I don’t have much time to wallow in memories, though, because I’m not there thirty seconds when the door I came through is flung open and my sister bursts out.
“I didn’t know you could move that fast,” she says between pants, bending over and clutching her stomach.
“Then we’re even, because I didn’t know you were a backstabbing traitor who was conspiring with my ex.”
“Not”—pant—“fair.” Pant.
She drops into one of the Adirondack chairs and puts a hand to her chest like she’s deeply wounded or having a heart attack. “I wasn’t conspiring with Adam, I was trying to help him. And you. And make up for splitting you two up by getting you back together.”
I lower myself into the chair next to her. “Wait, you think it’s your fault Adam and I broke up?”
“Isn’t it?” She closes her eyes and lets her head fall backward, hitting the high back of the chair with athunk. “I’m the one who opened my big mouth at the game in front of that reporter.”
“And I’m the one who told you something that was said to me in confidence. Seems like there’s plenty of blame to go around.”
I follow her example, tipping my head back. But I keep my eyes open so I can stare up at the night sky. It’s clear and cloudless and cold, making the stars pop out of the darkness.
It’s funny, the sky is the one thing that isn’t any different, whether I’m in Utah or Vermont. I guess Virginia Woolf was right. The sky is the same everywhere, and travelers, the shipwrecked, exiles, and the dying can take comfort in that thought.
And the broken-hearted, too.
We sit there like that for a minute, me stargazing, her with her eyes shut, both of us quiet, drowning in our own thoughts. The longer I sit, the more I can feel the night air seeping through the thin fabric of my way-too-expensive-for-my-budget shirt. Another reason running out in the middle of the performance wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done. I’m already bracing myself to retake improv when I fail this semester.
I can’t change that now, but the cold I might be able to do something about. Maybe there’s a way I can go back inside and grab my jacket without being spotted. Or I could text Ian and have him bring it to me. The show must be almost over by now. People are going to start milling around. I’d like to get out of here before anyone—read Adam—finds me, but I can’t leave without my coat. I’ll freeze my ass off.
And my ass has always been one of my best features.
Hannah is the one to break the silence, her tearful voice cutting into my random musings.
“I’m sorry, Kolby Cakes,” she whispers. “I messed up.”
I reach over and squeeze her hand. “I told you, you’re not the reason Adam and I broke up.”
“I mean about tonight. It was my idea for him to do a big public apology in the middle of your show. I thought it would prove he was serious about making things right between you.”
That makes me sit up and pay attention. Well, even more attention than I’m already paying. “Your idea? You talked to Adam about me?”
“I told him what happened in the stands at the game. Please don’t be mad at me, Kolby,” she adds quickly. “I was trying to help. I hated seeing you so miserable. And if it’s any consolation, he looked just as miserable when I went to see him.”
No, it’s not any consolation. Because A, as mad as I am at Adam, I don’t want him to be miserable. Not really. Maybe there’s still some of the Mormon left in this boy after all because I can’t seem to make myself wish ill on him.
And B, my sister’s confession deflates any slim hope I had that Adam had come to his senses on his own.
I wrap my arms around myself, shivering. My coat would sure be nice right now. So would a shot of Fireball to warm me up. And numb the pain. “Not much of an apology if you had to talk him into it.”
“She didn’t have to talk me into it. I had already decided that groveling was necessary before your sister dropped by and read me the riot act.”
The familiar voice comes from somewhere behind me. Just like always, it speeds up my heartbeat and has heat churning in my gut. I stare down at one of the buttons on my shirt, not able to bring myself to look at him. I’m an emotional wreck already. Seeing him—gazing into the chocolate depths of his eyes—might completely undo me.
“I thought I told you to give me ten minutes with Kolby before you followed us out here,” Hannah complains.
“It’s been twelve,” Adam says. “And it’s cold out. I figured he’d need this.”
I turn to see what “this” is, bracing myself for the impact of facing him up close and personal. He’s standing in the half-open doorway with my jacket in his hands. Those soulful eyes are full of promises and tinged with concern, and there are worry lines etched in his forehead.
My foolish heart starts doing somersaults. He left the nice, warm bar and all his hockey buddies and came out here because he’s worried about me. That shreds my last thread of resistance more than any overblown grand gesture ever could.
“Thanks,” I croak, my voice thin and reedy and barely recognizable, even to me.
