by Casey Winter
In a long string of rapid-fire Spanish, she says, “My girl has finally returned home. Look at her. Wait, yes, is that you? Hannah? It is, yes? But how can I be sure? It’s been so long. Years. No, decades.”
I hug her tightly, both of us laughing. “Ha-ha, Mom,” I mutter. “I’m pretty sure it was less than two months ago.”
“Two months too long,” she cries, all in good fun. Switching to English, she turns to Penny. “And you, my little half-daughter, you don’t visit enough.”
“I know, Teresa, I know. I’m almost as selfish as Hannah.”
I drop my bag in the hallway and we head into the living room where Mom’s elderly neighbor, Alejandra, is sitting in the corner, knitting, eyes narrowed behind her spectacles. All she needs is a rocking chair and she’d look every inch the part. I love Alejandra. I’ve know her for a long time and I’m happy to see her.
“Tea? Tea? Tea?” Mom fires her finger at the three of us in turn.
“Tea sounds lovely,” I say, quickly standing. “But let me get it, madre. Por favor.”
Mom grins mischievously. She’s thinner now, of course, but her artist’s eyes are still bright blue. The living room walls are covered in her pieces: gorgeous landscapes, dotted here and there with odder, more experimental fantasy pieces.
“Back for five minutes and already her poor mother can’t do anything right,” she jokes.
“I know,” Penny says, twisting the knife, both of them teasing me. “She really is a dreadful daughter, isn’t she?”
I mock-glare at them, really loving how well the three of us get on. After Penny’s parents died and she came to live with us, Mom truly took Penny in and made her part of the family.
I get a tray of the herbal tea Mom likes, along with some biscuits. Alejandra takes a biscuit and munches as she knits.
“So,” Mom says, “first thing’s first. How long are you here for, changuito?”
Changuito. Little monkey, the name Mom gave me when I was a girl because I was always darting about the place.
“Mom.” I roll my eyes. “Firstly, I’m pretty sure I’ve asked you like a zillion times to never, under any circumstances, call me that. Secondly, I’m here … until …”
I hesitate. I’m here until you either get better or bite the dust. That’s what I was going to say, in my foot-in-mouth sort of way. Instead, I mutter, “I’m here for the long haul.”
“But what about your career?” Mom gasps.
“Cleo doesn’t mind me taking a break,” I tell her, referencing my manager. “She understands, Mom. Anyway, I’ve already told you, I’m starting to get tired of the nomad life. Living out of a suitcase, city to city. I’ve made some money. I have a little breathing room. Maybe it’s time for a …”
“For a break?” Penny offers.
“Yes. Exactly. A reevaluation, I guess you could call it.”
Mom beams. “Maybe you can draw again.”
“Maybe,” I agree. “But enough about me. How’re you feeling?”
“Nope,” Mom cries. “I’m not done with my interrogation, you pesky little monkey.”
Mom truly is the master of half-endearing, half-infuriating banter. Knowing that ‘little monkey’ bothers me in Spanish, she’s switched to English to double the teasing. But, in truth, I kinda like the nickname.
Sipping my herbal tea, I ask, “Well, what do you want to know?”
“One thing, above everything else,” she hisses. “How is that cheating, lying, philandering bastard in Florida doing?”
Alejandra laughs darkly, and the two ladies—twenty years between them, but both as fierce—exchange a glance. They both have a, to put it nicely, negative opinion of my dad, who met another woman and ran off to Florida when I was only eight years old.
“Have you spoken to him?” Mom snaps.
“Yes.” I sigh. “Well, sort of … about half a year ago. You know he’s busy.”
“Busy robbing the cradle, no doubt,” Mom yells, laughing loudly. For a second, it’s like nothing really has changed. But then her laugh morphs into a hacking cough. She covers it with her fist, shaking her head and waving at me when I move to help. Alejandra glances at me and I get the message: She’s proud. She can handle it.
I sit back, watching, feeling useless. Finally, it passes. She takes a long sip of herbal tea. “Such a nuisance,” she mutters. Reaching across the table, she touches my hand. “Whatever the reason, I’m glad you’re back. Now go and get your skates. I want them right here, next to the coffee table. Then, every time I look down, I can be reminded of just how wonderfully talented my only child is.”
