Page 18 of Born of Ice

“And where is home?”

“Iris Lake, of course.”I amindeed going home, and for the first time since I was discharged a month ago, there is a flicker of warmth lighting up my frozen insides.

I haven’t been back to Vermont in years and now that I know that’s where we are going, I can’t leave fast enough, the sterile white walls of this place pushing onto me. In fact, screw packing. I put my hands on the wheels and start moving away from my window.

“Where are you off to?”

“Home.”

“We haven’t packed yet.”

“Screw packing. I don’t need any of this.”

“You need your clothes, Electra.”

“No. I don’t need any of this. I don’t want any of this. It can all go to hell. I need to go. Let’s leave. Go. Please. Now. I need…I need…” My chest tightens as I start heaving, feeling the telltale signs of a panic attack approaching. My mind is growing fuzzy with those black spots I’ve become so accustomed to and I think I’m mumbling something, but I can’t hear myself.

All of sudden two strong hands grab a hold of me, wrapping me in a tight embrace. “Shhh, it’s okay. Take a deep breath.” Stella’s calm but stern voice pushes through the dark, thick ice of my brain, and I feel her warm hand patting the top of my head. “Get that breathing under control and we can get the fuck out of here. I promise you.”

Shakily and unsteadily I do calm down, only now I’m too drained to do anything else and I all but fall asleep in my chair but not before I hear Stella mumble, “God, I hope he is stubborn enough to handle her…”

I forgot how peaceful it is here. How serene and calm it is after the busy Boston. And quiet—so much that you can hear each tiny snowflake as it adds to the white pile already coating the ground.

I was born and raised in the small, picturesque town of Iris Lake, Vermont. And even more accuratelyonthe Iris Lake itself. I close my eyes and see it all like it was only yesterday that my mom brought me here, taking out the second-hand skates from behind her back with a loud “ta-da” and a blinding smile on her face that was matched with my own.

It was the day after I saw that beautiful figure skater on the TV and wanted to be like her, so despite not having any spare money, she somehow got me those skates and holding my two small hands in hers helped me onto the ice, walking backward as I tried to skate on shaky legs.

Yet she never gave up. Day after day, we’d come here, practicing until we were both blue with the chill.

It’s days like these when I wish I’d remembered the sound of her voice. Or how her skin felt when she wrapped me in her arms. You’d think having seven years with her would be enough to have more memories of my mom than what I do, but no.

It’s days like these I envy those lucky ones who remember what color their booger was when they pulled it out on December 5th when they were two-years-old.

But I do remember her warmth as she gave it away to me freely. I remember it warming me up while we were practicing or just goofing around on that lake. She gave everything away too freely. Even her life.

It’s too quiet out there and the ring of my memories is too loud, ricocheting off that cold, unforgiving ice.

I’m wondering why the hell I decided to buy this particular house. Sure, one look at it and I was sold. I loved the cabin feel of it with wood accents, giant wood-burning fireplace, the warmcolors of the floors and the most beautiful, colorful backsplash in the kitchen.

Nestled on the outskirts of the woods, it was far away from the rest of the nosey locals who were all too eager to talk to me and I was too eager not to. It’s not that they are bad people, not at all. Iris Lake is amazing and welcoming, but I left here as their celebrity. Only to come back broken and crushed. A failure. And the thought of seeing the disappointment written on their faces, guts me furthermore.

So, this cozy house was great. Plus, it was nothing like the penthouse I shared with Erik. Nothing like that cold, frozen castle that only served to display our acolytes, but it was also right up front that wretched lake.

Am I a secret masochist? I must be, because it’s been three hours since Stella left and I am still sitting at the window, not taking my eye off the blurry memories flashing in front of me.

Maybe it’s a blessing that Mom is gone, that she can’t see me and the disappointment I’ve become now. The sad bits and pieces that are left of that little girl who slashed through the ice on that lake to the sound of her booming laughter and never-ending encouragement. And how I wasted her precious gift—her life—with one wrong move.

I wipe one stray tear that slipped down my face when I hear someone knocking on my front door.

I thought Stella said she wouldn’t be back until late evening and it’s barely twelve o’clock now. Maybe she forgot something despite drilling into my head for years that she never forgets a thing. I turn and wheel myself over to the door. “I thought you never forg—”

The words die on my tongue when I fling the door open, and it is not my trainer standing on the other side. Not. At. All.

It’s a six-foot-something giant with spicy, yet smooth brown eyes, reminding me of an expensive whiskey and a mop ofbrown, slightly curly and unruly hair in that same shade, a beard covering his strong jawline, who is filling the entirety of my small one-bedroom house with his presence despite not even having one foot inside it.

And to top it all off, he looks at me like I am the one who ruined his day, killed his puppy and drank all of his protein shakes.

Who the hell is this guy?

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