7. Vera

You have no one to blame but yourself, my brain unhelpfully supplies as I wrench open the door to the public library. I have time to kill and forgot how little there was to do around here. Dad's at work, gearing up for yet another season with the Kimmelwick Vikings and Mom is…. Well, I know it was my idea to keep up the dating ruse, but I don't really want to rehash that conversation with her just now. I'm sure it'll come up tonight when we head to the Oakes' for dinner.

The Kimmelwick Public Library is almost an optical illusion. It sits in what looks like an old, Victorian house, but once you step through the doors, it's as high tech as any of the smaller branches out on California. The main level is one big open space. Gleaming mahogany shelves line the walls, and small study carrels filled the center space. A circular reception desk faced the front door, a blonde woman typing at the speed of light on a sleek black computer.

"I'll be right with you," she says, not looking up from the screen, and it occurs to me I know her.

Birdie Bellamy sat in front of me for four straight years of high school English and next to me for three years of science. She'd been quiet unless her hand was high in the air and she always wore her hair yanked back into two tight braids. I wouldn't have categorized us as friends, but she was always nice and did her share of group projects. I'm not sure Birdie really hung out with anyone.

She glances up from her computer then, pushing a pair of round glasses up the bridge of her nose, and smiles at me. "Hi Vera, how can I help you today?"

"Um hi, Birdie." I give her an awkward wave from my hip. "How have you been?"

Her smile grows wider, and she reaches up to push her hair behind her ears. "I've been good. Life has been nice and quiet." Her eyes shift away from mine. "I wasn't sure you'd remember me."

I have to bite down on my lips to keep the smile at bay. I don't want Birdie thinking I'm laughing at her, but she looks exactly the same as she did in high school except for a few gray hairs and some faint lines that show she smiles freely. She still has the same honey-colored eyes, wide under the lenses of the same glasses she wore in high school. She's even still rocking a braid, although it's a single plait now, loose, tendrils escaping to frame her face as it falls down her back. She used to get teased for the mousy color, but old money blonde is currently on-trend. I know several girls who've payed a small fortune to achieve what she comes by naturally. It's even harder to hold in the laugh now. I could say the same thing about my hair color. And freckles.

"Of course I do," I tell her, but I'm not sure what else to say. It seems rude to say she hasn't changed or that her vocation certainly didn't surprise me. "I also remember you had the best taste in books, and I was hoping for some recommendations."

And I had some time to kill and nothing better to do, but I don't say that.

"I was hoping you'd stop by. I didn't know how long you'd be in town and I work most of the shifts here." She gestures around the empty room.

"It's amazing in here," I say. "When did the renovations happen?"

It's not the space it used to be. The lights are new, as are the windows letting in the natural sun. Despite the brightness, the air conditioning is chilly enough that Birdie has a knit cardigan looped over her shoulders even despite her long—sleeved button-up shirt. The hardwood floors gleam under matching, un-stained area rugs.

"You'd probably know better than I do," she says, laughing until she notices my frown. "Oh, I don't mean… not that you aren't incredibly generous…. I wasn't even thinking I about the money… I meant…" she stops, blows a breath out of her mouth and gives a little shake before apologizing. "Robbie was the one who donated the funds after the mold issue, probably four years ago now? I just assumed you knew."

"Robbie Oakes?"

"It's so nice to know you two found your way back to each other. I thought he was your one, even back in high school." She blushes. "I was secretly jealous of you two." Her eyes widen and more hair falls loose as she shakes her head. "Sorry, not like that. I didn't have a thing for Robbie. He was just so nice, even to me, but I meant the connection you guys shared. I wanted that. Hopeless romantic, I know."

I smile, hoping she takes the hint to breathe. Poor thing. I don't remember her being this anxious in high school. I'm not sure I remember her talking much at all.

The instinct pushing at my brain is to deny the relationship, but I'm the one who wanted to play along. To deny it now would really twist up my plan to not complicate this one tiny trip. And even if, in hindsight, the ruse is the most complicated of all? Well, it's too late to change that now.

"You saw the photos?" I say, ducking my head so she doesn't think I'm mad.

"Photos?" Birdie shakes her head. "My mama ran into your mama at the grocery store last night. No one likes a gossip, but she mentioned he picked you up at Genosa and brought you home. I might have let too many romance novels go to my head."

"If you did, then so did I." I wink at her and she pushes her glasses right back up the bridge of her nose. "It's almost like a fairytale, the way we crossed paths again after all this time."

Well, that, and that we're one-hundred percent fictional.

"That's beautiful," Birdie sighs, and it is. Or it would be if it were true. "It's funny how some things stay the same." She gives me a shy smile.

I ask her to direct me to the romance section and she does, handing me a list of fifteen of her favorite authors. A few names are on my list of favorites as well, a few I'm familiar with but haven't read, and some are complete unknowns. It's not an immense collection of books, only two shelves, but they're packed floor-to-ceiling with a range of titles and I have my ereader with me. Always do.

