Twelve
Isla
T heo and I conquer three challenges before landing on Sugarpine Springs High’s frozen football field. My legs ache from trekking across town, my fingers are stiff with frost, and my face? Flushed as fuck. Partly from the wind. Mostly from the six-foot-four furnace beside me.
For someone who dismissed the game as a town-wide joke, Theo turned out to be a shockingly engaged teammate.
Somewhere between the first challenge and now, his detached indifference has morphed into full-blown alpha-level competitiveness.
It’s unsettling. Also…a little thrilling.
Which is, frankly, a concerning turn of turn-on events.
“Welcome to the Snow School Showdown!” a cheery voice calls out from center line .
Mr. Price, our high school's longest-reigning principal, stands beside a lineup of ice sculptures made to resemble snow people. A little redundant—but points for skill. Each holds a sign with different subjects and phrases scribbled on them. Some say Math , History , or Science , while others read Go Team! and Sugarpine Springs High Forever! It’s a slapdash display, but it fits the spirit of the day.
“The goal is simple,” the gray-haired man declares. “Hit the marks using snowballs lovingly crafted by our student elves. Every strike reveals a trivia question. Get ten right to win your next clue!”
I glance at my impromptu partner. He’s already analyzing our targets like we’re facing a matter of life or death.
Jaw set. Shoulders pulled back. Fingers flexing.
Classic Theo in pre-battle mode. Annoyingly, it’s just as captivating now as it was all those years ago.
He has this infuriating ability to make everything look effortless. Conquerable.
“Ready?” I ask, wiggling my fingers to help boost some blood circulation.
How am I supposed to throw when I’m working with actual icicle appendages?
“Ready,” he replies, his focus sharp as ever.
Evidently, his fingers are doing just fine.
I snatch a snowball from the nearest basket. Weapon secured and target locked, I aim for History and let it fly. It smacks the top-left corner of the mark, exploding in a spray of snow shrapnel.
Theo lets out a soft whistle. “Nice arm.”
Mr. Price beams. “All right, first question! What year was Sugarpine Springs founded?”
“1885!” My voice echoes across the field.
“Correct!” he calls back. “Well done, Miss Greene! ”
Theo’s throw comes out of nowhere. It’s hard and fast, nailing Math dead in the center with almost obnoxious precision.
Mr. Price squints at the card in his hand. “Here comes a tricky one! If a train traveling 60 miles per hour leaves Sugarpine Springs at 7:00 a.m., and another train—”
“No trains run through this town,” Theo cuts in, deadpan. “Moot question.”
I gape at him. “It’s a hypothetical one, you control freak. Would it have hurt to let the poor man finish?”
“Oh.” Mr. Price blinks. “ Uhh …” He checks the card again, then breaks into laugher. “Well, I suppose you bested our seniors on this one, young man! Free pass for your team.”
“There,” Theo says to me. “Efficiency over wasted breath.”
He’s all cool nonchalance when he reaches for another snowball. Already wound tight, I beat him to it, striking a board stamped with a giant question mark.
How’s that for efficiency?
“Mystery Minute!” Mr. Price hoots. “Congratulations! I’ll fire off as much trivia as I can in sixty seconds. Let’s see how many correct answers you two can rack up!”
Theo shifts closer, the soft wool of his coat grazing my cheek. The heat emanating from him is distracting, but I force myself to concentrate on the game.
Mr. Price doesn’t ask us if we’re ready before launching into his interrogation with the gusto of a professional auctioneer.
“Who’s the current mayor of Sugarpine Springs?”
“Tanisha Hayes, of course!” I chirp. A lawyer-turned-politician and local hero, her people-first policies have improved countless lives in the community.
“Correct!” Mr. Price cheers. “What’s the name of the bridge over the springs where couples carve their initials?”
I raise my hand like I’m back in class. “Lover’s Leap!”
Theo raises a brow. “Did you and Asher defile the railing yet?”
I’m about to retort when Mr. Price interjects. “Who holds the fastest time record for the town’s winter marathon?”
“That’d be Marisol Ayala,” Theo answers smoothly, still looking at me. “Five-time champ.”
We volley back and forth, nailing most of the questions until the buzzer goes off.
For the final snowball, I hit the Science target, but I’m not prepared for the question.
“Which two science teachers at Sugarpine Springs High famously ran off together after confessing their love on Starlight Summit?”
My stomach tightens. Though I know the answer—it happened during my junior year—I’m not thrilled to dredge up gossip. Especially not when it’s such a sensitive topic.
The typically sharp Theo is staring off into the distance, leaving me with no choice but to speak up for our team.
“Mrs. Quinn and Mr. Farrow.” The words drag out of me unwillingly.
What I don’t add is that they used their biology and chemistry expertise to stage a seemingly fatal accident on the mountain and throw everyone off their trail. Mr. Quinn was a cruel and controlling man—it was the only way for her to get a clean escape.
Theo’s face hardens as he glares at Mr. Price. “You were always known as a principal who touted principles,” he tells him. “Consider scrapping that question. It’s intrusive. And wildly inappropriate.”
