February 5, 2013 – Word Prompt: Café. Plot Generator – Idea Completion: Snowed in.
. . .
The sleet has morphed into real snow, dusting the street and the yard in a thin carpet of white. It's the kind of snow that, if it keeps falling, will smother the landscape in a featherlight layer. The type I loved as a kid, because it was perfect for snow angels but not soggy enough to make decent snowballs, which meant I could flap my arms and legs in relative peace and not worry about being pegged in the face by Edward. The type of snow that will make everything – at least, everything outside – peacefully silent.
For late autumn, the Forks weather is unusually frigid. Idly, I find myself wondering if the unexpected cold snap – and apparent snowfall – will derail any of the plans for the Cullens' party. I feel faintly guilty at the cowardly, spiteful part of me that hopes so before pushing thoughts of the Cullens away altogether.
Flipping the switch on the nearly antique coffee machine, I lean against the thin strip of counter where it meets the sink, gazing out the window as I contemplate buying Charlie a single-serve brewer for Christmas. Think better of it, because experience tells me it'd gather dust in its box until it was too late to even exchange it for a top-tier fishing rod. As I watch the snow fall like a curtain of confetti, I'm transported back to snow days with no school and a different type of blanket entirely.
. . .
"I'll pick you up after my shift, okay?" Charlie is standing inside Esme and Carlisle's front door, snowflakes sitting on the shoulders of his leather police bomber like dandruff.
"It's no problem, Charlie," Esme assures him with the easy smile her son inherited. "I'm glad to have her. Goodness knows she'll probably keep Edward from driving me crazy today."
A gruff nod and my father leaves me with Esme, who says Edward is still asleep and gestures toward the kitchen. "Hot chocolate?" I nod as I follow her, watching as she makes the cocoa just the way Edward made it for me, stirring the milk in the small saucepan with a whisk, then topping each mug with a healthy dollop of whipped cream from a can before presenting one to me with a flourish. "Et voilá," she says. "Welcome to Café Cullen." I giggle as she takes the seat across from me. "So, hon. How are things? How's school? Any cute boys in your class?"
I flush. "No," I tell her honestly. Edward isn't in my grade, after all; he's a junior, and the sophomore boys are a bunch of trolls.
She smiles, sipping from her own mug. "I remember," she says, licking cream from her upper lip. "There's always a period where the girls are all beautiful young women and the boys are all…well. Boys."
My mind flashes again to her youngest son, and I want to tell her that I don't remember Edward ever having a troll phase, but for the first time I'm all too aware of the fact that she's Edward's mother and not mine, no matter how badly I wish I had a mom like Esme Cullen.
"Hot chocolate?" I whip around to see the boy of my speculative silence standing in the doorway, plaid pajama pants only slightly less wrinkled than his white t-shirt. "Why didn't you wake me?"
Esme rolls her eyes. "Go upstairs and get showered and dressed, and it'll be waiting for you when you get back down here." He glances at me and gives me a sleepy smile.
"Hey."
I smile, and suddenly he steps forward, reaching toward my face. I'm paralyzed by my own confusion, and his thumb swipes against the tip of my nose, coming away with a smear of whipped cream. I blush and he grins, sticking his thumb in his mouth and turning on a heel to head back upstairs.
When I face his mother again, she's watching me intently. It's the first time I realize that the mischievous smirk that regularly graces Edward's face is an expression he apparently gets his from his mother.
An hour later, the snow has blanketed everything – Charlie is stuck at the station, Jasper is stuck at a friend's house, Carlisle is stuck at the hospital, and I'm stuck with Edward while Esme makes dinner. Well, "stuck" isn't entirely accurate. We've apparently reverted to our eight-year-old selves, and are goofing off with flashlights in the blanket fort Edward made between the couch and the cherry wood entertainment unit.
"That looks like a penis," he tells me, and I'm grateful that the instant flame in my cheeks is probably invisible in the semidarkness of our cocoon.
"It's a rabbit," I say, elbowing him.
"A penis-shaped rabbit, maybe."
I elbow him again; this time, he catches my arm and rolls me, sending my flashlight clattering away. Before I realize his intent, he has me pinned beneath him, his mouth pressed gently to mine. He kisses me for a few seconds, closed mouth pressed to closed mouth, and when he pulls back to look at me, I can just make out his glittering eyes in the dim light of our blanket bubble.
I lick my lips, wondering idly if the lingering taste of chocolate is from him or me. "Why did you do that?"
There's a smile on his face I've never seen before. "Because I've wanted to for ages."
. . .