Bittersweet (23 page)

I manage to turn it into a double and land without wobbling.

Josh cheers, and I launch into another double, land, and twist immediately into a camel spin. The song in my ears starts to slow, and I let the spin fade into a gentle glide, the bright white sky motionless as I sail uninhibited beneath it. I push off one more time, gaining momentum, zooming closer and
closer. Then, in my favorite finish, I cut my blades hard and shower him with ice.

Phishhhh …

I can almost hear Lola laughing.
Enough showboating, greenblades. I was making moves like that when I was six.
But she’d smile when she said it. And so would I.

“What do you think, fifty-six?”

“I think I’m glad I don’t have to skate against you in the competition.” Josh hands over my jacket. “You were wrong about one thing, though. You didn’t make me wish I never got up.”

His comment hangs in the winter air between us, blood rushing back to my cheeks as I catch my breath.

“I messed up that jump,” I say. “I’ve been working on this crazy triple/triple combo at Baylor’s. Back in the day, it was my signature move. Lost my edge a little.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“You’re not a skating judge.”

“You’ll figure it out in time, Pink.” Josh nudges me with his hip, but as usual, I don’t see it coming. He grabs me just before I fall, catching me against his chest, arms tight around my waist, neither of us moving for a moment.

“Hudson,” he whispers, and I look up into his eyes, so bright and blue in all this whiteness … my heartbeat quickens as he leans closer. His grip tightens and my legs go wobbly in a way that has nothing to do with slipping on the ice. He could kiss me. He could kiss me right now, and then I’d know for sure.

We’re alone out here, just us and the seagulls and the harsh
December wind. I close my eyes and lean forward, ever so slightly, waiting for him to make the move.

Here’s your chance, Blackthorn! Now or never!

“Sorry,” he says, letting go of my arms as my eyes pop open. “I didn’t mean to knock you over. You okay?”

“I’m … um … I brought snacks!” My announcement is loud and awkward enough to wake all the ghosts of Fillmore, but it works to break the not-so-momentous moment. I skate over to my backpack and dig out the small box of cupcakes and some balled-up Fresh ’n’ Fast bags. Side by side, but not too close, we sit on the plastic bags beneath the signpost and chow down.

At least now I know for sure. Friends. Just friends. I can live with that.

“How lame is it that I have to stay home on New Year’s every single year?” I ask between bites of chocolaty goodness. “I swear, if I’m ever allowed out for the ball drop, Dick Clark will accuse me of cheating.”

Josh taps the blade of my skate with his. “You and Dick, huh? Sorry, I don’t see it.”

“Aw, you just don’t
know
Dick like I know Dick. Dick and I are like
this
.” I cross my fingers and hold them in front of Josh’s face. “Like
this
!”

Josh snorts, dropping crumbs down the front of his jacket. “The party isn’t all that, anyway,” he says, brushing them into the snow. “Believe me—your eight-year-old brother probably needs less supervision than those guys.”

“If you ask me, Bug needs
no
supervision. He’s the smartest, most well-behaved kid on the planet. I can’t believe Mom doesn’t—wait. That’s it! Josh, that’s totally it! You’re so brilliant I could kiss you! I mean, not kiss you, but … you’re really, um … smart.”

Okay, ice? If you’re thinking about killing anyone, now would be a
great
time to crack open and suck me under. No hard feelings, pinkie swear.

“Yeah, well.” Josh smiles, looking down the shore. “Last year Gettysburg tried to make out with a mounted deer head and Will woke up in Amir’s bathtub wearing one of Mrs. Jordan’s nightgowns. I’m still recovering from those images. I’m telling you, you won’t be missing much.”

“Exactly.” I lick the last drop of chocolate icing from my thumb and pull my gloves back on. “I won’t be missing it at all.”

Um … cornbread

By the time I convince Bug to accept my best-in-class New Year’s bribe—four
custom cupcakes, unlimited television, and no set bedtime—and get to Amir’s, it’s well past eleven, and everyone inside is well past the “I love you, man” stage. I find Will immediately, his showstopper laugh rising above all the yellow plastic horns and sparkly, dollar-store noisemakers.

“You made it!” Will beams as I enter the kitchen and wraps me in a warm hug.

“Princess Pink, in the house!” Brad Nelson gives me a fist bump and pulls a pink-and-white feather boa from a box on the counter. “Saved it for you. It’s pink, get it?”

“Um, yeah.
Thanks
.” I smile and drape it over my shoulders,
blending right in with the party people. It’s funny to think that just three weeks ago I was at Luke’s house with the same crowd of hockey boys, unsure if they’d
ever
accept me. They’d just won their first game in years. Josh gave me the music mix. And then Will pulled me into the crush of the living room, bass thumping through the speakers, all of us laughing and dancing, Will’s arms strong and steady as we bounced to the beat.

That night was when it all started—when they let me in for real. And now I’m a part of the group, not just for the hockey stuff, but as a friend, in on all the jokes, wearing my Princess Pink nickname like a badge, hanging out like I’ve always belonged. Not just with Will, but the other guys, too.

I glance over the mob, hoping against the odds I might find Josh. But I already know he isn’t here—I can feel it. He may not be the center of attention like Will, but his absence leaves a palpable hole in the vibe. Maybe after all his stories from last year’s party, Abby didn’t want to come.

“Where’s your friend tonight,
mamí
?” Frankie Torres steps in front of me, hands in his pockets.

“Blackthorn?”

“No. Danielle.” He says her name the longest way possible:
Dan-y-elle
.

I raise an eyebrow. “Dani has a family thing in Toronto.”

