sandwich and some wine and go to bed.
After I check on my patient.
The key finally fits into the lock. It's a good thing, too, because somebody on this floor is cooking, and the savory fragrance of sizzling onions permeates the hall, turning my knees weak. I'm not strictly a vegetarian, though I don't eat a lot of meat, and I try to avoid anything that isn't free-range—but this scent is so divine that I'm ready to beg for a mouthful from whoever is cooking it, without even asking if it's been locally or sustainably sourced. Sleep deprivation has reduced my brain function to primal needs only.
When I push through the apartment door, the aroma billows around me, drawing me in to warmth and light. I hesitate, afraid for a second that I've entered the wrong apartment. This is like something out of a movie, or out of someone else's life—someone with a family who might welcome them back from work with a home-cooked meal.
Jack stands as far as he can from the stove, poking at something in a skillet. His hands are encased in oven mitts, so I can't tell how much they've healed. He has discarded the charred scraps of his clothes, and he's wearing—oh god, he's wearing my robe—a light jersey garment that clings to the curves of his butt far too nicely and leaves most of his strong legs exposed.
He looks over his shoulder, with a smile that sends my heart flying somewhere far into the sky. It's a sensation I've had before, with two other boys.
Both of them were pretty.
Both of them dropped me after a while, claiming I was too driven, too picky, too obsessed, too focused on my studies and my work. I mean ofcourseI communicated my passion for protecting the planet. OfcourseI tried to convince them to reduce, reuse, and recycle. Of course I blew off the occasional "Netflix and chill" because I wanted to hear a climatologist's talk or join a rally. But it was too much for Declan. Too much for Sam. Each of them wanted someone to bone, someone to be a pretty sidekick, someone to help them pass on their genes. I don't even want to bring kids into this crappy world, honestly.
I had such magnificent flutters with Sam when I first met him. Same with Declan—magical, thrilling, disgusting flutters.
The same thing is happening with Jack, and I hate it, because there's only one way it can end—with another part of me breaking away, like a chunk from an iceberg. I'll be left smaller, and weaker, and less able to do my part in the world.
I have to shut down the flutters I'm feeling right now for the beautiful, smiling ice god in the jersey bathrobe and oven mitts.
"How was your day?" he asks me.
