Winter Heat

by Kennedy Fox

  Adeline half-smiles at me, then shrugs. I shrug back.

  Then I take her hand, pull her in, and kiss her again.

  Without an audience, it deepens instantly: mouths open, bodies together. I flatten my hand against the small of her back, the other laced through her hair as she presses against me.

  Finally, we end the kiss, pull back, breathe, and thank God for that because these pants are about thirty seconds away from becoming very family unfriendly.

  I swallow hard.

  “Adeline,” I murmur, and I’m about to ask something like why are you kissing me like this when you wouldn’t even give me your real phone number, but then I hear my mom’s voice from upstairs.

  “Grady!” she calls. “Come pick your sweater!”

  “I’ll be back,” I tell her, instead, and let her go.

  “Have fun,” she says, and she still sounds breathless.

  I head upstairs, a swirl of desire and confusion.

  I get the snowman sweater, which only plays one song: Frosty the Snowman, obviously. When I come back down Adeline is playing a Christmas-themed version of Candyland with Bryce and Sasha, both of whom are flagrantly cheating.

  She just laughs and lets them get away with it.

  “This is the first time I’ve seen Sasha smile like that,” my mom says, handing me a salad to toss. “She’s a serious kid.”

  There’s a squeal of laughter from the next room, and my mom looks over. To be sure, it’s Sasha, both hands over her mouth as she giggles.

  My mom just raises both eyebrows at me.

  “I think she might be a keeper,” she says, and then steps over to the stove.

  Salad still in my hands, I look over at where Adeline and the kids are playing. She’s sitting on the floor, laughing right along with them. When her head is turned, Bryce reaches toward her and a second later, I hear the strains of Santa Claus is Coming to Town.

  Adeline clenches both fists in the air, shouts, “Noooooo!” and both kids dissolve into giggles.

  I turn away, close my eyes, and clench my jaw, because I’m going to feel like a total asshole when I lie to my family about our breakup.

  Dinner is, of course, chaos. Sugared-up kids don’t have great manners at the best of times, and suffice it to say that these particular kids haven’t always been taught the ins and outs of etiquette.

  Therefore, there’s a lot of, “Bryce, please use a fork,” and “Taylor, mashed potatoes are not an artistic medium,” and “Ryan, if you don’t like something, please spit it into the trash, not onto the table.”

  Even so, Adeline seems like she’s having a great time. She talks gardening with my mom and history-themed day trips with my dad, which means that I feel progressively worse and worse about the lie.

  When dinner’s over, they remember the snow, which does nothing to calm the chaos. The four kids jump up and down and beg and plead with my parents to go out and run around in it, even though it’s already past their bedtime.

  They give in. Snowsuits are donned. Some fit and some are too big, and the boots are the same way because fostering kids means never quite being fully prepared, but doing your best anyway.

  After they spill into the back yard, my dad lumbering after them, I turn to Adeline.

  “You wanna go out there?” I ask.

  “No,” she says, and laughs. “I’ve had enough snow for today, thanks.”

  “That’s all right,” calls my mom. “We can start on the eggnog. You two want rum in yours?”

  We exchange a quick look.

  “No thanks,” I tell my mom. “I’ve still gotta drive Adeline back home.”

  My mom turns around and gives me a horrified look.

  “You can drive in this,” she says in a tone that expects no argument.

  “I’ve got the redneck mobile,” I argue anyway.

  “Sweetheart, you know Burnley County only has one snowplow and I am certain that Jim Trelson is already three sheets to the wind on Christmas cheer,” she says. “There’s no way anything is getting cleared tonight.”

  “It’s got very big tires,” I remind her.

  She grabs two glasses of eggnog and brings them over.

  “Adeline, please, I’d be more than happy for you to stay the night,” she says. “We’ve got plenty of space, and Grady always makes his special waffles on Christmas morning.”

  There’s total silence in the house, the only sound the shrieking of the kids outside. Adeline just looks at me, her face unreadable.

