by Ellie Hall
Next thing I know, a rough hand brushes my cheek, and Rusty whispers, “Hey, wake up Cupcake. We should go upstairs.”
The eyes of someone like Zoe or the woman in my book would slowly flutter open, all flirty and coy. Instead, my book lands on the floor with a thud and as I scramble to get it I give Rusty a Charlie horse with my knee.
His eyes widen.
“I am so sorry. Are you okay?” I ask, fretting and rubbing his thigh, fully awake again.
“I’m fine. Just a cramp.” He gets up and limp-walks it off.
“Truly. I didn’t mean that. I got disoriented and—”
His hands clamp down on my shoulders. “Trust me. It’s fine. The cramp is gone.”
“So is your cast.”
“Yeah. I was letting my arm breathe.”
“Are you sure your doctor would approve that? It seems kind of soon.”
He cocks his head, reminding me that he’s an expert when it comes to these kinds of things.
“Just looking after you.”
“I appreciate it. I also want to regain muscle strength as soon as possible.”
My heart craters. “Oh, right. You have to return to work.”
“I want to return to work. I love what I do.”
“Doesn’t it get stressful sometimes? Depressing?”
His eyes dip as he looks away. A deep furrow lines my brow like a farmer tilling their crops. Rusty rubs his thumb over my forehead.
“Should I take that to mean that you’ll miss me when I leave?” His voice is husky.
I bite my lip. “What if I said yes?”
“I’d say get this dog trained as soon as possible so you can return to Manhattan.”
“What if I didn’t want to?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about how much I like Seaswell. It’s quaint and everyone knows each other.” Then I recall Zoe commenting on how much she wants to leave. And how Rusty seems to have left without looking back. What is it about a place like this that makes some people want to flee and others flock here?
“It gets old fast.”
“But there’s community. Just think, if Zoe hadn’t called about Oma then you wouldn’t have come back.”
He tips his head from side to side. “You do have a point. If that were the case, I wouldn’t be here with my fake girlfriend.”
I analyze the quirk of his lips. Is he joking or does he mean he likes having me as his fake girlfriend?
No answer comes, but his fingers twine around mine, which is good enough data to confirm the latter for me.
When we get to the top of the stairs, we stop outside my bedroom door. His gaze lingers on mine, reminding me that my favorite color is the crystalline blue of ice. He leans across the space separating us. One of his massive hands cups the back of my head and the other meets the curve of my neck. He tilts my head and the moonlight slicing through the window illuminates gentleness mixed with desire in his eyes. Then his lips land on my cheek without warning. They move up and then down the length of my scar with soft kisses.
Instead of pulling away, I lean in, letting the tender warmth of his touch stitch up something inside of me.
“Goodnight, Lottie,” he says in a low voice before sauntering down the hall.
In a daze, I go into the spare room and sit on the edge of the bed. I trace my fingers along the scar and for the first time, the ridges don’t fill me with dread or loathing or anything negative. But it wasn’t only his lips on my skin a few moments ago that shifted something inside. It’s what he said earlier about my scar being part of what makes me beautiful.
I have another scar on my chest, just below the collarbones. It only required about four stitches. Even though it’s not in as obvious a place as my face, I forget it’s there. Never once did I think it makes me ugly. For one, it’s often covered with clothing, but it’s doesn’t scream that I am wounded.
As my fingers drop from my cheek, the story of what happened all those years ago, outside that store, the tale I’ve rarely told anyone, gives way to a story I’ve been telling myself—one that has deepened my inner wounds: I’ll never be pretty. No one will ever look at me without wondering what happened. Without seeing my pain and scar. No one will ever want me.
What would happen if I told Rusty? What would happen if I told myself a different story? What if I believed what he said about me being beautiful?
I’ve rarely talked about this, certainly never told a guy, and why I might now makes my stomach all fluttery inside.
