by Ellie Hall
I chortle.
We continue to stroll and the ice cream freezes my thoughts from earlier in my throat.
Rusty pauses under a wooden sign hanging on a wrought iron bracket that says Front Street Booksellers: Vintage Emphera.
“Ice cream and now books. Best spring break ever,” he says.
While I agree, my brow furrows. “We need to work on that because although I indulge the idea of appreciating the little things, I think we can do slightly better in the fun department.”
Rusty takes my hand and kisses my knuckles in just the place a ring belongs. “It’s the best because I’m with you.”
I die. Right there on the sidewalk. Come collect my corpse. Dead inside the door to the bookstore—that would be the great start to a cozy mystery. I pause, drawing a deep breath. Nope. Still alive.
The smell of books. New, old, there’s something about the scent of time captured in a story, on pages, that makes me feel completely at home—I also inhale Rusty’s cool, icy scent. It reminds me of being wrapped up in a blanket during the coldest of winters.
“There’s a word for this feeling.” I feel the need to whisper, as if in reverence or because the salesclerk looks like an old codger who might enforce library volume rules.
“Yeah. I know.”
But does he? Does he feel this between us too?
“Vellichor.” I paraphrase the definition I read online. “It’s the strange, comforting sense of bookstores filled with hundreds of books that I’ll never have time to read even if I lived a hundred lives. Each of them contains their own era, culture, language, bound and dated and papered like a gift the author left years ago, hidden and filled with the thoughts as poignant now as the day they were written.”
“Spoken like a word nerd. A person who loves stories,” he says, looking at me instead of the bookshelves.
I take the deepest breath possible. “But the truth is, I feel this way about you too.” My smile turns shaky. “I don’t mean that you’re papery or old or dusty like this store. Ha. Dusty and Rusty rhyme.”
He clasps my upper arms gently, his gaze gripping mine. In a low, teasing voice he says, “I know what you meant, Lottie.”
Those words, almost more than anything else he’s ever said, make my heart stutter. And I hate the idea of this whole thing between us being fake and being over when he returns to New York City.
12
Playing for Keeps
Rusty
If only I could freeze in time that moment with Lottie in the bookstore. She was adorably nervous, rambling, but said everything I couldn’t, wouldn’t put into words. That woman is braver than me.
I keep asking myself about the real danger of speaking the truth and telling her fully how I feel, but it’s like the words freeze inside. My heart is on ice. What would happen if I let it thaw?
Zoe approaches us from the other end of the sidewalk toting a suitcase with one hand and balancing a large storage tub along with a bag with the other. My brain warns me against taking any risks with my heart.
“Hey guys,” Zoe calls.
“Leaving town?” Lottie asks.
Her gaze pitches up and then down. “I wish. Heading over to the Ice Palace with cookies.”
“Let us help you,” Lottie offers.
Getting out on the ice the other day was bittersweet—kind of like being with Lottie. It can’t last. It’s too good to be true. I’ve never quite felt as at home as I do at the Ice Palace. I joined a men’s league in Manhattan, but the guys on the team haven’t fallen into sync the way the Storm did. Some of the guys I grew up playing hockey with are still on the Storm. When I got out on the ice with them the other day, it was like I’d never left.
Despite Lottie’s protest because of my arm, I take the tub. “It’s fine. Healing well. I have the soft cast on now more as a precaution. I should be good as new in no time.”
“You should probably talk to your doctor just to be sure.”
I smirk. “I am a doctor.”
Her cheeks streak faintly pink and she says, “Oh, right.”
When we get to the Ice Palace, the slap of sticks against the puck, the coach hollering at the players, and the swish, swish of blades on ice draws a smile to my face.
While Lottie and Zoe do something with the cookies, I watch the Storm practice, envying how they work together as a team, like a family, passing the puck, and working together to get it to the goal.
A warm figure slides next to me, a coffee and milk-infused greeting wake up my senses.
