Frost

20 Questions

"So, where were you going when I found you all... disoriented?" he questioned. He leaned back slightly, his casual posture contrasting with the sharp, inquisitive light in his eyes.

"I was going to a friend's for the night," I eyed him cautiously, my grip tightening on the edge of the table. I tried to sound certain, but the memory of the freezing wind and the black ice felt a million miles away from this warm, syrupy kitchen.

"You seemed pretty pissed off," he said, reaching for the syrup and silverware. He set them onto the table with a rhythmic clatter before sliding into the chair directly across from me. His eyes studied me intently, moving with focus as he forked a pancake onto his plate and began drizzling a slow, thick stream of syrup over it. "Why? If you don't mind telling, I mean. You didn't exactly look like a girl out for a casual midnight stroll."

I shifted a little in my seat, the movement feeling heavy and awkward as I retrieved a decently sized pancake for myself. J lifted the syrup container and passed it my way. I automatically wrapped my fingers around it, the plastic still warm from his touch, and responded. "Um, just a little upset with my parents was all. Things got a little heated, and I needed to get out before I lost my mind."

He nodded in understandment, a small, knowing hum vibrating in his throat as he rose from the table once again. I began to eat away at my pancake, the sweetness hitting my tongue and triggering a sudden, overwhelming realization of just how hungry I must’ve been. My stomach practically growled in gratitude. Meanwhile, he hunched over, disappearing partially into the depths of his large, silver fridge.

"What do you wanna drink?" His voice bellowed from inside of it, muffled by the hum of the appliance. "I have Pepsi, Sprite, some orange juice, apple juice... and... Patrón if you're into that sort of thing."

My eyes widened a bit, my fork pausing halfway to my mouth. "Alcohol? But you're not even legal!"

He stood up straight, clutching a carton of juice, and turned his head to look at me with a flash of genuine amusement in his tone. "Don't talk to me about illegal activities when you're the one running from the police, Elena."

He had me on that one.

The laughter that escaped my lips at that moment was inevitable, a short, sharp burst of sound that helped break the lingering tension. "Touché. Orange juice, please."

"Good choice," he grinned as he brought a gallon of it to the table, moving with a fluid, easy grace. "I'm getting the same thing. Keeps the scurvy away."

As he poured our glasses, the liquid splashing softly against the ice, I noticed a few distinctive things about him. He had little stubbles of hair above his upper lip and sprinkled about his chin. It looked like a failed attempt of growing out a beard and mustache, the kind of scruff that was just beginning to find its way. His hair, although messy, appeared softly tousled about his head as if he’d just rolled out of bed or spent too much time running his hands through it. He also had a slight crookedness to his smile—a tug at one corner of his mouth—that made my stomach churn in a way it quite hadn't in a while.

"Voila!" That same crooked grin spread across his lips as he slid the glass toward me.

"Thank you," I murmured, shaking my head at his childish liveliness. It was hard to reconcile this playful boy with the dark, glowing-eyed figure from my memories.

After he finished his first pancake, clearing the plate with efficient speed, he leaned forward and gazed at me with wide, fascinated eyes. "So, Elena," he cleared his throat, his tone turning slightly more investigative. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"Ah," he murmured, holding his glass to his mouth and taking a long swig. "You're not legal yet. So technically you shouldn't be here, you know. I could get in trouble for harboring a runaway minor." Although the words should have been said in a serious tone, he had a wicked little grin on his lips that told me he wasn't worried about the law in the slightest. Besides, he was barely a year my senior.

"Yet you have a bottle of Patrón in your fridge," I countered, gesturing toward the kitchen.

"Touché." He let out a soft chuckle, conceding the point. "But, anyway, when will you actually be eighteen?"

I couldn't help but wonder why this was such interesting information to him, but I merely uttered, "My birthday is January 21st."

"Next month. You're a winter baby," he noted, his gaze never leaving mine.

"Born and bred."

"Siblings?"

"Nope. Just me, myself, and I."

"Parents married?"

"I live—well, lived, with my mom and her boyfriend. I never knew who my real dad was. And whenever I try and ask my mom about it she avoids the question or just shuts down on me. Usually, it ends in a fight, which is how I ended up on your ice patch." I recoiled slightly at the information I’d just blurted out freely to a stranger. He didn’t seem phased by the statement and continued to gaze at me intently, seeming to forget about his pancake.

"Boyfriend?"

I hesitated on this one, eyeing him in suspicion and shock. The transition from my family history to my romantic life took me off guard. However, his voice came out just as naturally as if he had asked my favorite color, his expression remaining perfectly neutral.

What the hell is this kid getting to here?

Once he realized I was not responding, his brow furrowed slightly and he continued. "Or girlfriend... sorry. I shouldn't assume."

"NO." My eyes widened a little and I muffled a little giggle at his sudden awkwardness. "I don't have a boyfriend. Too much to handle already. Between my mom and just trying to survive school, a relationship is the last thing on my radar."

"I see," he nodded, studying my face as if he were memorizing every line and contour. "Well, Elena, now that I know your entire f*******: profile, do you want to go somewhere? I can't imagine you want to sit in this kitchen all day."

"Sorry," I muttered quietly, glancing away from his piercing irises. The luxury of the house was starting to feel heavy again. "If you don't mind, I would like to go to my friend's house now. I'm sure he's worried about me. I was supposed to be there hours ago."

"He?" His eyebrows wiggled a little, a teasing glint returning to his eyes. "Oulala."

I snorted, the sound unladylike but honest. "He's the gayest guy you'll ever meet. He might just like you, though. You're exactly his type."

J flinched slightly as if the idea were a physical blow, clearly embarrassed that he’d assumed yet again. “Oh. Nevermind the oulala thing, then. But of course I can take you there. A deal's a deal."

Quicker than I thought possible, he was gathering things from the table, placing items in their appropriate places with a speed that bordered on unnatural. He raced down the stairs although I had not even seen him go upstairs to begin with. The movement happened in the blink of an eye, and he emerged with my suitcase in his arms. With a cheery smile plastered onto his lips, he handed it off to me. My hand reached to wrap around the suitcase handle so I could wheel it around toward the door. However, I made the mistake of wrapping my fingers atop his hand instead.

That was the moment I knew something was wrong.