  “Belgian waffles,” I say, hoping she’s tempted. “With strawberries and whipped cream. They’ll knock your socks off.”

  I know prolonging the lie is the worst thing I could do right now, but I can’t stop myself. I want her to stay. Despite the whole phone number for the dump thing.

  “Not to mention my mom’s sausage biscuits,” I coax. “C’mon.”

  “I don’t want to inconvenience you,” she tells my mom.

  I grin because I’ve won.

  “Absolutely not!” my mom says. “It’s no inconvenience at all, the back house is already all made up because you never know who’ll drop by for Christmas. Here, have a tipple and I’ll go grab you something to sleep in.”

  My mom pours rum into our eggnog, corks it, and then she’s gone.

  Adeline turns to me.

  “Is that okay?” she asks, sipping. “She’s right about the roads, I’m sure they’ve only gotten worse since we got here.”

  “Of course it’s okay,” I tell her. “Cheers.”

  We clink our glasses together and I take a sip: sweet and cinnamon-y, the slight bite of rum.

  “It’s not weird?” she asks.

  “The back house has bunk beds,” I tell her, and she laughs. “What?”

  “Just that your mom’s having us sleep in bunk beds,” she says. “Classic mom.”

  “Well, there’s two rooms,” I say. “One’s got a queen, one’s got two bunk beds. I had a lot of sleepovers there as a kid.”

  “Ah,” she says, and I swear she blushes again.

  When the kids come back inside, they pile their snow stuff by the door, troop upstairs, and get into pajamas. My parents, being my parents, obviously got them all matching Christmas pajamas.

  It’s really, really adorable.

  Once my mom’s done taking pictures, they pile onto the couch and I read them The Night Before Christmas. Then they demand more, so I read them The Polar Express, and then they beg so I finish it off with How The Grinch Stole Christmas, buried under a pile of half-asleep children.

  Finally, my parents herd them back upstairs and before I know it, Adeline and I are together on the couch.

  “How do your parents do this?” she asks, tilting her head against the back. “I’ve been here for a couple of hours and I’m exhausted.”

  “I have no idea,” I say, honestly. “They love it, though. My house was always like this growing up, too.”

  “There’s so much chaos,” she says.

  The floorboards above us creak. It sounds like someone jumps off a bed.

  “You’re sure you want to stay over?” I ask.

  “I’ve got nowhere to be,” Adeline says.

  “I can still take you back —”

  “Do you want me gone?” she asks.

  “No,” I say, honestly. Maybe too honestly. “I want you to stay.”

  She shifts on the couch, pulls one foot beneath her, and now her knee is touching my leg.

  “Then quit asking,” she says.

  Chapter Seven

  ADELINE

  Our eyes lock. I hold my breath. Grady’s eyes flick to my lips, back up to my eyes, his leg shifting against my knee.

  Then we’re kissing again.

  I don’t know who made the first move, but his mouth is back on mine, his hand in my hair. His mouth is firm and soft and hot, and I press myself against him as his slight stubble scrapes along my chin.

  It’s too hot under this sweater, and I paw at his, trying to fee
l his body underneath. I pull my other foot onto the couch, drape my leg across his lap, sit up straighter.

  Suddenly he pulls at my knee and then I’m straddling him, right there on his parents’ couch, next to a giant pile of presents for children. Feet run across the floorboards above and we both pretend not to hear as I also pretend not to notice his erection.

  That is, I pretend until he grabs my ass and pulls me against it, and then I roll my hips and bite his lower lip and his fingers dig even harder into me.

  I nearly have a heart attack when Frosty the Snowman starts playing, sitting up with one hand on his chest, looking around to see who caught us.

  Then I remember. Grady’s laughing, making a face, and I relax.

  “Right,” I say.

  “Right,” he says, and reaches for me again.

  “Yeah, I’ll go grab it,” his dad’s voice says at the top of the stairs. “Everybody hold your horses.”

  Adult-sized feet descend.

  I practically leap off of Grady, land two feet away, and prop my elbow on the back of the couch in the most casual pose I can muster.