For the next three days, I table spring break plans and remain in the kitchen baking while Rusty tries and fails to get Magnolia and Oma acquainted. When he finally gives up, he works as the busboy, cleaning up my cupcake baking mess. Magnolia cleans the crumbs off the floor.
My mother would kill me.
That’s not to say we don’t have fun...and a few baking fails as well. I burn a batch, nearly ruining the pan like I did when I got distracted making macaroni and cheese that first night. I blame the blue-eyed baking assistant. I also forgot to add baking powder to one bowl and they turn out flat, but Rusty salvages them by saying they remind him of the rink and I make mini brownie pucks to go on top.
I know I’m supposed to be here on behalf of Home-Hunds, my parents’ company, and helping Oma orient to life with a companion and protection animal, but she doesn’t want anything to do with it and has gone as far as leaving the room when Magnolia enters.
It’s not that she’s afraid of canines, but simply not interested. I can’t figure out the relationship she and Rusty have, other than that it’s strained, but it’s like any time he tries to help her or get close, she pushes away and vice versa.
The cupcakes cool all over the kitchen table and counters.
“You nailed the color for the frosting.” Rusty wipes his hands on a rag.
“It wasn’t hard. I just matched the color of your eyes. Ice blue. My favorite color.” My cheeks heat as my breath catches.
Rusty’s gaze trails me as I flurry around the kitchen. When I get close to him, he snatches me, spinning me into his arms. Locked in his embrace and pressed together, my gaze lifts to his.
“You are my favorite color, flavor, person…” His lids turn heavy. “And you have frosting right—”
I brace myself. This is it. He’s going to kiss me. But his lips land on my nose. Mere inches from my lips as he kisses the tip and the frosting that apparently was on it.
Heat floods my cheeks. Amusement plays in his eyes. Magnolia gets to her feet at the approach of footsteps. Zoe waves through the screen door as Rusty returns to drying the bowls and measuring tools.
Never mind being caught by Oma, a strange twisting inside builds as if Zoe caught us doing something naughty.
“Check out these labels I made.” She shows me an adorable design for Cookie & Cupcake in black, white, and pink. “I figure it’ll stand out against the black, white, and blue of the Storm.”
“They’re whimsical and sweet. Pun intended. You’re amazing, you know that?” I say.
“Graphic design is kind of another thing I do on the side. Jane of all trades. Master of none.” A forlorn sigh escapes Zoe’s throat.
“You’re very talented.”
“I could say the same about you, Lottie. Wow. These cupcakes are works of art. You seriously did this yourself?” She carefully picks up a cupcake coated with frosting and outlined with a hockey player silhouette. Others have the Storm logo.
“I had an assistant.” I point to Rusty.
She doesn’t smile or joke or anything. “I was thinking we should make flyers to hang around town advertising. I also did some math to calculate the cost of supplies for baking, labels, packaging, and the profit for the rink.”
“I was thinking we could put out a donation slash tip jar.”
Zoe studies her hands. “I like that idea because I could use the cash too.”
Before she leaves, we review a few more items to get ready f
or the beginning of the tournament tonight, which will extend for the next seven days. I guess the people in this town take hockey very seriously, especially Rusty who insists we get there early.
After cleaning up and packing the cupcakes—and I only drop two on the floor, thanks Magnolia—we drive over to the rink.
Distracted by the cupcake enterprise, I forgot my jacket. “Now I’ll have plenty of time to get set up and freeze my buns off,” I mumble.
“We wouldn’t want that,” he says, handing me an oversized hoodie.
I turn over the well-worn garment. The design on the back isn’t as modern as the current Storm logo. The letters spelling Koenig border the bottom. “Was this yours?”
“Consider it vintage.”
As I pull it over my head, I tighten the strings around the hood and breath his fresh, icy smell embedded in the cotton. Like a little love struck weirdo, I want to burrow inside his sweatshirt and never come out.
