Chapter 8

Being back here isa pleasant homecoming. After living a high-octane life in Los Angeles for so many years, I was afraid the crickets would keep me up half the night.

No, I have thoughts of Whit a few doors down to thank for that.

Burned into my mind is the little smile she wore on her lips as she stood at the kitchen window. The sun isn't even overhead yet and I'm on fire.

I need ice and I need it now.

Instead, rain sprinkles down and I hustle inside after stashing Blue's new bike in the garage.

I announce, "Change of plans. Bike riding lessons later. We're going to head to the school to get Blue registered for September?—"

My sister, hairbrush in hand, steps back as if she's trying to vanish into a hedge. School was my haven growing up, but I hadn't thought about how she might feel about attending a new one and having to make friends.

"Then we'll hit the Barn."

Blue's eyes light up. "Do we get to milk the cows again?"

"Not until tonight. Your brother means the ice rink," Whit says.

I explain that a long time ago, we didn't have ice rinks inside buildings. "Instead, people skated outside. It snows a lot here and everyone got tired of clearing the ice, so someone built a rink in their barn. Same place where I learned to skate. The arena is now different, but the name stuck."

"Sounds like a plan, but Blue asked me to teach you how to do her hair before we leave the house."

"I did?" she asks.

Whit, wearing contacts, winks. "It's not as hard as you think," she says to me.

We go to the living room and Blue sits on her knees next to the coffee table. Whit sits on the old floral sofa.

"Wow, it looks the same in here as it always did." Smells the same too, but that's probably because Whit bakes cookies as often as her grandma did.

Having spent a fair amount of time here when I was growing up, I miss Mr. and Mrs. Reid. It's not the same without them here, but strangely, it is like they're somewhere around the property, looking after the chickens, tinkering in the barn, or simply in another room. The loss I expected isn't as bad as I thought it would be.

"When I moved back, I fully intended to replace the furniture and do some updates—the bathrooms need a complete redo, along with fresh paint throughout the house, and a few other changes, especially the tattered furniture, the wood paneling, maybe new kitchen tile, but Milk Mustache came first."

"I understand having priorities," I say, itching to get on the ice after the rash of changes in my life, the long drive, and unexpectedly spending time with Whit. But I'm learning to put others before my needs, namely my sister. It's merely a happy coincidence that Whit is here to help me with that.

She pats the spot on the couch next to her. "Take a seat. I'll show you how it's done."

Whit gently brushes my sister's hair, showing me how to hold on to the spot above a knot so it doesn't pull and how to be extra careful around the baby hairs.

"Little known fact, I used to have long hair just like yours, Blue," I comment.

She spins her head to face me. "You did?"

Whit's lips quiver with what I can only call a private smile or maybe it's a grimace. I can't quite tell. "Little known fact? That was a well-known fact."

"In certain circles."

"An international fact. Didn't some foreign company offer you money for your hair?"

"I donated it to charity."

Whit all but rolls her eyes. "Hockey players have a thing about hair."

"We call it flow."

"As they speed across the ice the wind blows it back and—" Whit goes quiet.

If I didn't know better, I'd say she liked my hair long. I pocket that for later.

While Whit shows me how to do a ponytail and pigtails, she asks Blue about school. "What was your favorite part of the day?"

"Recess usually. But I also really liked it when we got to do art. The girl who sat next to me had a big box of crayons with a sharpener in the back. Sometimes she'd let me use her pink since my pack only had red or purple."

"Is pink your favorite color?"

"Yeah," she says sweetly.

"Tell you what, we'll make sure you get the big pack of crayons and whatever else you need for the start of school." The one thing I can't promise is friends.

Whit adds, "That way if the girl that sits next to you doesn't have the big pack, you can share your pink crayon with her."

My sister's ears lift as if she's smiling at that idea.

After showing me how to twist the ponytail elastic. Whit says, "Blue, if you're worried about starting at the new school in the fall and making friends, I know a thing or two about that. I had two best friends and then when we went to a new school, they forgot all about me."

"Did you make new friends?"

"A few, but I mostly stuck to myself." Whit eyes me.

Guilt is like grit against my skin and I wear an apology in my expression.

She continues, "If I could do it all over, I'd have been braver and not let those two rotten apples spoil my time."