I do as she says, feeling a warm note of pride when Mom oohs and ahhs over my hot-pink skates. She and Alejandra talk in their typical quick bursts of Spanish, and Penny leans in and whispers in my ear, “I’ve been visiting a few times a week, Hannah. This is the happiest I’ve seen her in ages. I think you’ve really made her day.”
We spend the rest of the morning drinking cups and cups of herbal tea and talking about nothing and everything. “You know I’m not a published writer,” Penny says to Alejandra, when she asks about her side project. “But I’m working on it. I’m working on a really sadistic and messed up thriller at the moment, actually, that features so many R-rated scenes you’d puke.”
If Alejandra was what she seems, a kindly old matriarch, she’d say something like: Oh, my. How awful. But appearances can be deceiving. Alejandra holds up her knitting needle. “This would make a good murder weapon, I think, no?” she says, and then returns to the scarf.
We all laugh like crazy at that, the contrast between Alejandra’s matriarchal appearance and her vicious, murderous words stark.
“Imagine,” Penny giggles. “Alejandra’s got a full suit of armor on and a massive shield but when she grabs her sword, it’s just a little knitting needle.”
“Typical writer,” I tease. “You had to just go and create a whole scene about it.”
She pouts. But it’s all good-natured, and the night goes on like that, bantering and talking and slowly sinking back into the way things used to be.
Despite everything, it feels good to be home.
—
Later, when Penny and Alejandra have left and Mom is taking a nap, I take my skates outside to get some practice in. Even if my manager has agreed to me taking a break from slalom, I’m not about to let my skills fall by the wayside.
Plus, I fricking love skating. Or maybe I’m addicted to it. Both? Yeah, let’s go with both. I put my skates on as I sit on the doorstep, something I’ve done more times than I can count.
Across the street, the Nelsons’ front light is on. I feel a pang in my chest. When I was a kid, I’d look for that front light, hoping to see Evelyn. I was a pretty shy little girl, so I’d never have the courage to go over and ask her to come out and skate with me. But if she saw me, she’d give me this just-Evelyn smile and then, five minutes later, skate right out the door.
When my skates are on, I go to the end of the road and set out my slalom cones. Basically, the whole idea of freestyle slalom is to dance between the cones, which are really close together. It’s about precision and timing and balance.
I lose myself.
Even if I only skated yesterday, I just get completely, like, submerged in it. Nothing else exists. All I hear is wheels on concrete, my own breath in my ears. I skate backwards, spin, balance on one wheel, scrape my wheels on the ground as I slide to a stop, spin again, and then launch back into another routine. I don’t even know how long it’s been.
Minutes? Hours?
I’ve got this big, cheesy grin on my face the whole time. I never smile like this in any other circumstances. It’s a smile straight from childhood, the smile Evelyn gave me when she taught me this beautiful art. The sort of smile Noah and I shared before … Well, before that horrible thing happened when I was a teenager, that thing I never like to think about.
I’m just doing a swan—crossed legs, balancing on only the front wheels of
both skates, sort of like a mix between a ninja and a ballerina—when I hear this crack behind me. It sounds close, and I jump, I’m so startled. Luckily, I’ve been doing this for years, so I don’t fall. But I do make quite a few grunting sounds, as well as get myself all tangled up before I finally find my feet-slash-skates.
I turn to find the source of the noise: Luke Nelson in his front lawn, axe in hand, splitting logs for firewood. For half a second, we just stare at each other. I remember him as this huge older boy, somebody who was always in the background, someone who rarely spoke to me.
Now, he’s big, but not the giant he used to be to me. His face is clean-shaven and he has cocky, smirking green eyes. His black hair is short, swept to the side, the sort of messy that makes me want to run my hand through it … or would, if I didn’t want anything to do with him or any Nelson, for that matter. Yet, in his baggy shorts and T-shirt, his tight muscles are on full display, and I can’t help but look at them. My heart drums annoyingly, betraying me. He’s hot. He has a few scars that I can see, I’m guessing from his time as a SEAL. They make him look manly, rugged, capable. Did I mention he was frustratingly hot? If he wasn’t a Nelson … but he is. So I’m going to ignore any silly desires or ideas that pop into my head.
