“Yeah, you, Mister.”

Diego lets all pretense go and flashes me a dashing smile. “Did it work?”

How can anyone say no to that face?

Nonetheless, I scowl. “Snowman it is. Are you equipped for the snow?”

“I have my biker boots.”

“Those will get soaked in a second. I’ll see if we can borrow an old pair of my dad’s. What’s your size?”

“Eleven, eleven and a half?”

I solemnly swear that I’m not thinking about big socks.

“Mmm, Dad’s boots won’t fit, then. But maybe we still have something left from Bill, Julia’s ex. He was a half-giant. You have pants?”

“I can use my riding pants, they’re waterproof.” He fishes them out of his bag.

“Great. Go get changed in the bathroom and wait for me downstairs.”

“Aye, aye, captain.”

I open the door and push him out, hissing, “I’m not bossy.”

“Sure you’re not.” Diego winks, before turning on his heel and heading for the bathroom.

I close the door behind him, then search my old closet for snow-appropriate clothing. I find an old pair of cyan and pink snow pants, and an equally old gray fleece. A heavyweight one, so thick you can go outside wearing no jacket.

I smell it to make sure it’s still wearable. A bit stale, but it’ll do. And the pants have a distinct nineties vibe, but I can’t make miracles. If Ron Weasley couldn’t conjure better clothes out of thin air, neither can I.

I swap the cat-hoodie PJs for a sweater, change my leggings, and put the fleece on. Dressed like a sixteen-year-old version of myself, I go scavenge in the garage for my old snow boots and gloves, and any footwear that will fit Diego… which I find at the bottom of the shoe closet.

These were definitely once Billy’s boots; the poor kid used to practically live here before Julia dumped him to move to the city. They’re not in particularly good shape, but they seem solid enough to wear.

“Here.” I hand them to Diego five minutes later.

We’re standing in the small hallway next to the back door, pulling on layers of snow gear: hats, scarves, gloves, boots… It’s sunny outside, but the temperature is in the low twenties.

“Wow,” I say, stepping out as a cold gush of air blows on my cheeks. “Refreshing for sure. So,” I ask, turning toward Diego. “How are snowmen made?”

“First, we need to find the right spot,” he says, advancing along the walkway that cuts the garden in half. Dad has plowed the way until about three-quarters into the backyard, leaving only the last stretch untouched. “Here.” Diego stops near the giant hemlock that towers over the garden. “We should build it under the shade of this tree so it doesn’t melt right away.”

I’m thinking that in this freezing cold, we could build our snowman in the sunniest spot and still it wouldn’t melt, but I don’t comment.

“I’m going to make the bigger body snowball,” Diego instructs. “And you can work on the chest ball.”