  Just as casually, Grady plops a throw pillow on his lap.

  “Hey, kids,” Mitch says as he passes by us. “Just grabbing that small light-up tree.”

  He grabs the tree, then heads back upstairs. I look over at Grady, who’s still got the pillow on his lap, and swallow hard.

  I remind myself that he didn’t call and that I’m probably never going to see his wonderful family again.

  “Let’s go do the dishes,” I suggest.

  “I think that’s a good idea,” he agrees.

  When his parents come downstairs, they’re delighted to discover us cleaning the kitchen. Afterward we have more eggnog, and then the four of us play gin rummy for an hour.

  I lose. Badly. Even though Patty keeps showing me her cards and trying to help me cheat. Even though, after several rounds, Mitch also starts helping me cheat.

  In short, it’s a great time. I didn’t think I’d be cheating at rummy on Christmas Eve, but here I am, enjoying the hell out of it. Grady’s parents are great. Their foster kids are great. Their house is great.

  The only thing not great is Grady, who told the lie that this great time is built on and as the night gets later, I’m increasingly annoyed about it.

  I’m never going to see Patty and Mitch and their foster kids again, and it’s his fault. He could’ve just called me, but instead of that, we’ve now run some weird gauntlet where he told them I’m his girlfriend, and presumably in a week he’ll tell them we’ve broken up and I’ll seem like the asshole.

  But I’m not the asshole, he’s the asshole, and this is all stupid.

  When we finally say goodnight to his parents, his mom hands me a flannel nightgown and a toothbrush.

  “Since I’m sure you didn’t bring anything,” she says. “There’s already toothpaste in the bathroom.”

  I thank her, pull my coat on, and we walk into the back yard, our shoes crunching across snow. Neither of us says anything. I’m silent because I’m busy thinking this is all built on a lie, and God knows what Grady’s thinking.

  The backhouse used to be some sort of farm outbuilding, I think, but it’s been completely redone into a two-bedroom cabin with a lit wood stove and a small bathroom. The main room has a wood-framed queen bed piled high with quilts.

  The other bedroom has four bunk beds, and all four have bare mattresses. Apparently Patty’s one of those realistic, pragmatic moms I’ve head so much about.

  Grady looks speculatively as the nice, warm queen bed, but all I can think about is how nice his parents are and how annoyed I am at him for the weird carnival sideshow that was tonight.

  “I’ll sleep in here,” I say, walking past him for the bunk bed. “Where are the blankets?”

  “Take the big bed, I’ll sleep on a bunk,” he says.

  “I don’t want the big bed, I want a little bed,” I say. “It’s your parents’ house, you should take —”

  “Right, you’re a guest,” he says.

  We stare at each other for a long moment.

  “You couldn’t have just taken me home?” I finally ask.

  “You said you wanted to stay!” he says, his voice rising a few notches.

  “Before we even got here,” I say, lowering my own voice. “It wouldn’t have taken that long, and I could be sleeping in my own bed right now and you wouldn’t have to lie to your parents.”

  “Maybe I should have left you there and let you call Triple A,” he hisses.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have run me off the road!”

  Grady closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

  “I didn’t run you off the road,” he says slowly, anger flaring behind his eyes. “If you go up a snow-covered hill at two miles per hour, it’s not gonna go well.”

  “I wouldn’t have been going two miles per hour if some asshole in the world’s dumbest truck hadn’t been honking and flashing his lights behind me.”

  Grady gives me a long, flat look, his jaw working.

  Finally, he speaks.

  “Adeline, you’re a jerk, you know that?” he says. “Good night.”

  With that, he heads into the bunk bed room and closes the door.

  What the hell? He sticks his tongue down my throat at a wedding, doesn’t call me, runs me off the road, lies to his very nice parents about us, and I’m the jerk?

  I flip off the closed door, then stomp to the bathroom where I brush my teeth and change into the flannel nightgown that Patty provided.