“Ice cream and then ice may not have been the greatest idea. I’m chilly. Want a sip?” she asks.
When I take the paper cup, our fingers brush, warming in a way that no beverage ever could.
“It was cool seeing you out there with them despite my concern about your arm. With my luck, I would’ve broken it again.”
“I’ve been thinking about your luck.”
She tucks her head back. “What do you mean?”
I shrug. “You can think about the things that happen to you as bad luck or adventures.”
“More like misadventures,” she grumbles.
I turn to her. “No, Lottie. Being with you is an adventure.” Cracks form in the ice surrounding my heart. Careful, Rusty. I turn back to the rink.
“I guess I never thought about it that way.”
I fear I’m Icarus, flying too close to the sun. We’re both quiet while Nelson scores a goal against Skinny.
Lottie cheers.
“I always like to watch them when they don’t have an audience. There’s less bravado, more brotherhood.” I think of my family, and how we broke apart—like a fissure slivering an icy surface, the truth of why I left Seaswell and the Storm slices deep. It was just me. It’s always just me. No family, no connection, no working together toward a goal, however big or minor. It’s me on my own. Oma too, but she was more of a presence than a companion.
“You ready for the big game?” Zoe breaks into my thoughts. She nudges me, “The Ice Wizard would love to throw you right into it. The first game of the season always draws a big crowd.”
Lottie smiles. “Says the girl who tried to stop him from playing the other day.”
“There’s nothing like Russell Koenig on the ice. The Ice Wizard needs help with this place. The roof is in rough shape. I’ve been trying to organize a fundraiser and putting more than half the cookie proceeds toward the total amount needed for repairs.”
I glance up at the enormous wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling, remembering when I was little and would pretend I was inside a whale. “This place could use a lot of TLC.” I mutter.
“I’ll have the last batch done this afternoon. Will you still be able to help me bag them? I talked to the Ice Wizard and we’re all set to debut at the Snack Box and the games.”
“You’re quick,” Lottie says.
“When I want something, there’s no stopping me.” Zoe winks. “Except money, usually, but we’re fixing that.”
“I hope you rake it in then,” Lottie says.
“We. I hope we rake it in. This is a joint endeavor.” She wags her finger between herself and Lottie.
“I don’t think my cupcakes can compete with your cookies.”
“I think I’m missing something,” I say.
Both women turn to me as the guys parade by toward the locker room, number thirty-three, seventy-five, and sixteen’s eyes lingering on Lottie, the new girl in town. The urge to hug her close to me and shout mine! like a caveman seizes my brain. Me like her.
“What was that?” Zoe asks when the commotion quiets.
“Lottie makes amazing cupcakes, but it sounds like you’re talking about going into business together.”
“I do?” Lottie asks. “I mean, they’re okay.” She pauses as though realizing something and points at me. “You ate the one I gave to Oma.”
I don’t hide my guilty smile. “They’re the best cupcakes I’ve ever had.”
“Then it’s deci
ded. Lottie, you and I are going to raise some serious money to save this place.” Zoe bounces on her toes.
“It’ll be a team effort,” I say. “The Cookie & Cupcake Company.”
“When did you become so impassioned about saving the rink?” Zoe asks.
When did I become so impassioned about Lottie is the better question? I turn back to the ice. “I used to call it home.”
But parents and a figure skating coach come in on chatter and laughter. Neither Zoe nor Lottie seemed to have heard the comment.
After the Zamboni goes back in the garage, several girls lace their white skates, step confidently on the ice, and then take practiced glides while they warm up, before spinning, spiraling, and looping.
Lottie watches carefully as the young girls perform complicated maneuvers like axels and Salchows. “I used to skate figures.” Then she adds, “Competitively.”
“Seriously?”
Her blue eyes dance with excitement.
“I walked away years ago. Haven’t been out since.”