I pull a couple of Birdie's suggestions off the shelf, thumbing through the first few pages to get a feel for the writing. I catch myself lingering over a recent title. Three times I pull the book from the shelf, read the back, and slide it back into place beside its sisters. I can't pretend I don't know why it's caught my eye, this paperback with a shirtless man plastered across the cover. I can pretend it's something in the title, or that it's on the list from Birdie—it isn't. I checked twice—but I added the book to my stack for one reason only. It's the stick with chunky white lettering. The one with tape painstakingly wrapped around the curved blade. A hockey romance.

I remember Robbie's hands cupping mine as he showed me how to lay the tape just so. It became a game-day tradition. I'd sit in the V between his legs and use fresh tape, making each fold and cut absolutely perfect. I don't remember when I started drawing my name down the inside of his wrist before laying a kiss on his open palm.

"One for luck," I used to say. "Take it with you." And then he'd press that hand to his heart. I'd catch him out on the ice, repeating the movement. Pressing his hand across his heart during the anthem, kissing the dark bulk of his glove, then turning out into the stands, pointing to me.

Who tapes your stick for you now? Who are you pointing to now?

The questions circled in the core of my brain for months after he left. Years, if I'm being honest. Especially after I recognized the same pre-game ritual—the same kiss and point—this time toward the anonymity of the camera. Those were the dark ages. The ones where I avoided any mention of him in the media for fear I would spiral out of control. Where my new best friend Tandy checked everything for me on the off-chance he'd be there, his name mentioned.

And then he signed to Atlanta and scored a natural hat trick in his third NHL game, which left him as the prime candidate for the night's interviews, especially after his team pulled out the win. Tandy had climbed into my twin bed with me that night, and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me in close. Then she cued up the sports coverage and showed me a sweat-slicked Robbie Oakes, arms crossed with his hands jammed into his armpits, stubble and glower unable to dampen his grin as he talked to the camera about his first few games in the big leagues.

I remember trying to leave my room, twisting my body to escape as his honey voice seeped back into my bones and tears burned behind my eyes. Tandy had thrown her weight into keeping me in place, rubbing a hand softly over my hair as she insisted I wait, wait, just wait.

The channel cut to three clips of Robbie Oakes standing along the team bench, hand fisted against his heart during the anthem, only to point directly at the camera as the last notes faded out.

"Talk to us about any pre-game rituals you have in place. After tonight, and your first three nights on the ice, I think we can all agree they should become permanent," the reporter shoved her microphone up into Robbie's face.

I'd frozen there on the bed, pressed hard against my new friend's side, trying valiantly to hold back the tears as my heart felt like it was cracking into a million unfixable shards. Robbie leaned into the microphone, the smile wiped from his mouth, and I watched his lips more than I heard the words. "I get dressed, tape up my stick, and hit the ice just like every other guy out here."

I'd cried then, sloppy fat tears that soaked the top of my t-shirt and the shoulders of Tandy's. I was probably reading too much into things. It probably meant nothing, but what I heard was that I hadn't been replaced. Not even two years later. I hadn't been replaced, but Robbie was also right. He'd let me go so we could both chase our dreams. Dreams that needed our entire focus. He'd achieved his. It was my turn to do the same.

Robbie wasn't coming back. He wasn't biding his time. Wallowing in heartbreak would not bring him back. It was just going to hold me back in my life. It was time to pull up my big girl panties and make my own opportunities happen.

A week later, I walked for Cooper Wells, and my life changed too.

I add the hockey romance to my pile, then add the other two in the series.

There's no denying that Robbie Oakes is still unfairly attractive, and thanks to my brilliance, I can't spend the next few days avoiding him. At least these books will offer me some form of tension outlet. The kind I can take care of myself at the end of a long, hot day.

Birdie is still seated at the counter when I go to check out. She smiles and waves me over, and I wait while she checks out books for the older man in front of me. He has a stack of titles on birds of the northeast and bird watching. His hands shake as he pulls his library card out of his wallet.

"No need, Mr. Porter," Birdie says, stilling his trembling fingers, "I can look you right up on the computer." He smiles and tucks the wallet away, leaning heavily on his glossy cane.

"You're too good to me," he says, taking the small bag she hands over the desk. "She's too good to me," he repeats in my direction, and I nod.

"If you give me a moment to check her out, I can carry everything out for you." Birdie reaches for my first book.

Mr. Porter shakes his head. "I can't trouble you, dear. I made it this far. I'll make it home. Evan's waiting in the parking lot for me."

"His grandson," Birdie brings me into the conversation. "It's really no trouble." Mr. Porter does not back down.

"I have an idea," I say as my old classmate scans my pile. "Maybe you can do me a favor and walk me out. It's been ages since I've been here and I'm worried I'll get all turned around."

Mr. Porter's smile says he knows exactly what I'm up to, especially when he winks at me. The movement scrunches up one of his cheeks, his lips pursing like a kiss.

"I think I can help with that Miss…" he trails off, waiting for me to fill in my name and I smile even wider. It's been a long time since I had to introduce myself.

"Oh Mr. Porter, surely you remember Vera Novak," Birdie says, and I take his offered hand and shake.

