Bittersweet (20 page)

“I don’t know about the guys. I’m just looking for a way out of this place.” He meets my eyes, and for a second there’s something familiar behind them—vulnerability, maybe. Something empty and unfulfilled. But then it’s gone, his usual charm and gregariousness back in place, his fingers looping through the end of my ponytail. “Anyway, I’m surprised they can focus on hockey when you’re on the ice.”

“Give me a break.”

Will moves closer. “That’s not what I’m gonna give you.” And before I can present him with the trophy for the cheesiest one-liners in a single bound, he wraps his arms around me, pulling me toward him. His lips are millimeters from mine, breath warm and silent, all discussion of hockey boy skills and sin in the Puritan age blown out the window into the swirling snow. Will smiles at me, and for a split second I wonder whether this might be a stupid, pointless venture. For weeks my thoughts have been consumed with a single boy, and his name is definitely not Will. But then, not-Will is
not
here, not now, not running his hand down my back, not slipping his fingers behind my neck, not watching me with ever-intensifying eyes and flashing that deviously sexy smile. He’s probably home, waiting for another call or text from someone else. And I’m here. Now. With Will.

So what’s wrong with a little harmless flirting of the seventy-seven nature?

Will raises an eyebrow and I lean in closer, our lips touching, then melting together, everything else disappearing into a soft, barely there buzz.

Oh
. I kind of forgot what a good kisser he was, even back then, even under less than ideal circumstances. And unless I’m remembering it wrong, he’s definitely improved his game….

Thankfully, no clothes were harmed or removed in the making of this movie, because a sudden, impatient throat clearing from the hallway lets us know we’ve got a live studio audience. Will jumps off the bed and lands in his chair in an instant, the chair rolling back into the desk and rattling his computer monitor.

“I have a feeling this isn’t part of your English project.” Mr. Serious Pants leans against the doorway, arms folded across the Sabres’ bison-and-swords logo on his chest.

“Dad, um, we were just … Hudson was—”

“I think Hudson was saying good-bye. You’ve got a game tomorrow, William.” He looks at me with that barely tolerant smile, taps the face of his watch, and vanishes back downstairs.

“Hudson, Dad. Dad, Hudson,” Will says under his breath. “Sorry about that. He’s always on my ass. He seriously talks like I’m bound for the Sabres—like I have a real shot.”

“Maybe you do.”

“The man knows my schedule but doesn’t come to the games. I don’t think he believes it—it’s just his mantra. ‘Don’t be Derrick.’ That’s what he’s really saying.” Will’s face changes, his eyes far away as he stares out the window. For the second time tonight, he drops the used-car salesman vibe, the I’m-too-sexy-for-my-own-good stuff fading into something a little less certain. Scared. Sad, even. But the moment passes quickly,
and by the time he turns his green eyes back to me, they’re sparkling with mischief again.

“I should walk you out. But first …” He leans in for another kiss, but I turn away, mirroring that flirtatious grin.

“Maybe on the second date, Harper.”

“Good. New Year’s Eve? Amir has a party every year. Come with me?” He reaches for my hand, his eyes never leaving mine as he waits for my response. “We can have dinner first, then hit the party. At midnight, I get to kiss you again. Unless you already have plans.”

I shake my head. Dani always goes with her parents to some jazz fest thing in Toronto for New Year’s, and I’m always home with Mom and Bug and my never-aging date, Dick Clark.

But not this year. For once, I have a date with a cute boy. And a party with the guys, besides? Done and done.

“I’ll go,” I say. “As long as I don’t have to do your English homework first.”

Will smiles. “No homework. I promise.”

I grab my stuff and follow him downstairs. A soft blue glow emanates from the living room at the other end of the house. Will’s father chuckles in halfhearted intervals with the canned laugh track.

Will opens the front door. “See you at the game tomorrow?”

“No. I work doubles on Saturdays. Waitressing
and
cupcakes, yay.”

“Yay for us, anyway. Thanks again for the cupcakes. Can’t promise I won’t dig in before Mom gets home.”

