Caged in Winter

by Brighton Walsh

Be there at 12:30

  It’s ok. Bus.

  I know my reply will fall on deaf ears, but the prideful part of me still feels like I need to say it, just to prove—to myself more than anything—that I don’t need him. I stare at my phone, waiting a minute for a reply. Before anything comes through, my professor arrives and gets started with class. My phone is forgotten in my bag, my books and notes spread out in front of me, but I can’t focus on anything the man at the front of the classroom is droning on about.

  Instead, my mind is across campus in the kitchens of the culinary school with a boy who consumes my thoughts. I figured the first few nights he picked me up after work following our first true date were a fluke. But he’s continued to show up, and now I’m certain he’s planning to be there every night when I get off. I try to dredge up the indignation I should feel at him thinking he can just push his way into my life and do whatever the hell he wants.

  But it’s nowhere to be found.

  Where my normally impenetrable ice-cold heart sits, there’s a warmth blooming at the fact that this boy is interested. In me, just as I am. Enough to come see me every night, to take time out of whatever he has to do to greet me after work, kiss me breathless, and drive me home to make sure I get there safely.

  His attention makes me nervous. Nervous and unsure and . . . weightless. Feeling this way is addictive. He’s addictive. Though the intelligent part of me knows this is bad, very, very bad—especially with only forty-eight days left—the overwhelming majority of me is basking in the feeling of finally being wanted.

  cade

  I leave the house late, having fallen asleep face-first on top of the recipe cards I was working on that were strewn out across the table. The late nights are catching up to me, but our conflicting schedules don’t allow for much time otherwise. Knowing there generally aren’t any cops between my house and the pub, I speed the whole way, trying to get there before Winter is out and headed to the bus stop. I never responded to her earlier text when she told me I didn’t need to pick her up. I figured the best thing was to just show up, so she couldn’t tell me not to come. The last thing I want is for her to think I bailed. She’s skittish enough, and I don’t want to do anything to exacerbate that.

  I pull into the parking lot just as the back door bangs open. Winter walks out with Annette and another girl I’ve seen a few times. I watch as they step into the parking lot, talking as they go. Before they’ve even taken three steps, a guy comes to the doorway, the lights from the bar illuminating him from behind. In the darkness, I can’t make out his face. I narrow my eyes as I watch him watching the three women walk toward their cars, or in the case of Winter, toward nothing or no one. I’d like to think he’s doing it to look out for them, make sure they get to their cars safely, but in all the times I’ve been back here to pick up Winter, I’ve never once seen him, and something uneasy churns in my gut.

  Winter glances to the spot I usually wait at, and I can see the moment she realizes I’m not there, her face falling. Before she can turn to go, I step out of my car. As she turns back around to head to the bus stop, she sees me and freezes mid-step. After only a moment’s hesitation, she changes her trajectory and walks toward me. I keep my eyes on her until she’s in front of me, stopping on the other side of my opened door. Glancing over her shoulder, I see the guy still in the doorway and my apprehension increases.

  “I told you that you didn’t need to come.”

  I shrug, tilting my head toward the other side of the car, gesturing her that way. “You know me well enough by now to know I don’t listen. Go get in. I’ll give you a ride.”

  She smiles, just barely, and shakes her head, but makes her way over. With a quick yank, she pulls open the car door and slides in, shutting the door just as I duck into my seat.

  “You know, I did this by myself for more than a year before you came along.” Her voice is teasing, but I hear an edge of discomfort skirting along the fringe.

  “I know. And I hate the thought of it.” I lean in, not giving her a chance to respond, and I capture her mouth in a kiss. Even as her tongue brushes against my lips, I feel eyes on us, and I pull back to glance out the windshield toward the restaurant.

  “Who is that?” I ask with a tip of my head.

  She turns to look, squinting into the darkness. “Randy, I think.”

  “Your boss?” She hums in confirmation, and I continue, “Does he always make sure you guys get to your cars okay?”

  Snorting a laugh, she eases back into her seat and buckles her seat belt. “No, never. I don’t know what his deal is tonight.”

