"I needed you too, Clara. I was just too…" I searched for the words. "Too stupid."
"You were grieving, Beck. Of all people, I know what that's like."
It didn't slip my attention that she used of my nickname. "It's no excuse," I said.
"Yes, it is." She stood, and I thought she was adjusting the fire, but instead she wrapped her arms around me. "I'm sorry about your mom."
A sob caught in my throat and my body bucked as I tried to hold it in. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you, Clara." I stood, wrapped my arms around her, and sobbed into her hair. Her body shook and as she let herself cry, I allowed myself to do it, too.
There, in the middle of Sugar Bay, Clara and I cried like little children; grown versions of ourselves finally giving each other the comfort we needed fifteen years earlier.
When Clara pulled away, the front of my jacket was soaked with her tears. She touched her cheeks. “I think that fancy coat just exfoliated half of my face away." Her attempt at humor broke the somber mood.
Dash took advantage of our heavy conversation to polish off the rest of the jerky. We only noticed when he started to lap up the now-cold mug of instant coffee.
"Dash!" Clara grabbed it away from him and poured it down the fish hole.
It was warm enough inside the hut that I could take off my coat. I hung it on the door and helped Clara out of hers.
"I'm not asking for forgiveness, Clara. I know I don't deserve it. I'm going to save your program. Not for props with the town, or to get in your good books. I'm going to do it for the kid I used to be. And for all the little girl Claras in town."
"You still owe me some roses." She flashed me the first genuine smile I'd seen since I'd gotten into town.
"Shit. I'll buy you a greenhouse full of the damn things if that's what it takes."
"Start with the contract, Shepherd. Get it in writing." She took her coat from my hands.
"Deal."
I resumed my position on the bench. Clara settled in next to me. I lifted my arm and she nestled in against me, resting her head on my chest. I draped her coat over her body. "Don't get any ideas, Beck," she murmured. "I know what you like to do in tiny huts."
Her comment caught me off guard, and the laugh came out more like a cough. Her head jostled against my chest. "I'll save that for our second date."
"You remember?"
How could I forget? Clara and I had been young, and one of the few places we could sneak off together was the scorekeeper's booth next to the rink. "A guy never forgets the best night of his life."
"Mmmm," she murmured. After a few seconds her breathing evened out and her body softened against mine.
Outside, the storm raged, burying Chance Rapids. But inside that stinky hut, for the first time in fifteen years, the ice between us was starting to thaw.
11
CLARA
The first thingthat woke me up was a wet, rhythmic slurping. The second was the ache of a lower back that had slept on a plywood bench.
I peeled one eye open. The fish hut was gray, lit only by the early morning light leaking through the cracks around the door. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, and Dash was crouched by the hole, drinking the edges.
"Dash, your slurping is disgusting," I croaked. My neck was stiff, and I was warm. Too warm for a plywood shack in the middle of December.
That's when I realized Beck's arms were wrapped around me.
His coat was draped over Dash like a blanket. At some point during the night, Beck must have gotten up to tend the fire and cover the dog. I'd been too dead asleep to notice.
I froze. This was the man who had once promised me the world and then bailed. Could I get out of here without waking him up? Fight or flight kicked in, and flight was my go-to.
Then the smell of him hit me. It was partly gross, part nostalgia: wet wool, body odor reminiscent of his hockey bag, and that minty eczema soap he always used.
