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18. Chapter 18

With the squirrels trapped in Cassie's apartment, I let the girls go directly into the shop to change out of their pads and practice jerseys. Cassie must wait until I'm inside with the girls before she leaves because I don't see her again. I don't hear her either over the girls begging to see the squirrels, but I'm not making that mistake again.

I've made enough mistakes today to last a lifetime, starting with letting the babies out of the cage and ending with the biggest mistake of all: telling Cassie how I feel about her. Or, felt.

I've got to make it felt.

The surprise on Cassie's face with my confession told me everything I need to know, and what I should have known the minute she shut down mid-make-out.

Even after she ran away, I've held out hope that maybe I had a chance with her if I could figure out a way to apologize for thinking we could get over our disagreements with a kiss; thinking we could turn back time and get to know each other better.

But now I know those kisses meant nothing to her beyond a moment of weakness. They were meaningless. That's how she put it.

Obviously, Cassie doesn't feel for me what I feel for her. I'm an adversary. That's it.

Once the girls all leave, I go into her apartment. I stand in the middle of the studio and turn in a slow circle, trying to decide where to start. The whole place is a disaster, and who knows what kind of damage the squirrels are doing in the bathroom? That's where I've got to start. I'm just not sure how. There's barely enough room in there for the two of them, let alone me and them.

I get their crate from the shop, then stand outside the bathroom door, formulating the best plan for getting in without letting them out. Their scampering noises are loud enough to fill the entire apartment, and the metal clinking sound can only be from the rings holding the shower curtain. They're running across the short rod, which means they are high enough to attack when I walk in.

I don't know what happened between them and Cassie, but she looked almost as bad as this studio. Still beautiful, but a beautiful mess. Like maybe the squirrels used the top of her head as a dance floor. Her normally smooth, slicked-back ponytail hung loosely on the side of her head, and she had hair sticking up all over.

Her sweatshirt hung off her shoulder—I don't know if that's squirrel or fashion related—and her exposed skin was covered in scratches. She even had some on her face. The scratches were definitely caused by the cat or the squirrels. Or both. Honestly, probably the cat. Ninety-five percent of this mess is definitely cat-caused.

If I'd known Cassie still had a cat here, I never would have brought the baby squirrels inside the shop. That fact would have given me the perfect excuse to get out of squirrel duty. So that's on Cassie.

But, also, how did the squirrels get into the studio? There's only one way they could have: she let them in. Cassie's the only one who was here who also has opposable thumbs. Cats and squirrels can't open doors.

Okay, maybe some can. Squirrels, that is. Cats are stupid, and I already feel my eyes swelling just standing in here.

I need backup to help me clean this place up before I have a full allergy attack. This is a job for a big sister. I dial her number, then wait through four long rings before Britta finally picks up.

"I need your help at the shop," I say. "Actually, the studio."

"The studio where Cassie is staying? Are we doing something to surprise her so you can prove you love her?" The excitement in her voice pricks my ego all over again.

"I'm not in love with her, and she's definitely not in love with me," I say more gruffly than I mean to.

A short silence follows before Britta says, "What did you do, Bear?"

"Nothing on purpose. There was some squirrel-cat drama, but it wasn't my fault."

"What is a squirrel-cat?" Britta asks, completely serious—I think.

"Squirrel and cat. Two different animals, not one hybrid animal experiment." I step around the shards of glass and porcelain and open a cabinet. There's one plate and a bowl. "I told Cassie I'd clean up the mess, though, and I don't really know where to start."

"Are you asking me to help because I'm a girl?" Britta says.

I huff a laugh. "Right, as if it's ever worked to treat you different based on gender. I need your help because you're my big … sibling. And good at details. Can you stop by the Garden and get a few plates and bowls? Glasses too?"

A few seconds of silence pass. "Yes, but only if I get the complete story of what happened when I get there," she says with a firmness I can't argue with.

"Fine," I mumble.

"I'm on my way," she says with way too much eagerness.

I end the call, then walk into the shop to find a broom and get the shop vac.

By the time Britta arrives, I've cleaned up most of the kitchen area and thrown the cover on the daybed into the washer in the shop. Sanitary setting. Something peed on it—I'm blaming the cat.

"Okay, spill," Britta says as soon as she walks in and sets a stack of white dishes on the counter.

I let out a long sigh. "Help me get the squirrels out of the bathroom first."

"Squirrels in the bathroom?" Britta's eyebrows shoot up, along with the corners of her mouth. "That's what that noise is? This story's gonna be good."

