We’d used pieces of burnt wood from the cabin’s fireplace for the buttons and eyes, and a short, fat stick I’dfound for the nose. Eamon had contributed his wool scarf, wrapping it around the snowman’s neck with surprising care.
“There,” I said, stepping back to admire our creation. “Perfect.”
The snowman was definitely not perfect. It listed slightly to one side, the head was a bit too small for the body, and one of the stick arms was longer than the other. But standing there in the brilliant sunshine with Eamon beside me, both of us flushed with cold and exertion, it looked exactly right.
“He needs a name,” I declared.
“A name?”
“All good snowmen have names. It’s a rule.”
Eamon studied our creation with mock seriousness. “He looks like a Seamus to me.”
“Seamus?”
“Good Irish name. And look at him—definitely has the bearing of a Seamus.”
I burst out laughing. “Seamus it is.”
That’s when Eamon bent down, scooped up a handful of snow, and launched it directly at my chest with unerring accuracy.
“Hey!” I yelped, stumbling backward. “That’s cheating!”
“All’s fair in snowball fights,” he replied, already gathering ammunition for a second attack.
What followed was chaos. We chased each other around the small clearing in front of the cabin, pelting each other with snowballs and laughing like children. Eamon had better aim, but I was quicker at dodging. When he finally tackled me into a snowdrift, we both went down in a tangle of limbs and winter coats.
“Surrender,” he demanded, straddling my waist with snow dripping from his hair.
“Never,” I gasped, struggling to catch my breath through my laughter.
“Then you leave me no choice.” He grabbed a handful of snow and threatened to dump it down the front of my jacket.
“Okay, okay! I surrender!”
He grinned triumphantly, tossing the snow aside before leaning down to kiss me. His lips were cold but warm underneath, and he tasted like winter air and joy.
“Snow angel,” I said when we broke apart.
“What?”
“We have to make snow angels. It’s mandatory when you’re already lying in the snow.”
“You’re insane,” he said fondly, but he rolled off me and spread his arms wide.
We lay side by side, moving our arms and legs to create the classic angel shapes in the snow. The cold seeped through my jacket, but I didn’t care. Above us, the sky was the deepest blue I’d ever seen, and the silence was broken only by our breathing and the distant call of a bird somewhere in the trees.
“This is perfect,” I said quietly.
“It’s fecking cold,” Eamon corrected, but his voice was warm with contentment.
“Perfect,” I insisted.
When we finally struggled to our feet, careful not to disturb our snow angels, we were both soaked and shivering. But I felt more alive than I had in months, energized by the cold, the exercise, and the simple joy of playing in the snow with someone I cared about.
“Come on,” I said, tugging Eamon toward the cabin. “Hot chocolate time.”
“With marshmallows?” he asked hopefully.