  While she doesn’t seem worried about it, I can’t shake the uneasy feeling I get as he continues to stare at us. Wanting to get her home and away from him as quickly as possible, I shift into gear and drive us toward her apartment.

  After we’ve driven a couple blocks in silence, she says, “So this is your plan, then?”

  I glance at her before looking out the windshield again. “What?”

  “Picking me up every night after work . . .”

  “Why not?”

  She doesn’t say anything for a few moments, and when I look over at her, she’s already staring at me. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Again, why not?”

  “Cade . . .” She sighs my name, and I can tell she’s frustrated, but my mind goes places it definitely shouldn’t go. Like what else I could do to make her say my name like that. “Am I just, like, a project or something?”

  Brow furrowed, I pull up in front of her building, parking before I look over at her. “What do you mean, a project?”

  “You know, help the girl who’s all by herself and can barely afford groceries, let alone a car?”

  I’m waiting for a trace of sarcasm to pop up, a hint of a smile to play at her lips, but she shows none of that. Her eyes are serious, the corner of her mouth dipping in slightly. She’s biting the inside of her cheek again, her one dead giveaway for her nerves or uncertainty.

  Sighing, I shut off the car, then turn to face her. “Winter . . . anyone who thinks of you as some helpless girl is obviously an idiot who hasn’t spent more than five minutes with you. I do this because I want to. Because I like you. Because even though this”—I gesture between us with my hand—“is still new, the thought of anything happening to you drives me fucking crazy.”

  I reach out, brushing the hair back from her face, tracing my thumb down her cheek to her jaw. “Why is it so hard for you to let me be there for you?” I don’t even realize how badly I want her answer until I ask the question. I want her to open up to me, even just a little.

  She doesn’t say anything as she looks at me, and not for the first time, I wonder who she lets in. Who looks out for her—if anyone does. She lives in a shitty apartment in a shitty part of town, busts her ass to get good grades, and works every minute she can just to afford food. Everything about her life tells me she’s alone. When I told her my parents passed away, she didn’t say anything. Didn’t commiserate with me or share her own experience. If they aren’t dead, where they hell are they?

  Her quiet voice cuts through my thoughts. “It just is. I’m not used to all this.”

  “Well, you better get used to it. I’m not going anywhere unless you kick my ass out.”

  The uncertainty in her eyes kills me, so I lean in, capturing her mouth with mine, sweeping my tongue across the seam of her lips until she opens to me. I move to get closer to her, but we’re in an awkward position with the center console between us. Without breaking the kiss, I reach down and grasp her hips, tugging her up and over the console until she’s sprawled across my lap, her knees on either side of me. A soft moan comes from her when she settles flush against me, against where I’m hard and aching for her.

  I slide my hands up the outside of her thighs and over the curve of her hips until I slip under the material of her shirt, finding miles of smooth skin underneath. Going slow, I brush against her stomach, stopping for a minute when I get to
the band of her bra. When she doesn’t tell me to stop, I continue, bringing my hand up to cup her through the lace covering her breasts. She gasps when I run my thumb over the hard peak waiting for me, then moans when I lift her shirt up just far enough to expose the front of her to me. I dip my head, taking a nipple in my mouth through her bra. With my other hand at the small of her back, I press her as close to me as I can get. I want to feel all of her—every fucking inch of her skin against mine, against my lips and my tongue. But not here. Not in a car in the middle of the street.

  I slow my kisses, trailing them over the tops of her breasts, pulling down her shirt and tilting her face to mine as I press my lips to hers softly. “I need to leave.”

  She shakes her head, her mouth brushing against mine as she does so. “No, not yet.”

  “Yes, now. If I don’t—” I groan as she shifts in my lap, my hands squeezing her hips to still her. Closing my eyes, I swallow and start again, “If I don’t, this is going to go further than either of us expected.”

  She breathes deep, her eyes fluttering closed. “Right now, I’m not sure I care.” And, Jesus Christ, the raspy timbre of her voice nearly sets me off again, and I have to remove my hands from her completely to get a fucking grip.