"Ah, Arthur's girl." He points to his own face. "I'd recognize the freckles anywhere."

The freckles are my calling card. The thing that makes me standout. Anyone can dye their hair, wear color contacts, but not everyone can have the freckles. I used to hate them. Growing up with red hair and freckles was like painting a giant target on my back for bullies. I wonder if becoming an adult means learning to love the parts of myself I was once taught to hate. The insults always made it easy to forget I got my freckles from my dad. It's refreshing to have this man recognize them, not because he's seen them printed on the glossy pages of a magazine, but because he knows my father.

It's always going to be nice to hear little kids stop me and tell me they love the spots that cover me head to toe, but it's also really nice to have them not be anything more than a sign of who my family is. I forgot how peaceful that could be. I forgot there was a life when I was just Vera: daughter of the Kimmelwick High varsity football coach, girlfriend to one of the local hockey hot shots, straight-A student, and ballerina. A girl with big dreams of getting out of Small Town, USA and into the Big City.

"How's your mother, Cece?" Mr. Porter asks as I hand mom's library card to Birdie. She smiles at the signature but says nothing. I still had mine right until my parents moved into the apartment. I don't know if they ever actually expire, but it made sense to borrow my mother's for my stay here—something she readily agreed to. Now, as I tuck the card back into my wallet, I can see myself getting a new card. Spending a little more time here. Being just plain Vera again.

"She's good," I say, "Definitely surprised to see me. I didn't tell them I was coming."

Mr. Porter pats the back of my hand. "That would be hard for her, but I'm sure she's glad you're home. She's such a sweet soul. So kind to my Martha every time we see her."

"I'll be sure to tell her Martha and…"

"John."

"John, say hello."

Mr. Porter smiles, and I loop his arm through mine. Behind us, the large wooden door swings open and a tanned teen with a riot of curls lets it slam behind him.

"Sorry Pops," the kid says, "I didn't mean to leave you hanging." Apparently, Evan is no longer in the car. "Let's let the ladies stay in the nice, cool AC."

Birdie goes back to typing on her keyboard and I watch Evan lead his grandfather down the small ramp and out the front door. It's a sweet picture. One that makes my heart pinch but also tugs at the hollows of my cheeks. That undeniable bond. That sense of belonging.

Sometimes I feel loneliest in the very rooms where everyone knows my name. Maybe this could be my shot at making things different.

"How's your brother?" I ask Birdie.

I only remember James because he worked part time at the rink driving the Zamboni. He'd always slip me free hand warming packets when I'd stop by to watch Robbie play. And if he made off-color comments, or smiled a little too much, well, I had three boys on the ice willing to fight for me. Not that James ever toed the line with me. I heard stories about his hijinks, but I mostly remember him as a quiet guy. A lot like his sister.

"James is fine," Birdie's face falls, not the reaction I was going for. "He's doing time at Auburn Correctional."

"I'm so sorry." I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Slurp me down like a damn milkshake. I hitch my tote bag higher up my shoulder. What now? Do I ask how long? His charges? What is the etiquette around incarcerated relatives? My only experience with the federal prison system involves streaming Orange is the New Black with Tandy while sharing a carton of rocky road ice cream.

"It's okay. You didn't know." She shrugs, her cardigan slipping down one arm. "Everyone around here kind of avoids talking about him. It's nice to see someone who doesn't tiptoe around what happened. And he has the sweetest boy, Jameson. He's almost ten."

Kids.

Dear god.

James is a few years older than us, but a lot of people our age have kids.

Funny how some things change.

"Birdie," I give her a moment to meet my eyes again, "I'm going to be in town all week and I‘m not really sure what to do with myself."

"While Robbie's coaching?" She must read the absolute confusion on my face and jumps right in to anchor me in the conversation. "I know he spends a week every summer with our youth hockey program. That starts today, right?"

I nod, hoping I'm right. Did he tell me this? I think Jack might've said something. Coaching makes sense. I smile at the thought of my hockey boy putting his skills back into the new generation. It's definitely what Robbie would do, especially when preseason won't start for at least a few more weeks.

"Well, there's a darling art gallery that opened on Main Street. The farmers' market is Wednesday afternoons. There're the Movies-in-the-Park series every Thursday. Leondra's been teaching pottery on Tuesdays." She fiddles with her sweater sleeve. "You could try any of those. There's also the Founders' Day Carnival this weekend, but I don't know if you'll still be around."

I don't remember any of these options from when I was a kid, but I might just check out all of them.

"They all sound like great options," I tell Birdie, "but I meant would you like to get together one day? When you aren't working?"

Her surprise is obvious in the way her pale eyes widen and her mouth pops open. For a moment, I wonder if she's going to turn me down. Kindly—she's Birdie after all—but I still think she's going to say, "no thank you." She doesn't.

"You're sure?"

I nod, "If you want to."

"I do." Birdie bounces up from her seat, grinning and reaching across the desk to grab my hand. "I really do, but I should probably tell you that no one calls me Birdie anymore. I go by Bridget now. You know, if you wanted to be friends and all."

I smile because I do want to be her friend.

I really do.