Get it together, girlfriend.
Finally, he breaks the silence.
“You should be more careful, twinkle toes,” he says, and then brings his axe down in a casual, powerful strike. He splits the log cleanly and immediately sets another in its place.
“Did you see me fall?” I laugh, still feeling breathy with endorphins and exercise. “Because, news flash, I haven’t. Not once.”
Luke just shrugs, and then splits another log. He doesn’t even look at me again. Twinkle toes. That was the nickname he called me when I was just a little girl and he was the cool-as-hell teenager. Rarely, though, since we hardly ever had a reason to talk to each other. But once or twice, it was like, “Hey, Noah, Mom’s saying it’s time for dinner, kid. Tell twinkle toes you’ll see her later.”
I remember, once, writing ‘twinkle toes’ at the top of an exercise book at school. Not that I had a crush on him. Just … well, just because I guess I liked the name.
Well, I don’t like it now.
“I guess this is your way of trying to look cool, huh?” I sass, skating closer. I don’t know why, but the way he dismissed me, it annoys me. Like he’s so high and fricking mighty. “Standing out here with your axe, hoping the neighbors will notice. Putting on a show.”
The corner of his lip twitches, but only slightly. He looks at me coldly. There’s something alluring and slightly scary in his gaze, like he’s seen things I couldn’t even imagine.
He’s not the same boy who left to join the Navy, that’s for sure.
“And … are you enjoying the show, twinkle toes?” he growls.
That lip-twitch again, like, if he felt like it, he could smile. But he doesn’t feel like it.
“Yeah, right,” I snap, skating backwards, away from him. “You wish.”
His gaze flits to my feet and, for a moment, he seems impressed. Then he grabs another log for splitting. “If it isn’t too much trouble, could you move that pink abomination somewhere I don’t have to look at it?” He gestures with his axe at my pink Beetle. “Did you just walk into the dealership with a photo of a flamingo and tell them that’s the color you wanted? Damn. Flamingo-pink. One helluva a choice you made there.”
“Says you,” I snap. “Are we supposed to be, like, impressed by your big bad car, frogman?”
He flinches, eyes narrowing.
“What?” I snap, loving the feeling of one-upping him. “You’re surprised that I know SEALs are sometimes called frogmen, huh? Is it like code, only SEALs are allowed to use the term? Well, newsflash, frogman, if you’re gonna call me twinkle toes, I’m gonna call you anything I damn well please.”
“Just move that flamingo eyesore, twinkle toes,” he growls.
“Nope,” I snap. “Not unless you agree to move that Wannabe Badass Mobile, frogman.”
I spin, returning to my slalom, and Luke goes back to cutting logs. We don’t talk again. It’s like a contest to see who can ignore each other the hardest. But, every so often, I’ll look up and watch him for a couple of moments, snapping to my senses before he glances over and sees me staring. But I’m pretty sure when I’m not looking he’s watching me, too.
Chapter Three
Luke
Any way you want to cut it, the grand reopening of Family Roller is not a success. It’s not a massive failure, either, but it’s nothing like when Mom used to run it. We’ve been open for about an hour now and there’s around twenty skaters making a loop of the rink, mostly families and their kids. At least the kids are having fun, one little boy laughing as he slides onto his butt and immediately hops up again.
But the three stewards I hired for the evening look completely unnecessary, since there’s so few people. And the bar at the other end is deserted. And the hundred pairs of skates I purchased are sitting brand new and untouched on the rack. When Mom ran this place, the few times I came here, it was bustling, so busy sometimes people had to wait for skate hire.
I sigh, wandering over to the bar, dropping down and trying not to think about what Mom would say if she was here. Or Noah, since it was him that brought me back here in the first place.
Screw you, bro. I bet you’re laughing your ass off right now.
