I snort. “A bit?”

“But she’s also been your biggest supporter,” Mom reminds me. “She’s always been there for you when you needed her. Remember when that nasty girl was bullying you in fifth grade? What was her name again—Brenda? Brynn?”

“Bryndan.”

“Bryndan? Lord, what is the matter with parents these days?” Mom shakes her head in amazement. “Anyway, remember when Bryn—nope, I can’t even say it, it’s that stupid. When that girl was bullying you? Ramona was like a pit bull, snarling and spitting and ready to protect you to her dying breath.”

It’s my turn to sigh. “I know you’re trying to be helpful, but can we please not talk about Ramona anymore?”

“Okay, let’s talk about the boy then. Because I think you should call him back, too.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“Sweetie, he obviously feels bad about what happened, otherwise he wouldn’t be trying to contact you. And…well, you were going to, ah…give him your flower—”

I do a literal spit take. Coffee drizzles down my chin and neck, and I quickly grab a napkin to wipe it away before it stains my pajama top. “Oh my God. Mom. Don’t ever say that again. I beg of you.”

“I was trying to be parental,” she says primly.

“There’s parental, and then there’s Victorian England.”

“All right. You were going to fuck him—”

“That’s not parental either!” A gale of laughter flies out, and it takes a second before I’m able to speak without giggling. “Again, I know you’re trying to help, but Logan’s off the table too. Yes, I was considering having sex with him. No, it didn’t happen. And that’s all she wrote.”

Distress clouds her expression. “Fine, I won’t bug you about it anymore. But with that said, I refuse to let you spend the rest of the summer sulking.”

“I haven’t been sulking,” I protest.

“Not on the outside. But I can see right through you, Grace Elizabeth Ivers. I know when you’re smiling for real, and when you’re smiling for show, and so far you’ve given me two weeks of show smiles.” She straightens up, a determined set to her shoulders. “I think it’s time we make you smile for real. I wanted us to go down to the canal today and walk along the river, but you know what? Emergency itinerary change.” She claps her hands. “We need to do something drastic.”

Crap. The last time she used the word “drastic” in conjunction with an outing, we went to a salon in Boston and she dyed her hair pink.

“Like what?” I ask warily.

“We’re paying a visit to Claudette.”

“Who’s Claudette?”

“My hairdresser.”

Oh God. I’m going to have pink hair. I just know it.

Mom beams at me. “Trust me, there’s nothing like a good makeover to cheer a girl right up.” She grabs the mug from my hand and sets it on the counter. “Get dressed while I make the appointment. We are going to have so much fun today!”

16

Logan

June

I’m thirty-three days into my torture stint at Logan and Sons when I have my first run-in with my father. I’ve been waiting for it, in some sick way even looking forward to it, but for the most part, Dad has left me alone since I moved back home.

He hasn’t asked me about school or hockey. Hasn’t given me the usual guilt trips about how I don’t care enough to visit. All he’s done is complain about his leg pain and thrust beers in my direction while pleading, “Have a brewsky with your old man, Johnny.”

Right. Like that’ll ever happen.

I appreciate that he hasn’t been on my case, though. Truth is, I’m too exhausted to fight with him right now. I’ve been following the rigid off-season training program the coaches designed for us, which means getting up at the crack of dawn to work out, toiling in the garage until eight p.m., working out again before bed, and then crashing for the night and doing it all over again the next day.

Once a week I go to Munsen’s crappy arena to work on shooting and skating drills with Vic, one of our assistant coaches who drives over from Briar to make sure I stay sharp. I love him for it, and I look forward to the ice time, but unfortunately, today’s not a rink day.

The customer I’m dealing with at the moment is the foreman of the sole construction crew in town. His name’s Bernie, and he’s a decent guy—well, if you overlook his constant attempts to persuade me to join Munsen’s summer hockey league, which I have no desire to do.

Bernie showed up five minutes ago with a two-inch nail jammed in the front tire of his pickup, gave me the usual spiel about how I need to join the league, and now we’re discussing the options for his repairs.

“Look, I can easily patch you up,” I tell him. “I’ll pull the nail out, plug it up, and fill up the tire. Which is definitely the cheaper and quicker option. But your tires aren’t in the greatest shape, Bern. When was the last time you replaced them?”

He rubs his bushy salt-and-pepper beard. “Five years ago? Maybe six?”

I kneel next to the left front tire and give it another quick examination. “The tread on all four tires is starting to wear. You’re not down to one sixteenth of an inch yet, but it’s getting damn close. A few more months and they might not be safe to drive on anymore.”