They’re in skates, most of them already gliding to the center with sticks in hand.
The crowd’s going feral, whistling and calling out names, even though no one seems entirely sure who they’re playing. Some kind of community all-star scramble. It doesn’t matter, though. The optics are insane.
“Love how they still do this little town hockey match every year,” Tamara says. “Even if the firefighters usually win.”
Of course they do.
Mason hasn’t seen me yet, he’s too busy strapping on gloves—which is when the blonde reappears. She’s in skates now, too. Pale pink ones with sparkly laces.
She skates confidently out toward him, and does that wholeoops-I’m-off-balanceact as she reaches for his arm. He catches her instinctively, and she laughs, then says something that appears to require her hand on his chest, too.
A flush climbs up my neck, hot under the collar of my coat.
“Frankie?” Tamara asks, but I don’t answer.
Because with perfect timing, Mason looks up. He scans the crowd, eyes sweeping past booths and families and familiar chaos, until they land on me.
He stills, then his whole expression shifts.
The forced smile drops in favor of a genuine one. His face lights up, and he lifts a hand to wave, taking half a step forward like he’s about to glide over the ice to me.
But the ref blows the whistle, the game kicks off, and the blonde’s still laughing as she links her arm through his.
And me? I’m already turning away.
I make up some excuse about needing to get back to the cabin, hug Tamara quickly, and ignore Eli’s teasing about dodging the rink again.
Then I head toward the parking lot, phone still stubbornly silent in my pocket, and decide to stop at the cemetery before I go back to the cabin. I’m leaving in the morning anyway.
Might as well say goodbye properly.
***
The cemetery is quieter than the lake by a mile. No music, no shouting children, no whir of skates on ice—just the branches creaking and the soft hush of winter settling over everything.
I know the way by heart. The little incline at the back corner, the rusted bench someone tried to paint over. The way the maple branches always look barest above their stone.
MONROE Thomas. Beloved husband, father, and coach.
MONROE Catherine. Adoring wife, mother, and teacher.
Their laughter filled the room, their love filled our lives.
Even now, reading their names feels like touching a bruise.
I make my way forward slowly, and then I stop. There are fresh flowers in the holder.
White lilies and a few sprigs of soft greenery, with winter berries.
Not from me, I haven’t visited yet this trip yet. And definitely not from the Parnells—Leah does extravagant wreaths, not understated bouquets.
Glancing around, I half expect to see someone else visiting, but the cemetery is empty.
Maybe it was someone else in town. I wouldn’t be surprised, Maplewood has a long memory and a soft spot for tragedies that happen too young.
“Hey.” I kneel, brushing snow from the base of the stone with a gloved hand.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “I kept thinking I would. That I’d bring cider or light a candle or something. But I’ve been avoiding it, because thinking about how much I want to talk to you about stupid things still really hurts. Not even just stupid things, about real things. About—”I swallow. “—who I’m becoming and whether you’d even recognize her.””
