CHARLOTTE

I dig my nails into the steering wheel, annoyed because I've been in the car so long. This is definitely not how I want to spend winter break.

It's two days before Christmas, and I'm driving my SUV from college in Burlington to Stowe Mountain. Driving's not the best description, though. Inching. At slow speed. Because there's a massive storm underway. Measured in feet, not inches. A Nor'easter. Blizzard. Snowmageddon.

It's taken me three hours to drive forty miles, and I still have my doubts whether I'll actually make it.

Why can't my Florida family love palm trees and beaches in December? Why does it have to be snow and mountains every year?

The phone burbles over the car speaker. The dashboard screen flashes the word MOM, and I stab a button on the wheel.

"Mom. Oh My God. Mom. It's so bad here! The snow is crazy," I squeal.

"Are you driving?" A muffled series of thuds crackle over the speaker.

"Yeah. Still. It's been hours in this blizzard. A lifetime. You there?"

"Caleb!" Mom's voice is distant. She's calling for Dad. "Honey, she's driving. In that storm. She's a Florida girl in the wilderness in Vermont. She can't take this. Pull over, Charlotte."

"Mom, I'm barely going five miles an hour. There's nowhere to pull over other than a snow bank. I'm in a traffic jam on Route 100. I haven't seen this many cars here since that moose stood in the middle of the road that summer we came here for a yoga retreat."

"Sweetheart?" My dad's low rumble fills the car. "Are you sure you shouldn't stop for a bit? Get a bite to eat?"

"I'm fine, Dad. I'm close. Maybe the lodge at the resort will be open for dinner. When are you guys getting here?"

Mom makes a little strangled squeak—she and I have the same voice and make the same squealy noises. It's genetic, like how we're both height challenged and have curly dark hair and the need to wax our upper lips every ten days. We share some non-DNA traits, too. We're both vegetarians. We think reading should be an Olympic sport. She also instilled in me a love of champagne.

Dad's sigh is loud. "We're getting ready to head to the airport now, pumpkin. Supposed to meet Rafael, Justine, Uncle Colin, and Aunt Samantha. The pilot's not sure if he can get us there, though. The storm's that bad."

I let out an indignant noise. "Wouldn't it have been easier if I flew to Florida for Christmas? Maybe I could still get a flight."

"I doubt it."

My stomach tightens. "Wait. Back up. Rafael and Justine? Are their kids coming, too?"

I grunt as I listen to Mom and Dad's hushed voices. They're debating something and not answering my question, so I assume the answer is yes.

I've known Alex, Alba, and Oliver my whole life. Their parents are best friends with my parents. Alex is a handsome pro soccer player, and Alba is a smart as hell marine biologist. They're like the older siblings I never had as an only child.

And their youngest, Oliver, is the one who's closest in age to me. Two years older. He graduated with an economics degree from NYU, interned at a shipping company in Panama for a year, and now he's at MIT in Boston, getting an MBA. He's also the owner of the sleepiest, sexiest, most soulful near-black eyes I've ever seen.

I sigh out loud. We haven't seen each other since high school, and that fact hurts my heart a little.

Okay, more than a little. Starting in middle school, I'd harbored a massive, secret crush on Oliver Menendez. I'm not a shy person, but for reasons I've never figured out, I didn't possess the courage back then to tell him how I felt. At one point, I thought the feelings were mutual. But I was dead wrong.

So the possibility of seeing him leaves me cold. As cold as the ice on these roads.

"Mom? Dad?"

The phone on my parents' end makes a dull clunk. The sound of footsteps grows louder. "Charlotte? You there?" Dad asks in a hushed voice.

"I am, Dad."

"I'm in my office now. I had to step away from your mom."

Despite the blasting heat in the car, a chill goes through me. "Why? Do you have news?"

"I wanted to talk to you in private. About this vacation. We would have had you come to Florida, but your mother wanted everyone together. Vermont was her idea. You. Me. Uncle Colin. Her friends. Everyone that she loves." Dad's voice is low and shaky. "Let's make this the best Christmas ever. For her."

"Oh God, Dad. I didn't know." Now I'm almost in tears. Usually he organized our winter vacation because he was the skier in the family. Mom and I preferred to snooze, read, and drink cocoa by the closest fireplace.

"What did the doctor say?" I'd unsuccessfully tried to push this situation with Mom out of my mind for the last couple of weeks during finals.

"She hasn't called. Your mother's in a quiet panic, and I'm about to make another call to the specialist's office." I can tell Dad's patience has run out by the tense, strangled tone to his voice. He hates to wait. "Hopefully the doctor hasn't left for the holidays, and we'll have news before we leave."

I swallow a lump in my throat. "Wouldn't they have called if something was really wrong? I mean, she had that abnormal mammogram last month. They wouldn't make her wait, would they?"