I sip on a cola, cursing this damn night. It was only through a combination of demon-like hard work, and luck, that I was able to get this place open so soon. I had three building crews working eight-hour shifts around the clock. I made dozens of phone calls a day, arranging deliveries, negotiating, getting things set up. I checked and double-checked everything.
But I’m missing something. Mom. She was the one who lit this place up, who filled it with life. Without her, it’s just a big room with disco music playing and neon lights.
I grip my glass, hard, thinking about how she must’ve screamed when she lost control and went skidding off the road, how crumpled and broken her car looked afterward, the tree pancaking it, the stiff branches going straight through the windshield. I have to let go of the glass before I shatter it.
Turning, I look at the rink, noting that one family is already heading back toward skate hire to return their skates. Then, off to the side, I see her.
Hannah Coleman-Ortiz.
She’s with her friend, Penny, but I don’t even glance at her. I just look at Hannah, with her skin-tight yoga pants and her light grey hoodie. She’s all curves, her body strong and tight from her freestyle slalom. Her jet-black hair is tied in a no-nonsense ponytail. Her body is smoking, there’s no mistake about it, and her face is all smiles and come-get-me eyes, and, dammit, if she wasn’t the girl who broke Noah’s heart I might have more nice things to say to her.
There’s something magnetic about her smile, too. She looks happier than I’ve been in a long, long time.
She doesn’t show off, like I expected her to. Instead, she gives her friend some pointers, and then, when a passing family says something to her, she happily gives their young daughter some tips, too. I go upstairs to my office, realizing that I’m dangerously close to not being able to look away. Her smile isn’t the only thing that’s magnetic.
I remember how hot she looked yesterday when she was practicing for real, like something straight out of a fever dream as she danced between the cones, doing some real mind-bending tricks, stuff that didn’t even make sense to me. The sassy smile on her face, the look of concentration, the habit she had of biting her lower lip when she was about to do something high-level …
Suddenly, I’m gripping the desk so hard the veins on my forearms bulge, corded and tense. What is wrong with me? Why am I letting myself think about Hannah like this, the girl who turned my brother into a wreck, the girl he used to talk about right up until the end?
The one that got away.
But not away from
me, away from my little brother.
To make matters worse, my manhood has flooded with tension just thinking about her, the subtle way her muscles twitched in those tight pants as she practiced. If today and yesterday is anything to go by, yoga pants are a signature part of her skating gear, which means I’m pretty much screwed in the hard-on department.
Taking deep breaths, I do this exercise I sometimes try when I’m alone. It’s something one of my SEAL buddies told me about, before … before I left.
“Breathe slow and deep, and then tell yourself what you want to be true. Make yourself believe it. And then it’ll be true. I know, man, it sounds like some hippy hogwash. But it works.”
Forcing myself to let go of the desk, I say, “Hannah is the girl who messed up my little brother emotionally. Being attracted to her, even just fantasizing about her, that’s like stabbing Noah in the back. Never think about her like that again.”
But, as I walk across the office to the window that looks down on the rink, I see that she’s loosened her ponytail and is shaking her raven-black hair out. It flows around her shoulders as she skates, like water, sometimes moving across her forehead. For a brief second, I think about what it’d be like to smooth it out of her way.
Then I turn, quickly, and pace to the mini fridge under the desk.
I need a beer.
—
Later, once Family Roller is closed, I head down to The Jukebox to get a real drink. Shutting down the place for the night was one hell of a punch in the gut, just me and the stewards still left. I just tried not to think about what Mom would say if she was here, especially because she’d be supportive. Which would be worse.
“You tried your best, Luke,” she’d tell me. “Don’t beat yourself up.”
But I want to beat myself up. I’m letting Mom down and, by ogling Hannah Coleman-Ortiz, I’m letting Noah’s memory down, too.
The Jukebox has had a renovation since I was last in Little Fall. It’s bigger, and now the bar is a big semicircle in the style of a jukebox, with gold rim. In the middle of the bar, protected by a layer of glass, a massive novelty record spins around and around. Not that I care much about the décor. I make a beeline for the bar and get myself a whiskey.