the fire under the ice | j.hale

5 | alice

I found myself thinking about Jasper. Despite my promise to not let him affect me, that resolve crumbled within a day. Like many students, he'd asked me routine questions—about my hometown, my adjustment to the school, and my thoughts on Forks. Unlike the others, though, I sensed genuine interest from him. While I was reluctant to answer, I longed to hear the sweet musicality of his voice and see the kindness in his eyes. Throughout the rest of the class, I felt his gaze upon me. I wanted to look back at him, but I didn't want to reveal how much he unsettled me.

Pushing thoughts of Jasper aside, I disembarked from the bus, focused on my job search. I'd spotted some promising ads online and in the newspaper, zeroing in on stores seeking sales assistants. The inheritance from my parents had covered two months' rent and basic furnishings for my house. It would also suffice for clothes, as I'd brought little in my travel bag. However, I was determined to save. My parents had worked hard for this money, intending it for my sister and me. Out of respect for their efforts, I wouldn't squander it in a matter of months.

I went from store to store without success. Either they didn't want someone without experience, or the position had already been filled. Feeling discouraged, I walked back up the street toward the bus stop when I spotted a small French café in the distance. I hesitated before entering. I had experience in a similar café in France, but they wouldn't be able to verify my claims. Finally, I thought, "Why not?" I'm half French and speak the language fluently. That might work in my favor. As I approached, I fell more in love with the café. It resembled those charming Parisian establishments, complete with a small, deserted terrace—typical for mid-November.

I entered, taking a deep breath to calm my nerves. I encountered a waitress dressed in an elegant, classy black dress. When I asked if the café owner was available, she smiled and disappeared into a room behind the bar. She returned with a man in his early thirties—tall, dark-haired, handsome, with striking blue eyes. I couldn't help but compare him to Jasper. Where this man was dark, Jasper was fair with his magnificent blonde hair. Jasper's eyes were enigmatic, both in color and in the emotions they conveyed. Composing myself, I greeted the man before me politely.

"Hello! My name is Tess Lasier."

"Hello. How can I help you?"

He spoke with a French accent, which stirred memories and made my heart leap. I decided to respond in French.

"I was wondering if you're looking for someone to serve or help with anything else."

I was willing to clean floors or wash dishes if that's all he had available. His face lit up when he heard me speak his language.

"Your French is excellent. Your accent is barely noticeable."

I explained that I'm part French, spent eight years of vacations in France, and continued studying the language.

"I grew up in Strasbourg and moved to the United States six years ago," he told me.

We chatted about our backgrounds for a few more minutes until the waitress called him from the back. He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment.

"I don't usually hire without references, but I'm willing to make an exception."

I restrained myself from jumping for joy as I left the café, feeling reassured. The owner had outlined his work conditions: I needed to maintain a minimum level of elegance in my attire, and I would start on Thursday. He'd given me tomorrow to buy what I needed. Though I had expected a part-time position, my hours would be from six to eleven p.m.—Saturdays until midnight—with Sundays and Tuesday evenings off. I knew it would be somewhat tiring alongside my school days, but I was thrilled at the prospect of having my first real job.