Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
“What I’m getting is that you have been trying to picture me with my shirt off,” he says. “All you had to do was ask, Calloway.”
My cheeks flush. So much for our little cease-fire. “That’s not what I said.”
We fall into a not-so-comfortable silence as he continues to prep for me and I rotate the chicken out of the pan and bring in the next batch.
If I didn’t know Nolan was looming behind me with his massive presence, I could call the atmosphere in the cabin perfect.
The huge A-framed windows give a sweeping view of the Vermont mountains dusted with untouched, powdery snow and frozen trees. The fire is crackling and the sounds of laughter and conversation mingle with the rip of cards shuffling. Occasionally, everyone exclaims loudly as someone wins a hand.
It’s all warm furs, companionable conversation, and the protected knowledge of being in a space full of people who care about each other and enjoy the company. I can almost pretend there isn’t a dangerous spark between myself and Nolan today. Almost.
It feels like when I was just a kid and I was in our family home before everybody grew up. Those were the days when the weight of responsibility still hadn’t fallen on my shoulders–when I hadn’t had a chance to officially watch any of my dreams pass me by. I try not to, but I find myself speaking quietly. “Did you always want to be a hockey player?” I ask.
He looks up, surprised by the sudden change in topic. “Sort of,” he says. It feels like he’s dodging my question somehow, though. “What about you? I guess you knew you wanted to figure skate from a pretty young age, right?”
I nod, but feel a little odd as we dive into something so personal. Two years ago, when we sort of dated, we hardly ever talked about anything except cooking. It still felt like I barely knew him when I broke things off. Maybe it’s part of why things didn’t work between us. We both had our walls up the whole time.
“Figure skating was my first dream, yeah.” I smile, even though the memories are all bittersweet now. “I know I told you my dad wasn’t around, but he actually passed before I was born. And my mom was always sick. That’s why I got so close with Grams. But back before mom passed, she used to love to skate with me. We’d go out every year as soon as the harbor froze. I remember how much we loved putting the first marks on the fresh ice. It was kind of our thing–no matter how she was feeling that day, we always made it out there together.”
He’s looking at me seriously now, arms folded and eyebrows drawn together so his forehead creases. “I didn’t know.”
I shrug. “I don’t talk about it much, I guess. Nobody likes to hear sob stories, right? We’ve all got something sad in our past, and I don’t like pretending mine is more sad than someone else's.”
“Losing your parents… that’s not small.”
I shrug. “Plenty of people have lost more.”
“Grief isn’t a competitive sport. You’re allowed to be sad or accept sympathy.”
I brush his words off with a smile and a shrug, eager to push the topic to something else. “After… it happened, I think skating felt like my way to connect with her. I’d go out as much as I could. I found any excuse to be on the ice. Eventually, people started telling me how good I was and pushing me to train for something. So I channeled that into figure skating and started dreaming about how far I could go. And then I took that fall during practice. It was just a random thing. The same move I’ve landed thousands of times. But that time, I guess my skate was at the wrong angle or my ankle was more tired than I realized.” I shrug and brush at my eyes, which I’m embarrassed to realize are wet.
“I’m sorry,” Nolan says, sounding genuine. “I didn’t mean to dredge all that up.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I say. “I’m the one who started rambling about myself like anyone cares.”
He hesitates, jaw ticking. “I don’t like seeing you cry,” he says.
“No?” I ask. “Because it sure feels like your goal is to make me cry half the time.”
Nolan looks down, eyebrows crinkling together. “If I’m an ass to you, try not to take it personal. I push the good people away.”
I tilt my head. “What?”
He shakes his head suddenly. “It’s nothing. I just mean I’m not trying to be a dick.”
“Oh, okay. So it comes naturally to you. I see.”
He smiles, and I smile back a little, biting my lip.
I go back to the pan, checking on the chicken. “Well,” I say. “It’s done.”
“Hey, Mia?” He says, stopping me as I’m plating the chicken. He touches my arm. “I really am sorry about your parents. I mean it. If you ever want to… talk about it more, I’m here.”