Page 70 of Home Ice

We’re doing good now.

Me and Dad.

Everything is looking up for us.

This is a regular setback.

I’ll bounce back in no time.

I’m not sure what I’m looking at when I pull up in my driveway. There are two bodies bent over the front garden, and at first, I think my skate has exhausted me to the point of hallucination, but then Hawke looks up, and there’s no way even I could imagine that smile.

“You’re home,” he calls as I climb out of the car.

“I’m home.” I approach them slowly. “What are you doing?”

Dad pushes back his hat to wipe at the sweat on his forehead. “Told you. Wanted to plant some milkweed in here.” He pats Hawke on the knee. “Ran into your old buddy in town, who gave me a lift home and said he’d help with the planting.”

“Even though I have no clue what I’m doing.” He emphasizes the point by poking at the soil with a spade.

“I can help.”

“We’ve got this,” Hawke cuts in. “I think you have a phone call to make anyway.”

His eyes lock onto mine, and it’s a silent battle between us. I don’t want Dad knowing about our deal, especially since I’m not sure I can go through with it. I don’t need therapy. Dad’s the one who had the stroke.

The way I screamed barely an hour ago pops up in my memories, but I shove it out again.

“What call?” Dad asks, picking up on the weird vibe between us.

“Nothing. Just one of the coaching parents,” I lie. “I’ll get dinner started while you finish up.”

“Great. I’m starving.” Hawke sends me a cheeky grin, but my gut bottoms out.

“You’re staying too?”

“Of course he’s staying,” Dad answers with a frown. His tone is telling me to quit being rude, but all I can think about is Hawke in our space. Seeing the house. Judging us.

“Right.” I force a normal tone and nod to the garden. “It’s looking good.”

I leave them to it as I head as quickly as possible inside, without it looking like I’m rushing inside. The first thing I’m faced with is the foyer. Full and overflowing. The living room. Trash everywhere. Canvases lined four deep along the wall. Packing boxes broken down and sitting in a stack in the corner, waiting for me to finally get rid of them.

My heartbeat kicks up as I try to figure out where to start first. The empty cups. The takeout containers. The layer of dust covering everything. I start to clear one area, get distracted by another, and it doesn’t seem like anything I do is helping with any of it.

Holy fucking shit, what is Hawke going to say?

Okay. Deep breath. I work a lot. This is normal. It’s not like we’re hoarders. Umm, intentionally.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

My breathing is coming shorter and sharper. It’s like the walls are going to collapse on me at any moment. I just … I can’t …

Fuck.

The front door opens and closes, and I turn toward the footsteps.

Hawke makes it a foot inside the front door before he freezes, face too slow to hide his thoughts as his gaze moves around the room.

“Ben sent me in here to check on you.”