Page 52 of Jack Frost

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He could be taking me to a cozy mountain cabin, or a penthouse in New York City, or back to his ice castle. We can go literally anywhere. The freedom of instantaneous travel without expense—I don't know if he realizes what a privilege that is.

Swinging my overstuffed travel bag onto my shoulder, I lock both arms around Jack's torso. He has a bag too, and he shifts it aside so it won't bump my arm. He kisses the top of my head, then my ear, and when I look up he captures my mouth eagerly, inhaling as if he wants to breathe me in.

And then we're whirling away, dissipating into whatever magical space he travels through when he spirals. When we reappear, still locked together, I have to close my eyes and breathe slowly until my body acclimates to being solid again.

"It doesn't get any less weird," I tell him. "Any idea what it does to a human body, doing that over and over?"

"No." Concern shades his voice. "I hadn't thought about it. I guess I've only done it once or twice to people—never as often as I have with you."

I press a hand to my roiling stomach. "As much as I want to travel, we might have to save it for very special occasions."

"Understood." He runs his hands along my arms. "You okay?"

"I will be." I sniff, and my eyes pop open. Past the snow-fresh scent of Jack, there's another smell—oddly familiar.

Rotting leaves, a hint of moldy sourness, and stale smoke lingering in the chilly air.

We're in a thicket of skinny trees that are still clinging to a few of their shriveled brown leaves. Through their branches I can see blocky whitish structures.

I push away from Jack and stumble out of the trees onto hard-packed dirt studded with bottle caps, crumpled scraps of soggy paper, bits of rotting boards. Ahead sits an ivory mobile home, its lower siding stained with red-brown dirt. The steps are half-sunk into the ground, and someone has set a crate on top of them to bring them up to the level of the door. The windows are boarded up, like they always used to be, to keep the light out and the heat in. A tumble of boxes, wooden slats, pipes, and dingy folding chairs clutters the space beside the steps. A few feet away there's a metal lounge chair with blue plastic slats. In its armrest cup-holder is a clear cup, half-filled with water and discarded cigarette butts.

There's no snow anywhere, which is to be expected. Alabama doesn't generally get snow on Christmas Day.

"Jack." I speak his name very calmly. "Why did you bring me here?"

"This is your home, right? Where you grew up? Where your mom lives? I looked it up... I..." His voice trails off as he leans around to look at my face. "I thought it would be a nice surprise—humans are always wanting to go home for Christmas, right?"

My sinuses prickle, a warning of oncoming tears, and my lungs tighten into panicked fight-or-flight mode. "Not always, Jack. Not this human."

"Oh hell."

I pinch my lip between my teeth and sink my nails into the flesh of my palms.

"I'm so sorry, Emery. I didn't realize—I should have asked—"

"Stop it." I lace my fingers with his. "You were trying to be sweet. It's okay. We really haven't known each other very long—we can't be expected to know each other's baggage."

He looks at me earnestly, his eyes a soft and sorrowful blue. "I want to learn everything about you."

Inwardly I squirm, shrinking from the necessity of telling him all the sordid details of my childhood. "Maybe eventually."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing. Let's just get out of here before she—"

Right on cue, the door of the trailer squeaks open, and my mother appears. She's very obviously braless under one of the silky slips she wears like dresses. The long, baggy sweater she's got on over the slip does nothing to conceal her chest or protect her thin legs against the cold.

My mother is all leathery skin and high cheekbones. Her lips are seamed with wrinkles from years of puckering around cigarettes. Her hair straggles out in clumps and frizzy spikes, pinned in odd places by sparkly dollar-store barrettes. A big poinsettia clip by her temple is her sole nod to the season. She's tapping a pack of cigarettes against her hand, her lighter pinned between two fingers.

"Well, fuck me," she says.

I never buy my mother Christmas presents. But of course Jack did—one of those gift packs with lotion and body wash and fluffy slippers. My mother squeals and simpers, stuffing her feet into the slippers at once and lathering her veined hands with the lotion. She's effusive with Jack, all welcoming smiles and season's greetings, while she barely says a word to me. Jack put my name on the gift tag, too, but Sandy knows I didn't buy it. Why should I care, when she never did? Half the time, she was too drunk to remember to buy me a gift. She'd stick a magazine and a pair of socks in a plastic bag and call it a present—or she'd have a fit of guilt the day after Christmas and buy me several large toys on credit—which we would then have to return because she couldn't afford thoseandher cigarettes.

"Sorry to drop in like this," Jack repeats for the dozenth time. "We thought we'd surprise you."

"I'll bet you did. It was your idea, wasn't it, gorgeous?" My mother prods his shoulder. "Em was never one to plan anything fun. It's always work, work, work with her. Money, money, the climate, the environment, blah blah blah. Me, I'm more the YOLO type. How about you, handsome? You like fun?"

Jack glances at me desperately. I lift my eyebrows and cross my arms. I'm not helping him out here. He wanted to surprise me? Fine. Now he gets the full, undiluted Sandy Caulfield experience, complete with inappropriate flirting. Once she gets drunk, she'll likely proposition him right in front of me, like she did with Declan the one time I let him meet her. I think Declan would have taken her up on it, too, if I hadn't shut things down quick. Knowing Declan, he probably thought it was kinky. Jack, however, looks appropriately pained. He'ssonot ready for this kind of human interaction.