Clause & Effect

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

THE NORTH POLE

I’m frozen.

Like… toes- numb, fingers- tingly, nose- already feels like it has icicles kind of frozen.

No, I’m not dying of hypothermia—but I might as well be.

Disney has done me a great disservice here.

I thought the word alone conjured up snowmen, friendly reindeer, and hot men who can sing and handle their ice, instead, I get this frigid weather.

I hate the cold. Every part of it offends me.

I’m a California girl, born and raised. I like the sun, the smell of sunscreen, the feel of sand between my toes and the uncanny taste of salt on my lips.

And more than anything? I like vacations in the sun.

So why did I agree to come on this once-in-a-lifetime vacation from hell (that’s what I’m secretly calling it—don’t tell my bestie).

Well, she invited me and apparently, I’m at that point in my life that I say yes to anything that sounds like a deserved distraction from reality—even if it is in the depths of hell.

Plus, again, she invited me.

Her and her extraordinary wealthy, charming, British generous husband paid because let’s be honest, I could never afford this. And at the time, I didn’t think it would be weird that I was the only single person going on a couple’s trip to visit the Arctic.

In out of this world luxury.

I just thought: hey, this is going to help me get over what’s his nut-devil face-asshole. The one who broke my heart, shattered my soul, and made me wish I’d fall into a deep coma and wake up in another timeline—preferably Bridgerton, or one where he didn’t exist.

Yeah, that sounded nice.

Bitter? Maybe.

Ok. Definitely.

Totally, bitter.

“Charlie, you’ve got that look on your face again,” my best friend, Grace, grumbles at me as we stare out on the tundra looking for any sign of a polar bear.

Or life for that matter.

We’re in a massive polar buggy—an all-terrain vehicle I didn’t even know existed--parked on what can only be described as an ice shelf of snow waiting for a rare sight of the infamous white bear.

We’ve been here for what feels like hours…

it’s been ten minutes. But at least the buggy is cool and glamorous, as is everything Grace lives, breathes and ingests in her life.

It’s long and boxy, towering high off the ground with massive tires built to crush through even the thickest ice.

The body is a rugged silver metallic shell designed to withstand even the harshest conditions, which is apparently now, and has a panoramic windshield for our viewing pleasure that wraps around the entire vehicle, offering an unobstructed view of the white frigid cold.

Inside, it feels like a small, warmly insulated fortress, with a dashboard full of dials and gauges that may as well be in a different language.

I shiver. All I can see is ice and snow stretching endlessly, a completely barren and terrifying landscape of ice as far as the eye can see.

Honestly, I could have stayed home and happily watched a David Attenborough documentary and gotten the same experience—maybe better.

“I’m cold,” I finally answer and shrug in defense as I watch her unzip the ginormous white cold-suit they made us wear to move in and out of the vehicle—apparently there is one thing money can’t buy and that’s style when it comes to suits that keep us from getting hypothermia.

We’ve got so many layers on I’m surprised we can even move.

I wonder for the millionth time why anyone in their right mind would want to do this—like why, when you can watch all of this “our planet” shit from the comfort of your own home dressed in pajamas and sipping wine—and with a healthy distance from any version of hypothermia or animals that really do like to eat people.

And I’m not exaggerating. They do!

Just as this thought moves through my mind through the millionth time one of her husband’s friend’s “girlfriends” takes a selfie.

She’s dwarfed by a glamorous white fur lined coat with a hood that drapes over her head, definitely not what our cold suits look by the way, and pouts her lips, striking a pose for her iPhone.

Sultry and ready, she’s the perfect picture of ice barbie. Wow, and another angle. She’s really committing.

“I can see the caption now,” Grace mutters under breath making me jump a foot as she too clocks the modeling shoot with the same morbid curiosity.

“Live, love, life?” I guess.

“Definitely something with gratitude in it,” she replies wrapping an arm around my neck.

“Or mother nature,” I nod my head in agreement as the girlfriend points to the snow as if to say look, it’s white just like my coat and my entire upbringing. Celebrate me!

“Both,” Grace whispers as we burst into a fit of laughter together.

The group looks over at us, but we ignore them, they should be used to the volume of our laughter. Her husband, Devon, cocks a knowing brow as he crosses his arms and shakes his head in disapproval.

“Sometimes I think we have the same brain,” Grace’s voice lowers as she eyes him like he’s a piece of meat.

“It’s been eleven years, you probably do.” I reply trying to sound bored and not like I’m boiling with jealousy.

Grace gives her husband a flirty smile then does this weird cat purr.