Rusty kisses the little, visible patch of skin on my forehead and says, “I’ll see you in a bit, Cupcake.”
Even though the hyacinth, crocus, and iris are in full bloom surrounding Oma’s house, I make paper snowflakes to decorate our concessions table while I wait for Zoe. Rusty disappeared into the locker room, probably to pump up the guys on the team before they hit the ice.
Families and fans arrive, warming up the arena by half a degree, which isn’t saying much. But they’re loud and excited. I learn that if the Storm wins this game, we’ll host the next game until they lose. If they lose. Everyone seems more than confident in their ability to dominate.
Zoe shows up just after the buzzer sounds and I’ve already sold a dozen cookies and cupcakes. Deep circles rim her eyes. “Sorry. I got caught up with—” She shakes her head. “Never mind.” She mumbles some unfriendly words about Jared.
Concern prompts me to place my hand on her arm. “If you need to talk...”
She shakes me off. “No. Thanks though. I’m fine.”
The night slides by, with the Storm up by two by the third period and then taking the win, four to one by the end. The fans celebrate with generous cookie purchases as they leave the Ice Palace. From the locker room, there’s raucous cheering. Zoe and I clean up and count our cash as the lights in the arena dim.
“Five hundred forty-nine,” she says.
“Plus another two hundred in the tip jar.”
“That’s plenty to reinvest back into the business and we got an order for two dozen cookies for an office party. We also won tonight.” She wraps her arms around me and her cell phone buzzes between us.
Her eyes lower, darkening at the sight of the text. “I’d better go. See you back here tomorrow—same place. Same time.”
Minutes later, the Storm files out of the locker room, hooting and jabbering with excitement. Rusty tails them and his eyes sweep over me when Zoe congratulates him with a big hug on her way out. Moments later, the rink is quiet except for the machines keeping it cool.
Rusty exchanges a few words with the Ice Wizard and then comes over as I finish tidying up.
“Where’ve you been? How’d it go?” I ask.
“The coach had some questions and wanted some advice for how to get the guys to cooperate instead of competing—there needs to be a healthy dose of both when it comes to these hotheads. Sorry, I got wrapped up.”
Rusty’s voice clings to the words associated with hockey, like they’re each little life rafts, carrying him safely through uncertain waters. Skating used to be like that for me, until one day the landing was too hard and reality sucked the wind out of me.
“We won. But more importantly, how’d sales go?” he asks brightly.
“We were wiped out. But I saved you a cookie. It kind of broke on the side.” I hold it up.
He wrinkles his nose. “I like the cupcakes better.”
“I figured you’d be tired of them.”
“I could never get tired of cupcakes.” He wraps me in his arms and lifts me in a hug. “I like the way that sweatshirt looks on you. It was good luck for the team tonight.”
“But I’m Unlucky Lottie.”
“Not to me.”
He spins me around and before I realize what’s happening, we’re on the ice. The cool, smooth surface underneath me would cause anyone else to slip, but keeping my balance is second nature. Yes, even with my luck.
Rusty twines his hand in mine and we glide to the center of the rink. His icy blue eyes trace a line from my legs to my chest, to my face. I shiver but not because I’m cold.
A smile plays on his lips like he’s deciding whether to tease me with it.
I beg away a blush.
“You know, I think we’ve got the hang of this fake boyfriend-girlfriend thing. Except for one thing.” His voice rasps.
I raise my eyebrows, again, unsure if we’re still keeping up this charade or if it’s blurred into reality. “What’s that?” I risk asking.
Rusty leans in and captures my lips in his. It’s soft and electric and spontaneous. When his mouth meets mine, my fears about not knowing how to kiss melt. For the first time in my life, I’m fluent. I know exactly how to speak this language.
He pulls my head closer. His other hand finds my shoulder, then my back, my arm, his fingers touching, touching, touching. I clutch his jacket, forgetting that I’m painfully awkward and unlucky.