"So, you'd have maybe tried sharing some of your other crayons or stuff?" Blue asks.

This kid is so smart, she blows me away.

"Exactly," Whit says. "Maybe I would've joined in some of the games at recess, sat with some other kids at lunch who were alone, and made sure to be helpful if anyone needed it in the classroom. Instead, I stayed to myself."

Clancy, Whit, and I were like the Three Musketeers in grade school. Her grandmother called us the Cookie-teers because we never said no to her milk and cookies. What Whit is saying is only meant to be helpful to my sister and applies more to her experience in high school. Still, I feel bad for being a jerk, for going along with Clancy because I wasn't brave and feared I'd lose my best friend if I didn't follow his lead and ditch Whit for the cool crowd.

"I have a feeling you're going to make friends this summer and when you walk into the classroom on the first day, they'll be happy to see you," I tell my sister.

Whit adds, "Here's a secret. Now, if I had a chance to be friends with the kids who'd forgotten about me, I would."

"Really?" Blue asks.

"Really," Whit replies, eyeing me, whether to make sure I'm paying attention to how she smooths my sister's hair into her palm or for another reason, I'm not sure.

I risk returning the glance. The corner of Whit's lip lifts as she spirals her finger through Blue's pigtail so it forms a little curl.

"Your turn," Whit says, referring to me trying my hand at doing the other pigtail, but I can't help but think she means that the ball, er, puck, is in my court.

When she gives me the seal of approval on the second pigtail, Blue thanks us, bounces to her feet, and then practically skips out of the room, calling for Baloo.

This leaves Whit and me alone in the living room. The cushions on the sofa are so old, she and I start to sink closer together.

She smooths her own hair and her strawberry scent wafts my way. Words unspoken linger between us. Although it's about ten years too late, I decide to be brave.

"I'd like to officially apologize," I say.

"You don't need to." Whit shifts slightly toward me, her knee bumping into my thigh.

"What happened wasn't right. We were the three Cookie-teers and?—"

"You remember that?" Her eyes sparkle.

"Of course."

"I thought you were too cool for things like milk and cookies. For me. When I was staying here with your grandma, she'd have them waiting for me every day after school. The only thing that was missing was you..."

"And Clancy," Whit adds.

"He'd swing by when you let him borrow the Chrysler."

"Ha, remember that old rust bucket?"

"Says the woman who somehow rehabilitated the Peugeot. Your grandfather used to kick that thing every time he passed it."

"No, it was among his treasures in his barn."

"More like junk."

"You sound like my grandmother," Whit says, her tone fond.

"They were a special pair. She'd always ask how you were doing when I'd get back after school when I was staying here. Whit, I'm truly sorry for abandoning you. I wasn't a good friend. High school was hard enough?—"

"Not for guys like you."

I lift my shoulder. "Being the bad boy half to your brother's golden boy position had its challenges. Sometimes maintaining people's expectations, especially when they're constructed rather than genuine, is harder than just being yourself."

Whit nods slowly. "I know what you mean. When I look back, being the bad girl rebel was exhausting."

"Strange that the bad boy and the bad girl didn't find their way together—" But we did, once, and then never spoke of it again.

Whit looks away before abruptly standing up as if she's about to rush out of the room.

I'm quick and spring to my feet, stopping her. "I mean?—"

"Yeah," she says vaguely.

It's as if words escape both of us. As if the only sensible thing to do right now is something else entirely with our mouths.

Unexpected feelings wrestle inside me as I follow the timeline of our history. We were friends as kids, didn't mean anything to each other when we reached our teens, and then we kissed—avoiding each other after that.

It was a kiss that changed me forever even if I'll never admit it to Whit or anyone else.

I toss aside my juggernaut of thoughts and pull out the charm the female hockey fans are fond of. It's familiar. Safe. "All girls want bad boys."

"All girls want to eat cookies, drink milk, and look great in their wedding gowns."

I tilt my head because that's the last thing I expected Whitney Laurel Reid to say. Does that mean she's also getting married? If so, I'd assume Clancy would've mentioned it and wouldn't have suggested I be her boyfriend so he could say, I do. Also, she'd be wearing an engagement ring and her fingers are bare.