"One would assume they'd act quickly if something was wrong." I hear the tapping of a pen on a hard surface, something he does when he's thoroughly annoyed. "I've done all I can to hustle the situation along. Look, I should go and call before we get on the road. You need to be careful while driving. I'm serious."

The car in front of me moves, and my foot feathers the gas pedal. "Now I feel like crap for whining. It's just that I want to see you and Mom. I have presents for you both. I bought Mom that dog woodcut print from Stephen Huneck I was telling you about. The one that says 'Love is Give and Take.' The one with the black labs. Can't you fly commercial? Wouldn't it be easier?"

"If the airports are closed, they're closed to commercial and private planes. We'll know our flight status soon enough. And you know Mom wants to bring Harry. So we have to take the jet."

Harry's her black lab. The inspiration for my gift. Next to my dad and me, the love of her life.

"We're doing the best we can, Charlotte. Trust me."

"I guess this means you'll get in late. Or tomorrow morning. Okay. I can deal with that. No problem. I'll just chill at the cabin and read. Watch TV."

Mom's voice comes into the background. "Caleb, what are you doing in here? Are you still talking to Charlotte?"

More clunks and shuffles of the phone crackle through the car. "Charlotte, did you get the lock code for the cabin? I emailed, but you didn't respond."

"I did, Mom. And I thought I responded."

"Perhaps you did; I've been distracted this week."

"No, I'm distracted," I say quickly, trying to distract her. Jesus. We're a jumble of distraction and awkwardness. If Mom's really sick, how are we going to cope?

The answer: we probably won't. Well, I won't, at least.

Dad murmurs something to Mom, words I can't quite make out. She giggles and says his name in a mock chiding way. He's probably grabbing her butt or something, trying to take her mind off everything.

Or he's just being affectionate. Even when they're not faced with a medical crisis or Snowmageddon, they're like newlyweds. It used to gross me out as a teenager. Now I think it's kind of cool that my parents still adore each other.

Although it does leave me gutted at times because I assume I'll never find a love like theirs.

"We'll call soon. As soon as we know when we're leaving, sweetheart. Take it easy while driving," Dad calls out.

"Drive safe, call when you get there," Mom coos.

I poke the button on the steering wheel. The road's opened up and traffic's gone. Three miles to go. Three miles to think about what will happen if Mom has cancer.

She's too young for this. Only fifty-six. A successful bookstore owner. Dad's soul mate. My best friend.

She needs to be there for me when I decide what to do with my life. When I get my first real job. When I get married. If I get married, which is unlikely given the crop of guys I've met these four years in college.

The thick feeling in the back of my throat is back, and when I pull onto the road into the ski resort, I shudder in a breath. When I park next to the big chalet, my cheeks are wet, and I wipe them with the sleeves of my sweater. I'm like Mom in one other way, too; I'm super emotional and have no problem with showing my feelings in public. Uncle Colin calls Mom and me "empaths." Aunt Sarah rolls her eyes and says we're both drama queens.

I hope Aunt Sarah, Aunt Laura, and their son are coming. I'd forgotten to ask about them. Sarah's my mom's best friend, and Laura's my dad's sister. They always make Mom laugh. I hope they're already here. The idea of having a proper cocktail, like an adult, with Aunt Sarah, lifts my mood a notch. She probably already has a whiskey-spiked hot toddy mixture warming in a crock-pot.

I climb out of the SUV and almost immediately lose my footing on the snow-covered icy driveway. It's my fault for wearing impractical, knee-high vegan leather boots with heels, but they looked awesome with my white, thigh-high stockings and my lacy, cream-colored boho dress.

I slip on a matching tan vegan leather jacket and hoist my duffel bag out of the back. Not the best attire for a blizzard, but whatever. It's super cute. I did remember to wear my fuzzy rose-colored scarf. No small feat for a Florida girl who's never gotten used to New England winters.

My exhale forms a puffy white vapor cloud in the cold winter air. It's December 23rd, one of the shortest days of the year. At four-thirty in the afternoon, it's almost as dark as if it's midnight.

Tottering up to the giant slope-side cabin, I wonder how many people are joining us. The bag weighs heavy on my arm. Maybe I shouldn't have brought all this crap.

I make a mental note to change into my flat, faux fur boots so I won't kill myself when I come back to grab the rest of my stuff.

When I get to the front door, I let the duffle bag plop to the ground and fish my smartphone out of my pocket as I do a full-body shiver, like a dog. It's snowing like crazy, really coming down now. Where's mom's email with the code? Could've sworn it was right—

Just then, the heavy wood door flings open. I'm so startled by the tall, muscular figure on the other side that I gasp and step back, my heel skidding on the ice-slick walkway.

As I fall on my ass, I realize who it is.

Him. Looking sexy as all hell in an oatmeal-colored Henley that clings to his biceps. And gray sweatpants that hug all the right places.

Well.

 Oliver Menendez sure has grown up.

____