  The nightgown both makes me feel a little better about the situation and explains why Patty doesn’t mind us sharing a bed. It’s the least sexy garment I’ve ever put on, and I’ve worn hospital gown.

  It’s boxy, with puffy sleeves, a high neck, and several rows of frills coming to a V over the chest. It’s seafoam green with tiny orange flowers all over it, and the whole thing really feels like the worst parts of 1860s fashion met the worst parts of 1960s fashion.

  When I head back into the bedroom, Grady is there, going through a closet and coming out empty-handed. Then he goes through a dresser, then another dresser, and finally a big plastic box under the bed.

  Finally, he pulls out a fleece blanket from the box, puts the box away, and walks toward the bunk bed room. He’s wearing pajama pants with reindeer heads on them and the white undershirt, and even though he just called me a jerk, that blanket’s not very big.

  Also, his butt looks great in those pajama pants. Yeah, I notice.

  “Take a quilt,” I tell him. “There’s an extra on the bed.”

  “You’re gonna need that,” he says, fleece blanket over his shoulder.

  “Grady.”

  “Good night, Adeline,” he tells me, and shuts the door.

  I flip it off again. Fine. Fine. I tried. He can freeze to death.

  I turn off the lights in the main room, get into the big, warm bed, and close my eyes.

  And then I lie there, eyes closed, for a very long time. Long enough to start feeling guilty that he’s in there, probably very cold, and I’m out here being toasty warm.

  I roll over. Sleep doesn’t come.

  Finally, I open my eyes and sigh at the ceiling.

  Then I get out of the bed, walk over to the door, and knock.

  Chapter Eight

  GRADY

  Goddamn, it’s cold. I’ve got no heater and one inadequate blanket, and it’s still snowing outside.

  In theory, I could just walk back to my parents’ house and sleep in one of those beds, but then I’d have to explain why I was there and sooner or later I’m sure I’d wind up telling my mom the whole awful truth, and I think maybe I’d rather lose a couple toes to frostbite.

  Which, frankly, is starting to feel like a real possibility.

  Just as I’m rolling over to explore possibly warmer options, there’s a knock on the door. I roll onto my back, the blanket wrapped around me like a cocoon.

 
“Who is it?” I call.

  The door opens without an answer. Obviously, it’s Adeline.

  “Come sleep in the bed before you freeze to death,” she says, sounding annoyed.

  “I’d rather not,” I tell her, as reasonably as I can.

  “Grady,” she says. “For fuck’s sake.”

  “I’m fine, really,” I tell her.

  Instead of leaving, she stomps forward to the bed, grabs one ankle through the blanket, and tugs.

  “Hey!” I shout as my leg comes halfway off the bed.

  “I am not explaining to your extremely lovely parents that I’m not even your girlfriend over your blue, deceased corpse,” she hisses. “I don’t know what your deal is. You tell them we’re together. You talk me into the spending the night. We kiss twice and then you insist on sleeping in nothing but a kids’ blanket from Wal-Mart and then you tell me that I’m the jerk when you never bothered to call me after Violet and Eli’s wedding —”

  “What the fuck?”

  Now I’m sitting up, still cocooned, and Adeline drops my foot.

  “You never called!” she says, waving her arms in a truly ridiculous nightgown. “I thought we had a pretty good time and I gave you my number and then —”

  “You gave me the number for the county dump!” I shout, then press my lips together. Too loud.

  Adeline stares at me, baffled.

  “What?” she finally says.

  “I called Burnley County Sanitation services at least ten times,” I say, lowering my voice. “I thought maybe you worked there or something, but whoever answered the phone had never heard of an Adeline, so I finally just took the hint and gave up. Good joke, rejecting me by giving me that number.”

  “I didn’t give you the landfill’s number.”

  “Well, that’s who answered when I called it.”

  “I don’t even know the landfill’s number.”

  I finally stand, drop the blanket, and pace to where my phone is sitting on a small table.

  “Do you want me to call it right now?” I ask. “I’m real familiar with the voicemail greeting.”