“Do you miss it? If I go more than ten days without lacing up, I have withdrawals.” I sense her lips lift. “You’re smiling like I’m joking. I’m not.”
“Dr. Koenig, I’ve already noticed you’re incapable of humor.”
She hip checks me, sending a red hot flare deep inside, threatening to melt the inner ice.
“Yes, I miss skating, dancing on the edge of the blade, defying the cold consequence of gravity. I don’t regret ending what could have been an Olympic career and the lonely pressure of performing, but seeing them out there, I don’t not regret it either.”
I turn slowly to her, not sure I heard correctly. “Why’d you stop?” I shouldn’t be surprised, considering we hardly know each other. But like being here at the Ice Palace, I feel at home with Lottie.
Instead of answering, she says, “My mother brought me to my first class for my fourth birthday. I recall falling a lot. However, after that class, I persistently asked when I’d be able to wear my skates again. I was hooked. When next week wasn’t enough, she signed me up for two classes, then she added a private. Back then, it was like play, without very far to fall.”
It’s like the same iron in my blood that magnetizes me to the blades on my skates, drew us together because I know exactly what she means.
She watches, entranced and as if speaking her thoughts out loud, she says, “After the accident, I kept up with it, gliding faster, digging harder, pushing myself to outrun the memory. Spinning, spinning, spinning, and hoping that if I skated well enough, everything would go back to normal.” She lets out a breath as if to say that it didn’t work. “I received silver after coming in second in the Junior Worlds. The competition excluded me. Ignored me. Said the judges took pity.” Lottie turns to me. “The problem was, I look different.”
My eyes flit to her scar and she turns away so I can’t see it.
Everything she said drops into the crevices of my mind as I try to figure it out but am missing part of the story. Admittedly, whoever did the sutures did a great job, but scars can hide deeper wounds, invisible ones. I wish I could help her heal.
“Lottie, this mark on your face doesn’t take away your beauty.”
She shakes her head slowly and wilts, gazing at the floor between us. I tuck my finger under her chin and lift it.
“Your beauty isn’t only revealed in the shine of your pale blue eyes, the fringe of your lashes, the gentle slope of your nose, and your perfect lips. The scar tells a story—of your strength and makes you unique. One of a kind. All the pieces fit together to form you. And you are beautiful.”
Her eyes slowly meet mine.
“And I like you, Lottie. A lot.”
“I like you too.”
I twine my fingers around hers. “There’s the annual showcase next month. You should sign up.”
“I should not. I’d be a laughingstock. I haven’t skated in years.”
“It’s like riding a bike.”
“Only, I don’t know how to do that.”
“I’ll tell Oma.”
“What’s that mean?” she asks.
“She’ll drop the iron fist and make you.”
Lottie scoffs, but I’m not joking.
“It would be good. Let your hair down...” I echo a comment she made. I’d love to see her hair down. A zing rushes through me at the thought of her hair loose around her shoulders as she flies across the ice.
Zoe joins us as we head back to Starboard so they can talk about adding cupcakes to the bake sale menu—the plan they hatched to save the rink. The Ice Wizard has run the place single handedly and I can tell he’s slipping behind. Older. Overwhelmed.
Oma sits in her chair, knitting. The familiar quiet, particular to spending a lot of time alone, swoops into my stomach. She mumbles something in Latvian, as though she doesn’t speak English. Nonetheless, without prompting, she fills three plates with a creamy radish and cucumber salad along with potato pancakes.
“Thank you,” Lottie says in Latvian. She leans into me and says, “I got an app on my phone to learn how to speak the language.”
Those slivers in the ice around my heart creak.
“I figured maybe if we could teach Magnolia some commands in your grandmother’s native language, they may bond better.”
The ice freezes over. For a second there, I thought it had to do with affection for me.
Zoe says, “Hi, Mrs. Ivanova, do you remember me?”