  My voice is too low, too rough when I respond, and I’m too far gone to censor my words. “As much as I’d like that, when I take you for the first time, it’s not going to be in a goddamn car like we’re a couple of sixteen-year-olds sneaking around.”

  She leans into me, her hands resting against my chest, and if she shifts her hips once more, I’m going to have a huge problem on my hands. Or in my pants, at least. “Oh, really? Where will it be?”

  “My bed, your bed, the shower, the living room floor . . .” I trail off, my head back against the seat as I peer at her through half-lowered eyelids.

  “Thought about this, have you?”

  “Once or twice.”

  She traces unknown designs on my chest through my T-shirt as I take a moment to just stare at her. Her dark hair is a wild mess, thanks to my restless fingers. Her already pouty lips are red and full from my hungry mouth, her cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

  I remember the first night I saw her in the pub. It seems like forever ago I thought her eyes were dead, only coming to life with a fire in them at her anger. But now . . .

  Now they’re filled with a brightness I’ve never seen before. And if I thought seeing the fire in her eyes from that first night was amazing, it has absolutely nothing on seeing the light in them now.

  I always want to put that light in her eyes.

  FOURTEEN

  winter

  I’m lost in miles of code, my focus completely on the laptop in front of me. Students shuffle around me in the library, but with my earbuds in, I pay them no attention. My classes are getting more demanding, and I’m not sure if that’s a result of this being the last quarter of my final year and the mounting pressure, or of the fact that I’ve been spending more and more time with Cade and less and less time on homework.

  I’ve got an hour until I have to be at work, and I’m hoping to get caught up enough that I don’t need to crack open my computer at 1 a.m. when I get home. My nights have become later and later—or earlier and earlier, depending on how you look at it—and it’s showing in my gradually declining grades for my early classes.

  I’m so lost in my work, I don’t notice the person in front of me until a hand comes into my line of sight, knuckles rapping on the table. I jump, yanking the headphones out of my ears as I look up. I recognize the guy as Cade’s friend from that first night at the pub. The one I gave the money to, along with a handful of colorful words.

  “Hey, Winter, right?”

  “Yeah, hi.”

  “I’m Jason. I figured I should come over and introduce myself since the only time we really met was when you were yelling at me to tell my best friend to fuck off.” He grins, pulling out the chair across from me without asking, and plops into it, his backpack dropped on the floor by his feet.

  I cringe, offering him an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that.”

  He shrugs, leaning back in his chair as he stretches his long legs out underneath the table, his arms crossed against his chest. “Not the first time someone’s wanted to tell Cade off. Not even the first time someone’s done it through me. He can be a little . . . overbearing.”

  I think back to the first night we met when he swooped in without me asking for help, how he’s taken it upon himself to give me rides whether I want them or not, how he coaxed me into agreeing to try this whole dating thing. “That’s putting it lightly.”

  His mouth lifts on one side as he studies me. “Something tells me you can handle him.”

  I return his look, settling back in my chair. “You’re probably right. Holding my own’s never been a problem.”

  His smile grows until it takes over his whole face. “I can see that.”

  Now that I’m not mad enough to spit nails, I take a minute to look him over. His brown hair is perfectly mussed—the kind of style that looks like he just rolled out of bed, but in actuality probably took him twenty minutes to perfect. His eyes are dark, lashes darker, and his smile is disarming, somehow both boyish and naughty. His body language is open and friendly. Charisma practically pours off him.

  “Sorry if I made things difficult between you and the girl you were with that day.”

  His eyebrows lift, a smirk settling on his lips. “You definitely didn’t. In fact, you might have helped.”

  I roll my eyes, shaking my head, but I can’t stop the smile from tugging at the sides of my mouth. “Figures.”

  “I’ll still take the numbers of any of your pretty single friends, though.”

  A laugh slips out of me before I can contain it as I stare at him in disbelief. When he doesn’t crack a smile, I say, “You can’t be serious.”