Rusty draws back, his eyes not leaving me as if we both try to answer the question what was that?
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” His voice is husky.
I tell confusion and guilt and awe to take a number and get in line. I need the fresh salt air to clear my head, to make sense of those four letters that spell kiss.
I glide off the rink. Once we’re outside, I take a deep breath.
“I meant that in my head I was wondering what was that and the answer was my first kiss and—” The more I talk the farther I get from a period, from concluding the sentence.
“Our first kiss,” he corrects.
“Yes, but also my first kiss.” The fresh night air brings my thoughts into focus....a little.
A few trucks idle in the parking lot and a streetlight overhead dims and brightens. Dims and brightens. Rusty eyes them quickly then returns his attention to me.
“My first kiss ever. Well, the time in middle school when a kid lost a dare doesn’t count.”
“Your first kiss?” he breathes.
I nod as the size of that fact catches up with me. I subtly peer at him, afraid but desperate for his reaction.
He links his fingers in mine. “I want you to be mine. My girlfriend. For real.” The words have the capital letters of insistence, of want.
My answer comes in the form of my second kiss with the man I’ve fallen for. The night may as well have turned into day as the thump of our hearts pour desire into our lips as we continue to communicate in another language...one all our own.
14
A Whole Lottie Love
Rusty
Hockey games and baked goods sales bookend the next few days. Secret kisses with Lottie fill all the space in between. In the kitchen on Starboard, in the closet by the pro-shop, on the beach. I’ve made a list of kisses:
Surprise kisses
Quick kisses
Long kisses
Loud kisses
Sloppy kisses
Slow kisses
Deep kisses
French kisses
Neck kisses
Ears, nose, and chin kisses
I forget my name kisses
I never want this to end kisses
How is it possible she’d never officially had her first kiss before me?
The charge between us overwhelms me as though every word that I’ve ever read or written wants to explode in inky lines, shapes, and stars that need no translation.
Intense.
Entwined.
Forever.
I’m overwhelmed. My heart hammers. There’s nothing ineloquen
t or awkward in the kisses I share with Lottie.
When we’re not kissing, I think about kissing...and the question the coach asked. I’ve neglected the Word Nerd Reads in favor of the Word Nerd Lives. Lottie and being home has awoken something inside. I can’t say that I’m sorry or have any regrets.
This truly is the best spring break ever.
But as my arm comes close to fully healing, my life in Manhattan, the one calling to me and requiring I slide back into my rut, saving lives, trying to heal people from maladies and malignancies gets loud.
The timer in the kitchen beeps, drawing me to Lottie. She’s been little more than a cupcake (and kissing) machine lately. The Storm has won four games with the final this coming weekend.
“I think I’m going to need another oven,” she says.
I wipe a stray lock of hair, coated in frosting from her brow.
“I think you’re going to need a break. There are fireworks in the harbor tonight.”
She eyes Magnolia. “I’m not sure how she does with loud noises.”
“She can keep Oma company.”
Lottie tips her head from side to side. “Not a bad idea. After the game tomorrow, I’m going to have to talk to my parents about the lack of progress.”
“I’m sorry. I figured Oma would welcome the company. She spends so much time alone.”
Lottie eyes the living room where Oma sits in her usual spot on the couch, skeins of yarn unraveled around her like a cat chased them away. Her knitting needles sleep in her lap. Only, her eyes are open, blinking slowly. It’s like she’s watching something get closer and closer, memories putting familiar images together until she recognizes them.
“I’ve noticed she’s been tired lately, but I probably will be too when I’ve been around the sun over eighty times.” Lottie bites her lip. “Maybe the company she was looking for was yours.” She kisses me on the cheek and then nudges me toward my grandmother.
Hesitantly, I enter the living room and lean on the arm of the sofa. She gazes at the painting on the wall of the owl in flight, its wings broad and powerful. She’d brought it from her house in Latvia.