She looks Zoe up and down and then her gaze lands on Lottie. There’s a question there. The answer forms in my mind. But I don’t speak the words out loud. Yes, I dated Zoe. No, I don’t have feelings for her. As for feelings for my fake girlfriend? Yes, lots of feelings that are about as confusing as the mess I made of Oma’s yarn when I was nine.
Zoe clears her throat. “I’m sorry we called you the Crabby Cat Lady and papered your house on cabbage night after Russell left for college.”
Hidden in the wrinkles around Oma’s mouth a smile twitches. She mutters something else that I think is a swear in Latvian. Her voice is low, so it’s hard to tell.
“What did she say?” Zoe asks.
“She told you to take your toilet paper and wipe your something-something with it.”
Before Oma sweeps from the kitchen, I don’t mistake the fully formed smile lifting her lips and a sound that might be a chuckle.
“Are you messing with me?” Zoe’s eyes narrow in my direction.
“I’ve never really seen Rusty joke around,” Lottie says with a giggle.
“Rusty?” Zoe lifts and lowers her eyebrows. “He must really like you if he lets you call him that.”
All the air leaves the room at the painful memory of someone else who used to call me that. But I find my breath, my voice. “Yes, I really like her.”
Zoe smirks. Then a car honks aggressively outside. “That must be Jared. I’d better run.”
“You’re still hanging out with him?”
“None of your business, Russell,” she says flatly.
“It is my business if you’re messing around with someone like him.”
“Just because he broke your tooth doesn’t mean—”
“This has nothing to do with playing street hockey when we were fifteen and you know it.”
Zoe lets out a long breath. “He’s not as bad as—Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Ivanova,” she calls as she exits.
A car door slams and a vehicle, with a throaty rumble, peels away, leaving an uncomfortable silence.
Lottie picks at her dinner.
“Don’t mind her, she’s—” What I want to say is Don’t be jealous. I’m not at all interested in Zoe. “Starting with me, then Skinny, and now Jared Grimes, she makes poor decisions when it comes to guys.”
“Why did you say starting with you?”
“It wasn’t like I didn’t deserve to have my tooth knocked out.”
Her eyes widen. “You seem to have changed a lot.”
I grunt.
“I like Zoe,” Lottie says. “She’d fit right in with my friends back in the city.”
“I should hope so since you’re going into business together.”
“It’s just a bake sale.”
“And it was just prom,” I mutter and then wince at the streak of sadness in Lottie’s eyes.
She sets her fork down. “She hurt you, huh?”
I shrug. “After what she did, I realized I can only trust myself.”
“Is that another way of saying that you can’t trust anyone, including me?”
From the corner of the room, Magnolia lets out a loud doggy-sigh.
Lottie gets up to feed her now that we’re done—it’s part of the training, which Oma wants nothing to do with. Seemed like a good idea to get Oma a companion animal the night Zoe called me in a panic after Oma took a spill in the grocery store.
After cleaning up dinner, Oma goes to bed—seems like earlier and earlier each day. Likely, she doesn’t want company.
Lottie and I settle on the couch, each with a book in hand. In the comfortable silence, I shift and move subtly closer to her. I wouldn’t mind wrapping my arm around her back. I remember doing so without hesitation when I was a teenager. I was so confident back then. Where all that go?
She scratches her ankle and then stretches her leg and it presses against mine. Inch by invisible inch, we move closer until we’re both in the center of the couch, leaning against each other, engrossed in our books. Although, the slight smile on her face suggests she can’t ignore my proximity. And the warmth she gives off causes a drip, drip, drip in my chest.
13
Discomfort Zone
Lottie
Seated on the couch and leaning against Rusty, I reread the same sentence in my sweet romance a dozen times or more. My mind scrambles at his proximity. My senses go on overload from the warmth and cool scent of his skin. The way he’s so solid, so very much here, beside me. Seems impossible.
But it’s comforting too. I yawn. My eyes dip. The words blur. My thoughts go quiet.