“That’s why I brought six. Try to save her at least one.”

“I’m not paying to heat the outside, kids!” Mr. Serious Pants calls out from the living room.

“She’s leaving, Dad.” Will grabs my hand. “Hey, are we cool? I mean, the stuff about Dodd—you’ll keep my dirty little secrets?”

“Hmm. The part about your godfather not being allowed to know about me, or the boys not being allowed to know about your godfather?”

“Yes.”

“We’re cool,” I say. “Good luck tomorrow. Text me the score.”

Outside, the evening air tastes like tap water, cold and a little overchlorinated as my lungs turn it into hazy white puffs. As I warm up the truck, thoughts of everything flicker through my head like a slideshow: Coach Dodd. All that kissing. All that smoldering. The New Year’s party date. The other party guests. More specifically,
one
other party guest.

This is crazy. I just made out with Will Harper, and all I can think about is his co-captain?

W.W.H.D (What Would Hester Do)?
I wonder. Then I totally laugh at myself, because Hester didn’t have it so hot, either, what with all the public scorn and sneaking around. Not to mention the fact that I’m seeking advice from a four-hundred-year-old fictional character about high school boys—never a good sign.

I back out of the Harpers’ driveway and onto the street. As I shift gears and roll forward, a plastic bag swirls in the current overhead, following me until it tangles into the branches of a bare oak, and I make a right turn toward the railroad tracks, toward home.

Dark chocolate cupcakes iced with white peppermint buttercream, piped with red stripes; to finish, jam a black jelly bean right in the middle with your thumb

I know I’m dreaming, because I was just swallowed up by an ice-fishing hole
in the middle of Lake Erie and I can totally breathe underwater. I can see, too—all of my fingers are turning blue before my eyes. It doesn’t hurt, but I’m shivering. Will swims toward me in his Wolves uniform, but each time I’m about to grab his hand, he morphs into Josh and slips away. Through the bright white hole over my head, a polar bear reaches in and pokes me with his giant paw. “Wake up, Hudson,” he says evenly, like he’s just passing through Watonka on his way to Antarctica and thought I should know. “Wake up.”

I open my eyes. Will and Josh are gone. I’m no longer underwater. And the polar bear has turned into my brother,
wrapped up in his silver-and-white astronaut-themed snowsuit.

“Why is it so cold in here?” I sit up, stretch, and pull the blankets to my neck. “It’s like there’s no heat.”

“Mom wants you in the kitchen.” Bug’s got this weird, you’re-pretty-much-dead warning in his tone that’s rather off-putting, especially since he just yanked me out of a potentially good dream about number seventy-seven and/or fifty-six.

“But it’s freezing in—” Oh
no
. No no
no
! My stomach drops as the red warning strip from the gas bill—shoved somewhere in the bottom of my backpack and forgotten—flashes in front of my eyes.

I throw off my blankets, bolt out of bed, and yank a sweatshirt over my head, almost flattening Bug. In our tiny kitchen down the hall, Mom’s on the phone, pacing, one hand wrapped around a mug. The steam from her coffee is so thick it looks like her hand is boiling the liquid on its own.

“How soon before it can be turned on?” she asks. “I realize that, but it’s Christmas Eve. No. I’ve got two children here. I already—yes. I’ll hold.”

I make for the coat closet and dig out my boots. Strolling down to the service center in my pajamas is not high on my Christmas Eve priority list, but if I don’t kick into proactive overdrive before Mom gets off that call, I might not be alive to see another holiday.

“I c-c-c-can’t believe you didn’t p-p-p-pay the bill.” Bug’s teeth chatter as he tucks his hands inside his snowsuit.

“You’re the one who tried to throw it out,” I remind him.

“Anthrax detection is an imperfect science.”

“You’re
not
helping.” I pull on my gloves and avoid Mom’s stare. The gas company—and Mom—knows we’re always late, but I’ve never totally missed a last-chance payment before. Not like this. They don’t usually shut off service in the winter. If the pipes freeze, they could burst, and dealing with burst pipes is way more expensive for them than chasing down a few late payments.