  “Hell yeah I am.”

  “Isn’t this something you should be asking Cade for?”

  “Please, that jackass hasn’t been my wingman in years. I’m just out here, floundering all by myself.”

  “I somehow doubt that.”

  “Okay, you’re right. But I am all by myself because he’s absolutely useless. Now more than ever because he’s so wrapped up in you, he doesn’t even pay attention to other girls anymore.”

  My stomach flips and squeezes, and I don’t know what to do with all these conflicting emotions constantly battling inside me.

  Jason continues rambling, “So really, the least you can do for taking all his attention is toss me a bone.”

  “Has anyone ever told you you’re a little bit of a pig?”

  “A time or two, Winter. A time or two.” He stands, his grin showing I didn’t offend him in the least. “I’ll let you get back to”—he leans forward, looking at my screen before he makes a face—“advanced scripting. Had that last semester. I feel your pain.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “I’m sure I’ll see you around. Keep him on his toes.” He winks, grabs his bag from the floor, and saunters off. As he goes, I notice a handful of girls watching him, their expressions ranging from mildly interested to looks so thinly veiled in their want, I wouldn’t be surprised if they left a trail of clothes through the library just for a chance with him. No wonder he’s so full of himself.

  Full of himself and bluntly honest, if my instincts aren’t leading me astray. Our conversation plays on a loop in my mind until I realize I’m going to be late if I don’t get moving. I shove everything in my bag as I think about what he said . . . how Cade’s completely preoccupied with me. I’ve never had someone’s undivided attention like he’s given me. I’m worried I’m getting wrapped up in it, consumed by it, and while the attention often makes this warmth spread through my body, it’s also absolutely, completely terrifying.

  cade

  “Cade, where are my pesto fries?” the head chef for this week yells from his workstation, irritation ringing loud and clear in the ton
e of his voice.

  “I’ve got them. Give me two minutes.”

  “I don’t have two goddamn minutes! Your ass is dragging tonight, and you’re bringing everyone else down with you. Get your shit together!”

  I curse under my breath, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my sleeve. I focus on plating and garnishing the fries, trying to block out the murmurs of frustration from my classmates and fellow workers at the bistro. Even though this is technically a class and not a job, regardless of the fact that people pay to eat our food in the restaurant, I’ve always treated it as though I’m getting paid to be here in the kitchen. Every week, every rotation, I act as though this is my job, that it’s my career. Because it will be. And when it is, the executive chef isn’t going to wait around for me to get my head in the game. I’ll get fired if I can’t pull my own weight.

  That propels me faster, and I get the plates out in record time. I force thoughts of Winter to the back of my mind, knowing that’s what’s slowing me down. Since the first night I saw her over a month ago, I’ve been slipping incrementally, and in the last week, I’ve stopped slipping and instead have fallen straight over a fucking cliff. I need to find a way to compartmentalize everything or I’m going to fail this class. And it would be more than failing a class. It could fuck up my entire career if I can’t get a recommendation from this.

  The smart thing to do would be to call this thing with Winter off. To end it now before we get too involved, too deep. The only problem is I’m scared of how deep I already am. She takes up nearly every waking thought. She’s seeped into my life, her presence bleeding into everything I do, showing up everywhere I go.

  I should be focusing on making an outstanding portfolio to show prospective employers, perfecting my techniques, learning everything I can from my mentor. I need to be garnering contacts in the industry, polishing my attributes, working on my hindrances. Graduation is in four weeks, and I planned to have a dozen possible prospects already lined up. As of now, I have none.

  And while I know what I should do, I just can’t bring myself to. Forget the fact that she’s wormed her way so far under my skin I can’t get her out . . . I can’t do it to her. Even though she’s told me nearly nothing about her childhood, it’s obvious she’s been left on her own. In what capacity, I have no idea. But it doesn’t matter. Whether she’s been abandoned completely or just financially, I can’t leave her, too. Not after getting to know her. Not after getting her to let me in, little by little. I can’t . . . not when there’s so much more of her I want to learn.