“Oh, right.” He looks across the kitchen, like maybe I made a mistake and she’s just hiding behind the fridge. “Does she ever say anything?” he whispers. “Like, about me?”

Frankie Torres … not a lady … something wrong with this picture …

“Honestly, we haven’t talked much lately,” I say. “With work and hockey stuff … we haven’t seen each other.”

“Oh, okay. Cool. I was just—”

“One minute, people!” Amir cuts the music and turns up the television, and Frankie and I merge into the living room with the rest of the crowd. The place is packed, and I end up in a chair across from the couch, separated from Will by a dozen warm bodies. Simultaneously, everyone joins in on the countdown, all of us watching the giant silver ball descend over Times Square.

“Five … four … three … two … one … Happy New Year!”

The horns and cheap noisemakers muffle the “Auld Lang Syne” trumpets blaring from the television, but that’s just fine by me, because that song always makes me cry. Paper confetti snows down around us, everyone drunk and swaying, hugging and kissing. Only Frankie Torres is alone, sitting on the couch and staring out the front windows as if he’s still hoping Dani might show. Right now she’s dancing in some fancy hotel ballroom while her dad’s jazz ensemble belts out this very song, and Josh is making out with Abby, and Mom is schmoozing the locals, and Bug’s back home, probably watching the same channel as me, swallowed up by the giant pillows on our couch, and I’m just—

“Where’s my girl?” Will calls out across the room. He
smiles when he finally sees me, his eyes lighting up like there’s no one else here.

I look behind me, half expecting to see Kara there with open arms and a freshly glossed pout, primed for kissing. But there’s only me, rising dumbly from the chair as Will edges through the crowd, drink held high above a sea of people.

“Happy New Year, Hudson.” He grabs me with one arm and pulls me into a kiss. The feather boa crushes between us, its delicate feathers tickling my chin. His mouth tastes sweet from the red stuff in his cup, but his movements are intentional, not sloppy or drunk. His hand glides up my neck, tangling into my hair, and the kiss intensifies, my heart hammering so loudly in my ears that I no longer hear the celebration around us; I’m not part of it. My whole body reacts to his touch, skin heating up as his fingers trace lines down my neck, across my collarbone, erasing the rest of my thoughts.

Unnoticed, Will and I sneak down the hallway and slip into a room on the other side of the house. The space is small and mostly dark, some kind of office, illuminated only by the white-yellow glow of a streetlamp outside.

Will closes the door with his foot, his lips never breaking from mine. He backs me against the wall, and as my shoulders hit the cold, painted plaster, I give in to the current of him, melting beneath his touch. Slowly, he tugs the boa from my neck, feathers quivering as it falls to the floor. I slip my hands underneath his shirt, trailing my fingers over the smooth, knotted muscles of his back, all the way up to his shoulders.
Beyond the window on the opposite wall, icy snow falls soundlessly from the sky, but in here, Will’s skin is warm, the heat of him radiating through my thin camisole, the ragged, uneven tide of his breath hot on my neck.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers in my ear, soft and hungry. I pull him tighter against my body and close my eyes, letting his words linger, his hands expertly moving down my back.

This is it, the kiss he promised, the midnight interlude I’d been warned about. But as good as he makes me feel on the outside, on the inside, I can’t stop my mind from wandering. Each time I try to catch my thoughts and bring them back to this moment, every cell of my body pressed against Will’s in the newborn moments of another year, I lose my way. It’s like driving in a blizzard, slowly inching along the road back home only to realize at the end of a long, cold night that you’ve pulled into someone else’s driveway, someone else’s life.

“You okay?” Will whispers, slightly breathless. He brushes a lock of hair from my eyes and kisses my face, but my hand is flat against his chest, holding him back. “We don’t have to do anything you—”

“It’s not that.” I slide my hand down his shirt and close my eyes, fingers tracing the ridges of his abdomen. “I’m sorry. I just … I feel kind of light-headed.”

“Do you want to sit?” He takes my hands in his and squeezes gently, nodding toward a desk chair behind me.

“I think I need some water.” I kiss him once more to alleviate his concern and duck into the hall. The bathroom is
thankfully unoccupied; inside, I click the door shut and run my wrists under the cold tap, willing the chill into my veins, counting my heartbeats until they slow to a regular rate.

Will Harper
. Until recently, he barely acknowledged my existence. Now, after just a few weeks of hanging out, he’s calling me his girl? Looking at me like I’m the only person in a crowded room?

His
girl
? Is that what I want? Is that
who
I want?

My thoughts drift again to Josh, that first day we met at Fillmore, his visits to Hurley’s, the backward crossovers, the music, all the jokes and practices. I know we’re just friends, but sometimes, when our laughter fades and he holds my glance a little too long, I swear he’s looking at me as something more. Not
just
a friend. Not
just
a skating bud, showing him those complicated crossovers again and again until he gets them right. But then his phone buzzes or he starts talking about something else and the thin, momentary thread connecting us breaks and I start to think I imagined the whole thing. Why can’t I get him out of my head?

I turn off the bathroom faucet. My hands are shaking, and I’m afraid to look at my reflection over the sink. It’s one thing to lie to your mother, your baby brother, even to your best friend. But alone in a tiny beige box of a room on the first of the year, there’s no hiding from yourself when you meet your eyes in the mirror.

Will Harper. Josh Blackthorn. The Capriani Cup. So much has happened this winter, so much has changed.
I’ve
changed. And maybe I’m not ready to see it yet. Maybe I don’t want to know the evidence, the smudged makeup, lips red from kissing, eyes burning with some new, unnamed intensity. So I focus instead on the old water spots, the fingerprints of everyone who lives here. I reach for the hand towel on the side of the sink and—

BANG!
The door rattles against the frame.