They must be really mad at us this time.

“I’m still here,” Mom says into the phone. “Oh, thank God. No, we’ll make the payment today. Okay, Thursday then. Do I need to do anything else? Thanks again—you have no idea—right. Merry—bye.” She sets the phone back into the receiver and lets out a gust of breath. “Should be back on in an hour or two. They’ll call later to make sure it’s working.”

“Mom, I’m sorry. I’ll go now. I had the bill in my bag and I totally forgot. I was busy with—”

“It’s okay.” She downs her coffee, shoves a few things from the counter into her purse, and grabs her keys. “Go on Thursday as soon as they open. And please let me know if you don’t have the cash. I don’t want to find out like this again.”

“Sorry. I won’t—”

“Since you have your coat on, run and get some milk? We’re out, and Trick needs help with the Christmas Eve specials, and—”

“When are you coming home?” Bug’s bouncing up and
down like—well, like a kid on Christmas. “Are we gonna do the tree tonight?”

“I’ll probably be pretty late,” Mom says. “Hudson will help you.”

The bouncing stops. I fight off a shiver.

Mom kneels in front of him. “The good news is that Hurley’s is closed tomorrow, and we’ll have the whole day together. Just the three of us.” She looks at me to confirm. I was planning to hit Dani’s for brunch with her parents, but no way I’m risking Mom’s disappointment now. I nod.

“Great. Trick’s coming for dinner tomorrow,” she says. “He’s cooking up a bunch of stuff for me to bring home tonight. Sound good?”

“What about pumpkin pie?” Bug asks.

“We don’t have pie, sweetie. Maybe your sister can do pumpkin cupcakes?” Mom looks at me with the same anguish that flooded her voice with the gas company. It’s quickly becoming her signature scent. What’s on everyone’s holiday wish list this year?
Desperation
, the hot new fragrance line by Beth Avery.

“Whatever you want,” I tell Bug. And I mean it, too, because if one lousy batch of cupcakes is all it takes to give my brother a merry merry and atone for practically freezing out the whole family on Christmas, well … deck the halls with boughs of frosting, fa la la la la, la
freaking
la.

They’re showing a retro Smurfs Christmas special on TV, so I leave Bug in front of the electronic babysitter with Trick’s
box of robot parts and an extra wool blanket and head out for Operation Find a Store That Isn’t Closed. No way I’ll get anything nearby—all the local mom-and-pops are locked down for the holiday, except of course for Hurley’s. The world could be in the final throes of the apocalypse and Mom would find some way to keep the coffee on in that joint.

“No room at the inn?” I ask the desolate streets as I pull away from our block. “No problem! Come on down to Hurley’s Homestyle Diner, where there’s always room for wayward travelers, especially on holidays when we
should
be home with our
own
families, but never mind all that.”

Stupid.

As I crisscross from one side of town to the other, I scan the radio. All the stations are doing that 24-7 Christmas cheer crap. I don’t feel very ho-ho-ho today, but I hum along with Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” anyway, searching in vain for milk. The sky is still for now, and the crisp white sheets left by last night’s flurries have gone gray, mottled and muddied by plows and salt trucks. The houses on this side of town are bigger than the one we share with Mrs. Ferris, but they’re older, more weather-beaten. They remind me of the old people at the diner, carrying the collective failure of this town in the slump of their shoulders, in the weariness of their steps.

I downshift as I cross a snow mound pushed into the intersection by the plows, tires digging through the slush, and then, without thinking, I turn onto Sibley Court.

The house is easy to find.

In three years, the place from the outside hasn’t changed—green-gray with white trim, badly in need of a paint job. A wreath hangs solidly on the front door, tied with a red velvet bow, and through the windows, the warm glow of the living room radiates into the icy cold day. Inside, behind the gauzy curtains, a woman drapes a strand of blinking colored lights over the tree. They put it in the same spot we used to, right in front of the big bay window.