History Is All You Left Me(48)

“Maybe we should make it a snowwoman,” Jackson suggests through chattering teeth. “You only see snowwomen when it’s a family in need of a mother for the children. But whenever it’s one snowperson, everyone automatically makes it a snowman.”

“Revolutionary snowwoman it is! Some snowperson will write sonnets about you,” I say. I cup the snow and begin molding the snowwoman’s breasts. “That’s some Theo thinking of yours, by the way. We didn’t get much play in the snow because I’m not a big fan, but I think if I did it anyway, Theo would’ve had the lightbulb moment to create a snowwoman just because.”

“I can’t think of a better person to channel,” Jackson says over the howling winds. There’s no smile this time.

He and I build and build, convincing ourselves not to go back inside and take a break to warm up because it’ll be too brutal to come back outside. The snowwoman’s breasts look more like cones, but I move on to her head because Jackson and I are not exactly teenage boys obsessed with breasts. The snowwoman’s head isn’t proportionate to her body, just like her body isn’t proportionate to her leg ball.

“She needs a face now,” Jackson says.

I feel guilty for two reasons. The first is because I should’ve done this with you and not put it off because I assumed we’d have all the time in the world once we got back together. I also feel guilty because I wouldn’t have been able to be as happy about this as Jackson is.

“I’ll find her a face.” My teeth are chattering. I walk around for a little bit, grateful to have my knees and legs out of the wet snow. I go into the trashcan, collecting items—well, let’s call it what it is, garbage—that can be useful in giving the snowwoman a face. I return and drop our options, everything colorful against the white snow.

Jackson immediately reaches for the shard of dark green glass from a broken Heineken bottle.

“Really? Are you about to shank her?” I take the glass from Jackson and give the snowwoman her smile—well, smirk.

“Not bad,” Jackson admits.

“Don’t doubt my vision again.”

Jackson uses the filthy green top from a water bottle as the snowwoman’s nose. I empty out a popcorn bag, using handfuls for clustered eyes and the bag as really flat hair.

“She’s beautiful,” Jackson says, laughing a little.

“Beautiful in the sense that she’s made of nothing but snow and garbage, right?”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t date her,” Jackson says.

“Not your type?”

“I like my snowwomen with carrot noses and vanilla wafer eyes,” Jackson says.

I laugh a little, surprising myself. I can’t say I’ll miss the snowwoman when she’s nothing but popcorn in a puddle—I’m obviously going to throw the shard of glass away before ditching her—but this was a nice recess from everything. Maybe that’s what Jackson is: a recess from everything, even though he’s got a foot in everything, too. I guess I could say he’s freedom.

Did you think of Jackson as freedom?

It doesn’t matter how long I’ve lived in New York, but every now and again someone suggests a restaurant that’s been around forever but whose existence still surprises me. I know the city is big, but wow. I can only imagine how shocked I would’ve been if I had gone out to Los Angeles. Anika is apparently a fan of Spotlight Diner, across the street from Washington Square Park and the NYU dorms. It’s a little more downtown than I’m used to these days, but it’s a guarantee that Jackson’s birthday isn’t doomed—Anika and Veronika’s chances of actually showing up are way higher since we’re so close to where they live. If they do ditch, Jackson and I can go to the High Line, which is either a twenty-minute walk or quick cab away. (If I can find a cab, then a cab it is.)

Jackson is sitting on my right, of course. Directly across from our booth is a mirror. I’ve got to say, the gray dress shirt Jackson is borrowing from me doesn’t look bad on him. I’m not going that far and saying it looks good, because it’s just as baggy on him as it is on me, but he’s somehow managing not to look like he’s living out of someone else’s closet. It’s probably too late to gift it to him for his birthday, right? Nothing would be better than the old “If you like it, you can keep it” trick.

“Anything else I should know about Anika and Veronika?” I ask him. I’ve gotten some basics but not the intimate stuff, nothing like the topics I should avoid or things that might offend them. I’ve been ambushed in the past that way, and it sucked.

“Yeah, anything else he should know?” a girl cackles beside me.

I glance up. I recognize Anika and Veronika from the photos on Jackson’s phone, but he really needs a phone with better camera quality. These two are I’m-forgetting-I’m-gay stunning. They both have dark skin and are dressed like sisters in their denim tops, but that’s where their physical similarities end. Anika has long braided hair and a lean, muscular frame—probably from running track. Veronika’s hair is shaved and she’s got piercings in her nose, left eyebrow, ears, and the corner of her lower lip.

“Happy birthday!” Anika says.

Veronika cheers.

Jackson slides out of the booth and tries to hug Anika first, but Veronika sneaks in, squeezing his midriff.