“Oh, w-well…it’s…” Mr. Price stammers, fumbling for words. “It’s part of our town’s fo lklore.”
“Not all folklore needs to be aired out like dirty laundry,” Theo snaps. “Are we done here?”
“Yes, yes. Of course.” The older man clears his throat. “You hit ten questions.” He dusts off his gloved hands and reaches into his jacket pocket. “Excellent work. Here is your next clue.”
Theo stalks off without a word, leaving me with the envelope.
And a heavy pit in my stomach.
The wreath-making station inside Patel’s Petals is a welcome refuge from the cold.
Fragrant air carries notes of fresh-cut greens, dried flowers, and damp earth.
Mrs. Patel, the chatty florist running the activity, hands us steaming mugs of cider before leading us to a quiet corner of the craft table where other couples are already lost in their own creations.
As the drink spreads through me, warmth slowly returns to my limbs. When I’m properly thawed, I glance at Theo. He’s completely absorbed in the task, sifting through a pile of foliage with surgical precision. Once the first few elements are sorted out, he starts weaving the greenery.
I can’t help but indulge in the scene a little longer than I should.
The man’s hands…
Come. On .
Forcing myself to snap out of it, I direct my attention to the wreath. Theo is treating the challenge like a full-time job, which means I need to find a way to contribute or risk getting downgraded from equal partner to glorified holly holder.
I grab a pinecone from the stack. “Leave a little work for me, won’t you?”
“How are your fingers?” His voice is low, almost absentminded, as he twists a sprig into place.
I frown, caught off guard. “My fingers?”
His gaze drops to my hands, narrowing slightly. “At the snowball game, you looked like you were having trouble moving them.”
“Oh. Uhh …” My voice falters, and the pinecone slips from my grasp, hitting the table with a muted thud before rolling to the floor. He’d noticed? “I’m fine,” I say, ducking down to retrieve it. “I’ll live.”
“Still—take it easy,” he orders in a quiet but commanding tone. “Drink your cider and relax. I’ve got this.”
“Worried I’ll mess with your perfect design? Mrs. Patel might just put you on the payroll.”
Theo’s head snaps up, a muscle in his jaw rippling. “You really think that about me?”
“That she’ll ask you to join the family business after seeing your masterpiece?” I shrug, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Sure. You—”
“No, Isla.” He exhales sharply. “Do you honestly believe I don’t trust your skills?”
“How many projects did you pull yourself from at AdCraft just because I was on the design team?” I cross my arms, ignoring the ache in my chest.
“It wasn’t because I didn’t believe in you.”
“No? Then what was it?” I press, leaning forward in my seat.
“I didn’t trust myself.”
“What?” I blink, my mind reeling .
Before I can ask him to explain, he holds out a small cluster of red berries. “Help me wire these in, please.”
We work in silence, my fingers moving on autopilot, weaving the holly into the wreath. Theo’s words linger in my thoughts, but I file the numerous questions they spark away for later. I’ll come back to them when the time is right.
If it’s ever right.
“Thanks for partnering up with me,” I say after we attach the final bow. “It’s been…kind of…nice.”
Theo huffs a laugh. “Appreciate the glowing endorsement.”
I hide my grin behind a sip of cider. “You’ve been different. A little more relaxed. A lot less brooding.”
“Look…” He sets the wreath aside, his gaze sliding to the fire crackling in the corner. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
I brace myself, anticipating he’s about to dive back into our brief, albeit messy history at work, but instead, he surprises me.
“The thing with the teachers. It struck a nerve. Stupid, I know.” His knee bumps lightly against mine in an unsettled movement that doesn’t match his usual stillness.
“My dad was a shitty excuse for a man. Horrible to me. Worse to my mom.” His jaw is so tight, his molars must be dust. “I’m grateful she managed to eventually escape.
Glad for Mrs. Quinn, too.” He presses his lips together and looks away.
More softly, he adds, “There were times, during those seven years under his roof, I wasn’t sure we’d make it out at all. ”
My heart hurts for him. This part of Theo’s story isn’t new to me, but that doesn’t make it any less painful.
Therapy has played a big role in both his and Evangeline’s healing.
Still, his past left marks that will never fully fade.
The physical ones are easier to spot—the faint line that refuses to grow hair just past his temple, the pale crescent carved beneath his collarbone.
But most of his scars don’t live on the skin.
Many take the shape of silence. Distance. Detachment.
“I’ve been haunted by his ghost my whole life,” he says, shaking his head. “And the bastard isn’t even dead.”
At that, his expression shifts. The walls crumble, revealing a vulnerability in his eyes. One that makes my heart hurt with every beat.
Instinctively, I reach out, my hand settling gently on his forearm. His muscles tense, then relax into the touch—almost as if he’s giving me permission to stay.
I know he’d hate any hint of pity, so I say the only thing that makes sense: “If you ever need a ghostbuster…I’m here.”
I’ll always be here.
Of course, I don’t dare voice that part out loud.