Unspoken Fantasies – Chapter 1 –  Snow on Her Hair

It started snowing sometime after noon.

By the time Nora and I pulled up outside my mom’s place, the driveway was already white and the maple tree in the front yard looked heavier than usual, branches bending under it.

“Your mom’s going to make us shovel before dinner,” Nora said, stepping out of the car.

“She’ll make my stepdad do it,” I said. “She’ll supervise.”

Nora laughed and looped her arm through mine as we walked up the short path to the door.

The house looked the same as it always had — wide windows, clean lines, the soft yellow glow from inside already spilling onto the snow. My mom liked light. She never turned it down.

The door opened before we rang.

“Zachery,” she said, smiling like I’d just come back from practice instead of three months of not calling enough.

She hugged me tight, then pulled Nora in with the same warmth. My mom had always liked her. That helped.

Inside, the air was warm and smelled like rosemary and something sweet in the oven. The living room was already half-claimed by wrapping paper and wine glasses. My stepdad was near the kitchen island, pretending he wasn’t in charge of anything while clearly being in charge of everything.

“You’re late,” he said.

“We’re on time,” I answered.

He checked his watch anyway.

Nora wandered toward the shelf near the fireplace where old photo albums were stacked. “Can I?” she asked.

“Careful,” I said. “There’s evidence in there.”

She sat cross-legged on the rug and started flipping through pages. “Oh my God,” she said after a second. “You had braces and that haircut at the same time?”

“It was a transitional period.”

My mom laughed from the kitchen. “He thought he was mysterious.”

“I was,” I said.

Nora looked up at me over the edge of the album. “You were twelve.”

“I was layered,” I corrected.

She closed the album halfway and studied me like she was comparing versions. “You still make that face, you know.”

“What face?”

“The one where you pretend you don’t care but actually care a lot.”

“I do not.”

My stepdad snorted from the kitchen. “He absolutely does.”

“Traitor,” I muttered.

Nora grinned and went back to flipping pages. She looked small on the rug, knees tucked under her, dark hair falling over one shoulder. She’d worn it loose tonight, the ends brushing the collar of her cream sweater. She always dressed like winter made sense to her – soft fabrics, muted colors, things that felt intentional without trying too hard.

 There was something steady about her. Clean lines, clear eyes, a quiet confidence that never asked for permission. When she laughed, it was quick and real, not performed.

I watched her for a second longer than necessary.

Three years together and she still felt new in certain light.

“Hey,” she said suddenly. “Come look at this.”

I walked over and dropped down beside her. The rug was thick enough to swallow your knees. She tilted the album toward me.

There I was at seventeen – tall already, shoulders still figuring themselves out, dark hair falling into my eyes like I’d asked it to. Basketball tucked under one arm. Trying not to smile and failing.

“You look like you’re about to tell someone you’re misunderstood,” she said.

“I was.”

“You were on junior varsity.”

“It builds character.”

She leaned her shoulder into mine. “You were cute.”

“I was strategically quiet.”

“You were awkward.”

“Selective.”

She closed the album and glanced up at the wall above the fireplace.

“Is that the most recent one?”

I followed her gaze.

There was a framed photo from last winter –  the two of us standing on a rooftop somewhere downtown. City lights behind us, blurred into soft gold. My arm around her waist. Her head tilted slightly toward my chest.

I looked older in that picture. Broader through the shoulders. Beard trimmed instead of accidental. The freckles on my forearms still visible where my sleeves were pushed up.

Nora looked exactly like herself – dark hair against the cold air, cheeks flushed, eyes steady on the camera like she didn’t mind being seen. She had one hand flat against my chest in the photo, fingers spread naturally, not posed.

We looked solid. Balanced. Like we knew where we were standing.

“That’s a good one,” my mom called from the kitchen. “You both look happy.”

Nora glanced up at me again. “We are, right?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

It came easy. True.

My stepdad walked past with a tray of glasses. “He cleans up okay,” he said to Nora.

“He tries,” she replied.

I stood and moved closer to the wall, adjusting the frame slightly so it sat straight. My reflection caught faintly in the glass –  older version layered over the photo.

To the right of it was another framed picture. Newer.

A woman standing close to a man, both bundled in winter coats. A small girl between them, mid-laugh, her head thrown back. The woman’s hair was lighter than the sky behind her. The man’s hand rested at the small of her back, relaxed and certain. They were standing somewhere outdoors -snow in the background, city skyline blurred behind them.

They looked… settled.

The kind of photo you take when you’re not trying to prove anything.

Nora stepped up beside me. “That’s a beautiful shot,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” I answered.

I studied it for a moment longer than I meant to. The woman in the picture was smiling without showing all her teeth. Controlled. Familiar. The kind of smile that holds more than it gives away.