Like upstairs in the hallway last night and under the trees years before that, we're standing face to face. Words still unspoken linger, but my apology was progress.

However, when Whit rushes from the room, I'm not so sure. My thoughts scramble, leaving me with little more than confusion about where we stand.

I find her and Blue on the back porch, washing Baloo's paws before letting him inside. Blue hurries after him.

Letting out a long exhale, I say, "Okay, ladies, I need to get on the ice."

"I thought we had to go to the school first."

"I have my priorities."

"That's not setting a good example," Whit murmurs, having changed outfits into something suitable for the cool temperature in the Barn. I rather liked the fit of her sundress before.

"I beg to differ. Recreation, sports, and artistic pursuits are healthy forms of expression."

"Do you need to blow off some steam, James?"

"Yes, I do Whitney."

Several hours later,we're all in jeans and sweatshirts on the ice. It's a comfortable contrast to the summer heat. My sister is standing on her first pair of blades. She's a bit wobbly, but once we get moving, skating comes naturally to her.

Soon, the three of us are spinning around the rink. I show off a bit and send ice chips in an arch through the air with an abrupt hockey stop. I take Blue's hand and spin her in a circle. Her giggles are wonderful.

"Your turn," she says.

Whit looks from my sister to me, eyes wide.

Being brave, I take her hand and draw her toward the center of the ice. Whit protests briefly, but I'm bigger, stronger, and more stable on the ice. Not that I'd use that against her. No, I want an excuse for her hand to be in mine. To have another moment alone.

Part of me knows how dangerous that is, but it turns out I'm not afraid to play with fire.

And the blaze that ignites between us when she grips my hand and the quirk of her lips that follows as she glides along by my side, suggests she's not either.

"Your sister is a genius and precocious," Whit says when we're out of earshot on center ice.

"Six going on sixteen."

"Precious too."

"She's a sweet kid. I'm not sure what Clancy told you, but I didn't really have a family. My mother took off. Same as Blue's—though I don't think her mom and our father were married. He was—" I go quiet, not wanting to waste words on the guy. "The Reids, both your parents and grandparents, were my family."

"Despite our dysfunctional moments?"

"More like learning experiences."

"I'm sorry that I was a brat."

"You don't need to apologize." However, smoothing things over between us is as nice as skating onto freshly groomed ice.

She bites her lower lip. "I do. I was wicked. Wild Whit. Remember the shaving cream I put in your motorcycle's exhaust pipe?"

I gasp. "That was you?"

She winces. "And the note from Chloe Quaid on Valentine's Day."

I waggle my eyebrows, recalling that she and I ended up having some fun thanks to that particular prank.

I get a solid eye roll in response.

Trying to be mature, I say, "Don't give my sister any crazy ideas. I don't want her becoming a prankster."

Whit laughs. "You're really good with her."

"Thanks. I'm learning. And you are sweet with her too. I appreciate everything. It's like your grandmother knew we needed a place to live...that we needed you." I don't know where the words come from, only that they're true.

Whit's cheeks turn pink, whether from being on the chilly rink or because of my comment, I'm not sure.

"Can we officially put our feud on ice?" I ask.

"What feud? I thought we melted that already."

Whit and I have ice skated before. She's about the same height. Her eyes are as light brown and as mischievous as ever. Her hair is shiny and long, blowing behind her as she skates ahead of me. But the waves are looser now and her figure is curvier in the womanliest way.

What's also different is a warm and welcoming laugh replacing the sarcastic laugh of our youth. Instead of acting like I don't exist, now, her eyes dart my way before quickly shifting in the other direction, as if she doesn't want me to notice that she's also measuring the changes I've undergone over the years.

This little dance of uncertainty continues throughout the rest of the week along with a new routine. Blue helps Whit with the cows in the morning, we all have breakfast, and spend the afternoon at the Barn.

I do manage to get my sister registered for school, which comes with the reminder that I have to meet with the Clarkson High School Red Hawks hockey team for my summer service.

I was told to help them fundraise for the upcoming season as well as sharpen some of their skills with drills.

I thought I was out of my depth taking care of a six-year-old, but these kids are so out of shape, lack proficiency, and are such a group of smart alecks, that I'm starting to question how I'm going to survive the summer...and not kissing Whit.