Out. Loud. I do my best not to vomit in my mouth.

Look, I’m happy for my best friend. I love her more than life.

She’s my sister, my mom, my best friend, cheerleader, and sometimes critic all in one gorgeous package—she’s the one that told me to forget about what’s his ball sack face a year ago—she laid it all out there like a road map, telling me exactly how things would go.

She wasn’t wrong.

I hate and love her for it at the same time.

And yes, it still sucks.

But she didn’t want me to get hurt—Grace is the most protective person I have in my life—like, would do anything for me and hurt anyone that hurts me kind of protective. There’s a part of me that thinks she might have a hit out on him.

Kidding… but not really. She knows people. Her words, not mine.

“It’s hot as Hades in here,” she says before she starts to fan her face like we’re on some exotic island in the Maldives.

“Hot as Hades?” I repeat sarcastically. “The sixteenth century called, and they’d like their words back.”

“Well, they can’t have them,” Grace retorts sarcastically. “Besides, I make them sound better.”

“Champagne?” Devon walks over with two glasses filled to the brim. “I’ll bring the strawberries.”

“Please,” I say as I reach for the glass pretending like this is the most normal thing in the world, you know, just drinking champagne whilst the polar bears frolic, normal. “Thank you.”

“Having fun, Charlie?” He smiles knowingly. “I know how much you love the snow.”

I take a deep sip of the champagne before responding.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” I say the bald-faced lie with a straight face. I’m too good at it these days—the lying part, then again, when you’re surrounded by rich people it’s just as easy if not easier than the truth, prettier at least.

Grace laughs. “Maybe your stateroom on the yacht?”

I look over at her like she’s lost it—maybe she was pre-gaming that expensive champagne without me noticing. Should I be more hurt at her exaggeration or her cheating on me with the bubbly?

I shrug. “That implies I’m used to staterooms… or yachts… or having champagne on a buggy in the arctic for that matter… home in my pajamas seems more fitting.”

Grace smiles at me. She knows it’s true. While I love this sort of life, it’s not totally me. I look like I fit because I make myself fit, I’m a chameleon like that, but it isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it feels like a sweater that while expensive, is too itchy for my skin.

Slowly, Devon eyes me up and down like he can read my energy or something. “I see staterooms, yachts, and champagne in tundras in your future.”

“Does it come with a soulmate?” I joke taking a gulp of the champagne trying to mask the ever-present knot in my throat.

I try not to cry at the thought of what seems like the elusive dream.

Soulmate… sometimes I think it’s some type of joke of a word they put in your head when you’re a kid making you just want to chase that elusive fantasy for life.

It’s a lot like love, does it even really exist the way I want it to?

With a partner? Sometimes I think it's just as made up as the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus and yet the world makes billions off its belief in both—or maybe the wish it was true.

Maybe the real money is made off hope which is actually even more depressing when you think about it.

“As if you’d take all that in any other way,” Grace says. Wait what were we talking about?

“If you’re referring to my mother’s piss poor matchmaking skills, you’ve made your point,” Devon says pointedly.

I laugh. Devon’s mom tried to set me up with a seventy-five-year-old billionaire who literally looked as though he had one foot in the grave. The double date with Grace and Devon would live in my memory forever. At least they had amazing bread, and the guy opened my door—I counted it a win.

“We all know you’re not marrying a man for his money,” Grace smiles. “That experiment was one I don’t think any of us will ever forget.”

I clink glasses with Grace. “Amen to that!’

Before I can ask for a refill, the captain of our expedition calls out to the group.

“Well look at that! A holiday miracle! So rare during this season. It looks like we have another buggy joining us.” Yeah, because most people are home by a cozy fire or decorating a Christmas tree not rubbing shoulders with the wealthy, sipping champagne, and playing chicken with mother nature.

We all stare out the windows into the endless white snow. Sure enough, a buggy twice the size of ours is rolling up right next to us. I must admit, I’m impressed at the bougie looking thing. Huh, I had no idea Bugatti was into ATV making.

“Is that what rich people call a mega buggy?” I ask Devon in a hushed whisper.

He frowns. Is he upset that someone else’s is bigger? He tilts his head and starts to immediately size it up from the slight frown to the slight grind of his teeth. Amazing, no matter how much money they have—all men are the same.

Who has the biggest dick will forever be a man’s quest for the holy grail.

He tosses back all his champagne and finally just mutters. “Things might get interesting, sure the poor bastard that owns that thing is trying to make up for more than inches.”

The rest of the guys laugh.

And I have to wonder what sort of person would roll up alongside us in something that looks like it belongs at NASA.