The man beside her stood slightly angled toward her without realizing it. The child in the middle was the only one fully unguarded.

Family photos tell you more than people mean to show.

“You’re staring,” Nora murmured.

“Just thinking,” I said.

“About?”

I shook my head lightly. “Nothing dramatic.”

She slipped her hand into mine again, fingers lacing through automatically.

Behind us, my mom called out, “Wine’s open!”

My stepdad said something about snow getting heavier. The house felt full in a comfortable way – overlapping voices, heat rising, music low in the background.

I glanced once more at the wall. At the version of me standing on that rooftop beside Nora. At the other photo beside it. And somewhere between the two, I felt time shift slightly. Not in a painful way.

More like noticing how much space a few years can put between who you were and who you are.

Nora squeezed my hand. “What?”

“Nothing,” I said again.

But I could already feel it. The hallway upstairs. The sound of sneakers against hardwood. A door closing late at night. Memory doesn’t ask if it’s welcome. It just shows up.

The front door opened.

Cold air slipped in, quick and clean.

“Dad, can you grab the extra bag?” Savannah’s voice carried down the hallway.

I felt it – that small shift in the room when someone familiar walks in.

She stepped into the living room brushing snow from her coat sleeve. Her hair was damp at the ends, snow melting into it. Cheeks pink from the cold.

She saw me first.

“Hi, Zach.”

“Hey.”

It was easy. It always had been, eventually.

Chris followed behind her, juggling a tote bag and a small red-coated body that was wriggling to get down.

“This one refused the car seat,” he said.

Ellie squirmed until Savannah took her, then immediately spotted the tree and went still.

“Lights,” she said softly.

“Lights,” Nora echoed, already kneeling near her. “Do you like them?”

Ellie nodded with full seriousness, like the question deserved thought.

Savannah stepped further in and shrugged out of her coat. For a moment she stood there – snow in her hair, boots still on – taking in the room the way you do when you haven’t been somewhere in a while but still know where everything is.

She had lived here for two years.

Savannah bent to unlace Ellie’s boots. “You guys made it through the snow?”

“Barely,” I said. “It was a heroic six-mile drive.”

“Thoughts and prayers,” she replied.

Chris laughed. “He texted me like he was crossing Antarctica.”

My stepdad appeared with a glass of wine and handed it to Chris. “You’re shoveling after dinner.”

“I knew it,” Chris said.

Savannah straightened and brushed her hands together. “Still playing?” she asked me.

“Rec league,” I said. “Once a week. I complain about my knees after.”

“You’re twenty-seven.”

“I’m fragile.”

Nora stood and slipped her hand into mine without thinking. “He stretches for twenty minutes before touching a basketball.”

“It’s preventative,” I said.

Savannah’s eyes flicked briefly to our hands, then back to my face. No pause. No weight. Just seeing.

“Some things don’t change,” she said.

Ellie reached for me suddenly, arms lifted like the decision had already been made.

I took her, settling her against my hip. She stared at my face like she was memorizing it, then pressed her mitten to my cheek.

“You’re tall,” she announced.

“Yeah,” I said. “Occupational hazard.”

Savannah laughed softly. It was the same laugh I remembered –  quiet, controlled, like she didn’t give it away easily.

The room filled in around us – my mom asking about traffic, Chris explaining a parking ticket he insisted wasn’t his fault, Nora flipping another album page and calling out something incriminating about my high school mustache.

Savannah moved toward the kitchen island, running her fingers along the edge the way she used to when she was thinking about something she hadn’t decided whether to say.

I watched her for a second. Not the way I used to. Just noticing.

The way her hair fell differently now. The way she stood angled slightly toward her husband without realizing it. The way she moved through the house like she remembered the layout even if she didn’t live in it anymore.

Snow slid slowly down the tall windows behind her.

I glanced again at the wall near the fireplace. At the photos. 

The house felt full in that easy way –  overlapping voices, heat rising from the kitchen, the low hum of music somewhere behind us.

Ellie traced one of the freckles on my wrist like it meant something.

Nora leaned into my side, warm and familiar.

Across the room, Savannah reached up to adjust one of the tree ornaments that had tilted slightly to the left. She always noticed small imbalances.

For a second, the light from the tree caught in her hair the way it used to catch in the hallway upstairs – late evenings, doors half closed, the house quieter than it is now.

I don’t know what exactly brought it back.

Maybe the snow.

Maybe the way the house holds sound when it’s warm inside and cold outside. Or maybe it was simpler than that.

Seventeen is never as far away as you think it is.

I shifted Ellie higher on my hip and looked once more toward the staircase.

Same railing. Same angle of light.

Different year.

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