Of Frost & Cinder (Old Version)

Shiver

Chapter Three:

The bell above the frosted door jingles six times when Pete and I enter the café.

Voices are at a medium volume, giving way to the obnoxious song that is Jingle Bells sung by a choir of electronic dogs.

Pete follows close behind me as we weave around the tall, round tables fit for two. Each has an assortment of candles burning, and with each step we get a scent of pine or cinnamon or spiced vanilla.

Christmas lights in the shape of icicles drip from the ceiling like a circus tent, and we claim the table in the middle.

"So, what are you using for your audition?" Pete asks when he gets back from ordering his drink, breaking my hard gaze at the stone between my fingers.

It's glistening under the hanging lights, opalescent in sheen and color.

"I'm not," I say, turning over the necklace in my palms, occasionally brushing along the silver vectors. Still, whenever my skin connects with the stone, something strong ripples through me. I can't say exactly what it is, but it feels strange. It feels good.

"What do you mean you're not auditioning? You haven't shut up about this play since it was announced in September."

"I'm just not, okay? Drop it."

Pete winces and resorts to silence while clogging his decaffeinated coffee full of artificial sugar.

"Where do you think your mom got this?"

He scans over the stone in my hands with a quick flick of lashes, and then shrugs, "I don't know. She has lots of junk, hence the junk sale we were slaving over."

"Slaving, huh?" I didn't know that consisted of comfortably sitting and accepting money for an hour.

"Well, whatever your mom says, I'm keeping this necklace," I've already clasped it around my neck by the time I finish the sentence.

An electric wave hits my chest when the cold stone touches my skin. The sensation is like a faint tingle, a warmth, and it feels incredible.

"What's with the face? You look creepy," Pete breaks in. He then takes a sip of coffee and immediately scrunches his nose, "Shoot, I forgot the cinnamon. I'll be right back."

Pete's gone in a second and I take this opportunity to do some intense ogling over the stone. I want to know everything about it. What it's called, what it's made of, and where it came from.

How could something so beautiful, be so easily discarded?

The bell jangles above the door once more and a breeze of winter licks my spine.

The brunette woman across the way waves her hand at the door and for some reason—call it natural curiosity—I follow the trail that her gaze leaves.

Wide eyes, sharper and colder than the ice I skate on, meet mine and instantly, we freeze.

He remains in the doorframe, hand gripping the metal bar across the glass pane. His only gesture that changes in the minute we stare are his dark eyebrows, hardening into slanted lines that shadow his lids.

He looks older, than the boys my age, rougher almost. It's written in his straining jaw, his unkept hair. It's even in the way he is standing now, with the sort of discomforting intensity that usually screams bad news.

"Hey, shut the door, man," says the kid on his laptop, the one subject to the freezing air blowing into the shop.

The man's face twists into something resembling irritation, and then his body shifts forward when the door smacks shut.