“But! You’re also smart enough to know that spiraling alone in a cabin won’t fix anything. Get dressed, and go have fun. And look hot in case you run into him. It’s a win-win.”
I shake my head with a smile. “You’re not as wise as you think you are.”
“I’m wise enough to tell you not to skate if you wanna make a good impression.”
She blows me a kiss when I throw her a middle finger, and ends the call. I stare at the screen for a long moment, then toss the phone onto the coffee table.
I don’t know where he is, but I know whereI’mgoing.
Because if I don’t show up for myself today, who the hell will?
***
The Boxing Day event at Maplewood Lake is exactly as I remember.
There’s a bonfire crackling near the dock, music playing over tinny speakers, and a dozen booths set up along the snow-packed trail. Some sell hot cider, others collect donations.
Kids dart around with cocoa mustaches and leftover candy canes, cheeks pink and scarves trailing.
I grew up coming to this. Knew every face, every shortcut through the trails.
But today, even with Tamara looping her arm through mine and chattering like nothing’s changed, I feel like a tourist in my own hometown.
Close enough to touch it, but not quite part of it.
“God, I forgot how many people show up for this thing,” I mutter, tucking my hands deeper into my coat pockets.
“That’s Maplewood for you,” Tamara says with a grin. “Snow, snacks, and a chance to show off your skating skills… If you had any.”
“Rude.”
Logan glides past us on the ice, a hockey stick in hand, pulling a laughing Lulu behind him, who’s clinging to it like a sled.
Eli follows, less graceful but just as competitive, yelling something about a game-plan for later.
“They’re exhausting,” I say.
“They’re children,” Tamara agrees fondly. “But we keep them.”
I distractedly smile, then check my phone again.
Still no message.
I don’t know what I was expecting, maybe something stupid like a selfie. A voice note or a simple reply. Something about Hazel.Anythingto suggest last night wasn’t just a blip in the snow.
“Still no word from Douchebag McGee, your voice app ghoster?” Tamara asks, watching me out of the corner of her eye.
For a moment I forget my sister doesn’t know that Mason’s Fireboy, that we’ve talked it out already and I did, in fact, make him crawl.
I nearly word vomit out every single detail on the spot, but what’s the point? So I play along.
“Nope.” I pocket my phone. “Not that I’m, like,waiting.”
“Of course not.”
I elbow her. “Shut up.”
We round the curve near the food run donation station, and my breath catches.
