“I yield,” Mateo says, eyes closed. “The Queen of Chaos has won.”
Snowflakes dust his eyelashes. He looks up at me, grinning. My chest aches a little with how beautiful this moment is.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as we gather our sleds, the vibration sharp against the softness of the day. I slip off one glove just long enough to glance at the screen.
Nico
When can I see her? She deserves to know her dad. Don’t drag this out.
My stomach twists. I lock the phone without answering, shove it deep into my coat, and paste on a smile. Not now. Not here.
Mateo grabs my sled in one hand, my mittened fingers in the other. Maya is already skipping ahead toward the square, cocoa on her mind, and I let myself follow.
Later that afternoon, we wander through the heart of the town, hand in hand, our boots crunching through the thick snow. The gazebo at the town square glows under a canopy of string lights, soft yellow bulbs twinkling against the pale skylike trapped stars. A local band plays classic holiday tunes with a jazzy twist—saxophones humming, a stand-up bass keeping time, and the gentle clink of tambourine bells keeping rhythm with the snowflakes that continue to drift lazily down.
Maya runs ahead, her tiny boots kicking up powder as she twirls beneath the lights like the snow itself is music. She’s got a cup of cocoa in one mittened hand and the other thrown dramatically in the air as she spins in wild, clumsy circles.
Mateo slips an arm around my waist and pulls me close, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. His body is warm against mine, even through our thick coats.
“She’s happy,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving Maya.
I watch her, too, feeling the weight of it. The ease, the freedom, the laughter. It wraps around us like a blanket.
I nod, my own smile soft. “She’s safe. She’s loved.”
The music swells as a new song begins, and Maya shouts, “This one’s my favorite!” before launching into another round of chaotic twirling. She nearly slips on a patch of ice but catches herself with a laugh, then pretends to bow dramatically like a ballerina at the end of a show.
“Encore!” Mateo calls, clapping above his head.
She beams and launches into a shaky curtsy before taking a sip of her cocoa that results in whipped cream sticking to her nose.
“I can’t handle how cute she is,” I say with a laugh.
“She gets it from you,” he replies, kissing my temple again.
After the music winds down and the band starts to pack up, Maya bounds over and grabs both our hands. “Can we make a snowman now? A big one? Like…huge. Gigantic. The biggest in the whole town!”
Mateo grins. “Only if we can give him a backstory.”
Maya gasps. “Yes! Yes! He needs a name. A life. A job!”
“He’s a CEO of sled technology,” I chime in. “Very busy. Very important.”
Maya’s eyes go wide. “His name is…Mr. Sledsworth,”
“Sir Mr. Sledsworth,” Mateo says solemnly. “Of the North Pole division.”
With our mission set, we move to a wide patch of open snow and get to work. Maya directs us, pointing to where the base should go and demanding, “More snow, more snow!”
Mateo rolls the first ball until it’s almost as tall as Maya herself, grunting dramatically like it weighs a thousand pounds. “I may not survive this snow boulder,” he groans.
I help her roll the middle section while Mateo adds extra snow to the base for the “maximum snow stability.” When the middle is stacked and secure, he lifts the smaller top piece on with exaggerated effort.
“Sir Mr. Sledsworth has arrived,” Maya declares, standing with her hands on her hips.
We gather sticks for arms—long, crooked branches with little twigs on the ends that Mateo arranges in dramatic jazz hands.
“For flair,” he says, stepping back to admire his work.
