Page 65 of Ignition

Worry sat heavy in my stomach like a stone, but something else peeked its head up at me, a sort of irrational irritation that spurred me on to pick up my phone.

M: Still alive?

J: Yeah. Not getting rid of me that easily, don’t worry x

A staggering wave of relief hit me, freezing my thumb on the screen.

M: Goddamn it!

I need to take off my party hat. Started celebrating early. (Oops)

J: And they say I’m mean. You wound me…

M: Wounding implies having a soul…

Then, before I could chicken out:

M: What are you up to?

J: You got me x

I’m talking with the grand total of five people on campus. You?

My brows hit my hairline. Why was he back?

M: Eager to start studying so you can finally beat me? ;)

The teasing came to me like breathing, easier than asking, “You okay?”

J: Nope. That wouldn’t be fair to you. You’d never catch up :)

White-hot irritation made me roll my eyes at the screen, but my shoulders relaxed, and my body pressed deeper into the cushions.

Around me, my family chattered, Nat King Cole’s voice spilled smoothly from speakers, and I tried not to wince as Blackey settled on my lap with the casual grace of a big dog who still acted like a puppy.

Before I could type something back, my phone buzzed in my hand.

J: Oops, gotta go, we’re building a snowman.

He’s gonna be bald. And a ladies’ man, apparently.

A chuckle tore from my lips. Despite my resistance, the ridiculous image crept into my mind: Josh, pink-faced from the cold, laughing while making a silly snowman. There was something almost… childlike about it.

A strange sort of warmth bloomed in my chest, and much as I tried to kick it away, it wouldn’t budge. Another chuckle—softer this time, pulling into a smile—and my mom’s head whipped around, nose sniffing the air like a hyena catching a hint of blood.

Uh-huh.

She made no comment, which only meant she was biding her time.

Evening fell, muted golds and pinks reflecting off the dazzling snow, before night swallowed all colour, leaving only the warm glow of the fireplace making me all sluggish and sleepy—a disadvantage as we played charades and cards, and my mom proposed giving out punishments and dares with a little glint in her eye and a smirk that reminded me of Pri.

I wrapped myself in the familiarity like a blanket, soaking it all up, and trying to keep my mind away from things I didn’t want to inspect too closely, like the way my cheeks still burned, or how a certain someone’s husky voice wouldn’t stop echoing in my ears.

And it had worked. For the most part. Until my mom—the wily minx—dared me to send a photo of myself to the last person I texted, with a sparkle in her eyes that spelled trouble.

Shit.

Stomach galloping, I rolled my eyes and took a selfie: Christmas hat on, cheeks pink, a mug of mulled wine in hand, the glow of the fireplace kissing the stone wall background. I sent it to Josh with the caption: “Sorry. Dare. Busybody mom.”