A laugh slips out, and for the first time, I see the humor in the situation.

I just hope Cassie will, too. Eventually.

Getting the squirrels back in their crate involves peanuts, patience, and quick reflexes. But nothing else gets broken.

Of course, there's not much left for them to break. Including in the bathroom.

Half a roll of toilet paper is unrolled in the overflowing toilet, as though the squirrels used the roll like a hamster wheel, and I hope the first half of the roll isn't what's clogging the toilet. The handle is loose, so the squirrels may have jumped on it and flushed the toilet.

The shower curtain is torn, the soap dish is shattered on the floor, a bottle of shampoo is tipped and spilling down the shower drain. There's makeup stuff all over, along with some squirrel droppings.

"I'll clean up the bathroom. You take care of the curtain rod and lamp," Britta says before scooting past me into the bathroom.

"I'll have to plunge that toilet when you're done in there," I say while walking toward the shop to get a drill. "I just hope the pipes aren't clogged."

Two hours.

That's what it takes to clean a five hundred square foot studio apartment after two squirrels and a cat have had their way with it. Half that time is spent undoing the damage they've done to the toilet. I don't have my plumber's bag with my snaking tool and wrenches, so I plan to come back later to really check that the pipes are okay. The sounds they make when I run the water or flush the toilet worry me.

It doesn't help that Georgia keeps texting me. At least once every fifteen minutes, my phone buzzes with a message from her. They progress from squirrels, really? to an itemized list of everything in the studio that will have to be replaced. Even though she never says the words specifically, each one implies I did this on purpose.

At least Britta's on my side as I tell her as much of the story as I know. Mostly on my side, anyway. I end with my confession of my feelings for Cassie and feel my face turn hot with embarrassment as I recount the details.

"Don't jump to conclusions," she tells me as we rehang the curtain rod. "Being surprised isn't the same as not feeling the same way you do."

"I guess. But it doesn't mean she does either."I drill the anchor screw back in the wall before Britta can rebut my argument. "She hates men, especially me."

Britta laughs, nearly dropping the bracket to the curtain rod she's holding in place for me. "I've seen her look at you, Bear. That's not hate in her eyes. She likes what she sees."

"Of course she likes what she sees." I smile at Britta and strike a pose with the drill I have in one hand, then I go serious again. "It's what's inside that she doesn't like."

Britta waits for me to finish drilling before she says, "You may need to choose between fighting Cassie for the pond or fighting for her."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"If you want more than… whatever it is you two have now, the better play is to get Paradise and the surrounding communities to raise money for an indoor rink instead of fighting to keep the pond."

My eyes dart to her face and the drill slips off the screw head, leaving a long scratch on the wall. I try to rub it away, which makes Britta laugh again.

"Or Georgia was talking the other day about soliciting some donations for a rink from philanthropists. You might talk to her about whether that's a legitimate possibility." She gives me an encouraging nudge, then jumps off the chair she's standing on.

"People around here won't donate. Mom already tried that. A philanthropist is an even longer shot. That's one of Georgia's pipe dreams." I climb off my chair and move it back to the kitchen table.

"Yeah, so was the Little Copenhagen." Britta tilts her head, waiting for me to argue that Georgia doesn't have the power to make happen whatever she wants to happen.

That's a losing argument, so I move onto her second suggestion. "Either way, I don't want to train on an indoor rink. I like the pond. The girls do too."

"That makes no sense. We could have a community rink that would be open year-round." Britta brings her own chair back, picks up some papers from the floor, and sets them on the table.

"No one has time to practice during summer," I argue.

With all the visitors who come to Paradise to play on Smuk Lake during the summer, anyone who owns a restaurant or other tourist-driven business works twenty-four / seven. Including Britta and me.

"That's three months of the year, and we could find a way to use vacationers to raise money for a rink. We'd have the entire Fall and Spring to practice with an indoor rink, not just the Winter. We wouldn't have to wait for the pond to freeze."

She glances at me, but her eyes go back to the papers she set on the table. She picks one up, studying it closely.

Britta may be more interested in whatever she's reading, but I'm itchy, and not just because of the cat dander. "I like the pond," I repeat.

She lets her hand drop but doesn't set the paper down. "I know that, Bear, but you may not have another option." Britta holds the paper toward me, and we both look at it. "Cassie must have gotten the paperwork from Grandpa to get this building registered as a historic site. If this goes through, even if she doesn't buy it, you won't be able to tear it down."

I take the paper from Britta and read it, hoping she's wrong.

She's not.

But before I can say anything, the door opens and Cassie walks in.

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