Snow Piled Up to the Clouds

A short story by Charlotte Hanover

This story contains: queer, trans & nonbinary, contemporary romance, strangers, firsts, blow job, toys

Outside the tiny Alaskan airport, the blizzard slowly erased the world. Dusk was falling, and everything became soft and vague under the snowfall. Everything lost its shape. Everything was buried. I was trying not to cry at the airport counter.

They’d lost my luggage. Everything was in it: my tent, my clothes. This freak storm was blowing in, and I had no idea what to do. I’d hoped this trip would be a chance to find myself. I’d just graduated college; I should have been a fully formed adult, but I couldn’t shake the feeling I was faking it. Like my whole persona was just an invention based on who other people thought I should be. I’d come to the wildest place I could think of, deep Alaska, to be alone with myself. To find out what I was missing.

I’d failed right out of the gate.

“Rough start to the trip, huh?” 

I whirled, and my frustration crackled out at the deep voice behind me. “I’m fine,” I snapped. “This is my business.” I needed to take my angst out on someone—but also, there was a certain solicitousness in this stranger’s voice that made me suspect he’d mistaken me for a girl from behind. It had happened before; I was slim and small-framed, with long, dirty-blond hair. The combination didn’t exactly scream masculinity. 

“Sorry. My bad.” The man put his hands up mildly, taking a half step back. If he’d been imagining a girl, he didn’t seem put off by me. I took him in, trying to judge him at a glance. He was big, with solid arms. He was older than me, like in his 40s. Handsome in a rugged way. 

“No, I’m sorry.” I was embarrassed that I’d lashed out. 

“I get it. Frustrating, huh? Sounds like you caught some bad luck.”

I felt a weird rush of gratitude. I’d been a jerk to him, but he was giving me grace. “Yeah,

it’s. . . I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” I was ashamed to realize I was hoping he’d fix it. He seemed so confident, like the kind of person who probably never lost his luggage. “I don’t really even have enough money for a hotel room,” I confessed, my voice cracking. I’d spent almost everything on the plane ticket.

“That’s a lot to handle.” He spoke softly, like he was talking to a skittish cat. “I remember being your age. Most of the time I didn’t know what to do either.”

I tucked my hair behind my ear. “What’d you end up doing?”

“I just did what everyone else was doing.” He looked out the window at the whirling snow. “Seemed like the path of least resistance. I wish I hadn’t.”

For a moment I felt an aching sadness in his voice, but when he turned back he was smiling and confident again. “Listen,” he said. “I’m on my way to my Airbnb. Why don’t you come with me and crash on the couch? It’s not far. We’ll see if your luggage gets here tomorrow, after the storm blows over.”

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