Cold Spell

blinds drawn up. One flash means Are you there? Two means Good night—which happens nightly, without fail. Three is Come over. Four is Meet you on the roof. I’m surprised the neighbors have never complained about it, really, since there are some nights where we argue via flashing over who should come over to whose house.

Our building looks almost pretty in the snow—probably because the white covers all its flaws. The car lets us out a few yards away so the driver can avoid going over an ice patch, and we balance and slide our way to the front stoop. The memory of Grandma Dalia being hauled out of the building is fresh in my mind as we trudge through the snow to avoid the slippery sidewalk. I hug Kai tightly before we split to go to our separate apartments.

Night comes early; by six o’clock it’s dark. The roads have frozen over again, and thus are nearly desolate —no one is crazy enough to drive on them. At ten, my mom calls—she’s not coming home after work. It’s not worth risking the car, especially when she technically doesn’t have car insurance. I microwave a cup of noodles and fill time flipping through the cookbook—I forgot to give it back to Kai after the service. The pages of beasts feel more jarring and threatening than usual, making me keenly aware of how alone I am in the apartment. I shiver and close the book. You’re not alone. Kai is just across the courtyard.

There’s a strange feeling in my gut as I go to my bedroom—as if what I just thought isn’t true, as if Kai isn’t really there. I peer across the courtyard toward Kai’s window, lifting the flashlight from the nightstand. I flick the light four times in his direction, then grab my coat and make my way into the hall and up the stairs toward the roof. It’s relatively easy to convince myself that I just want to see the city in the darkness and ice, to check on the roses, but I can feel the need to see Kai rising within me, the need to feel his hand in mine. I reach the step by the roof access door and sit down, shivering in the cold—there’s no heat in the hallways. The door frame is so cold it burns my back when I lean against it, even through the layers of fabric.

A few moments pass. I could go check on the roses without Kai, but it seems wrong, a violation of an unspoken trust. I let my hair down, hoping it’ll offer some warmth against the weather. Another minute; I think the wind is picking up. We probably shouldn’t go out there. I should just go to Kai’s house when he gets here.

Another minute.

Another.

I look at my phone and realize fifteen minutes have gone by. I send Kai a text, folding my hands into my sleeves while I wait for a reply. Nothing comes. Irritation rises in me, nearly overpowering my sympathy. Were it any other day, I’d stomp downstairs and give him an earful for not answering—he’d do the same to me if the situation were reversed. But today was the funeral, so instead, I go back to my apartment, fuming, alone, and, for some reason that I can’t entirely pinpoint, afraid. I want to be with him, next to him, and not being able to makes me feel wildly off balance. I inhale, trying to steady the frustration I feel rising like a thick ball in my throat. I lock the door of my apartment, kick off my shoes, and go to my bedroom.

Maybe he’s already asleep.

I’m lying to myself, and I know it. Kai doesn’t sleep when he’s upset. He stays awake, he worries, he paces. I angle the flashlight out the window and flash the light twice. Good night. Wait.

No answer.

I flash the light twice again. Nothing. I groan, lean over, and look out the window.

The blinds are shut.

CHAPTER FIVE

The next morning, my heart still stings a little from the sight of Kai’s closed blinds. It feels silly and stupid and as if I’m the sort of girl who doodles hearts with Kai’s name in them on my notebook. It’s embarrassing. I nag myself to get over it, that some closed blinds are no big deal, to stop moping, but the voice in my head saying all that sounds like Kai, which leaves me doubly embarrassed to have those thoughts in the first place.

Movement outside the window catches my eye—snow, more snow. Will it ever end? I wonder how the roses are doing in all this. Surely they’ve pulled through, even if they’re losing their petals. They’ve made it through hurricanes and ice storms, after all. I firm my jaw, feeling as if it’ll be some personal victory if I can go to the roof and check on the roses without Kai.

I rise, pull on my warmest clothes, and head for the roof. I hear people milling around inside their apartments, cursing at the new snow falling and shouting at one another as several days’ worth of cabin fever sets in. As I grow closer to the roof, the temperature drops. I hug my coat tight and shiver as I grab hold of the freezing metal door handle, slide the key into the lock—

It doesn’t turn. I frown and pull the key out—it’s already unlocked. I push on the door, letting it swing to reveal a thick layer of snow on the rooftop, the gray-and-white skyline beyond that. There are roses, still, but they’re buried underneath the white, drops of crimson in a monochrome world. I smile when I see them there, struggling but hanging on. I step out onto the roof, extend a hand to swipe snow off the nearest rose—

Kai’s voice is just ahead, through the roses. It’s so quiet out here that it feels as if his voice is the only sound in the world. I freeze, my fingertips resting on the rose.

The quiet, low tones, like he uses when he’s on the phone with me late at night and doesn’t want Grandma Dalia to know. I swallow, try to ignore something stabbing in my chest, and walk forward. Another step, another. The snow absorbs my footsteps as I weave through the briars along the path, squinting to see him. Every breath feels spiky in my lungs, and my lips are chapping—

It’s her hair I see first. Frosted blonde and sparkling, tossing around in the wind. She’s sitting on his right —where I sit. In my place. She’s sitting there, talking, her voice soft and light and sweet. I can’t understand her words, but Kai nods, heaving his shoulders as if he’s sighing. And then her slender hand rises, and she reaches forward, letting her fingers dance across the side of his face. He turns his head toward her and smiles. Something rises within me; I think I might be sick. It’s like I’m in one of those dreams where you can’t run, can’t scream, can’t cry.

“We aren’t that different,” she says; this time her words make it to me, though only just. She’s looking at him intensely, and her fingers caress his cheek as she talks.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we both understand that life isn’t fair,” she says, voice slinky and soft. “I lost everything, more than once. But we can use loss, Kai. We can become greater than we ever were before. Come with me. Leave this place before it kills you.”

Her words have changed—they’re hypnotic now. I can’t look away; I feel as if I’m falling into something the color of her eyes. It reminds me of the way I felt a long time ago, but it takes me ages to place the sensation—the man. The man in the grocery store parking lot, the one with the eyes that glimmered, the one Grandma Dalia warned me about. I swallow, trying to shake off the comparison, but it sticks in my stomach.

Kai turns his head, and I can see his thick lashes, snowflakes clinging to them. He leans forward, and then, before I can comprehend what’s about to happen, his lips touch hers. She presses back against him hungrily, wantonly, and he buckles under her pressure, his head dropping back against the bench as she sits up, swings one leg over him—

“Kai?”

The name doesn’t sound right in my throat; it’s coming from a little girl’s mouth instead of mine. Mora’s pale blue eyes lift and find me. They’re unapologetic—she looks like an animal, leaned over her prey. My lips remain parted, unable to close again to form a second word.

Kai shifts underneath her, turns around, and looks at me. There’s a hardness around his jawbones, around his eyelids, something I don’t recognize. He lifts an eyebrow at me.

“Ginny? What are you doing?”

“I… Kai…” I don’t know what I’m saying; I can’t find words because they’re falling into the deep pit that’s replaced my stomach. I know what I want to say, though: We belong together. We’ve always belonged together.