Page 59 of Ice Mechanic

I want to ask her when her dad got sick. How she’s been handling seeing the man she admired slowly turn into someone who doesn’t recognize her. I want to ask what happened with June and if it hurts to know that his eldest daughter is the only one he remembers and calls for, despite it being April who’s here visiting him.

But I don’t say any of that because I doubt she’d answer.

“It was fun. He’s a hockey fan, so we had that in common.”

She nods distractedly.

“Which makes me wonder whyyoudidn’t recognize me.” I tilt my head. Outside, I’m smirking but inside I’m filing through my list of jokes. How do I get her to smile again?

“Dad didn’t force me to watch the games so I never did.” She shrugs. “I would rather watch a ScannerDanner video or read up on a new diagnosis tool.”

“That… sounds like fun.”

She lets out a breathy little laugh.

It’s not a full-on belly laugh but at least her shoulders aren’t as tense.

I take a step closer to her, my sneakers a breath away from her steel-toed boots. Her mouth falls open slightly and she sucks in a sharp breath. I look down at her, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet my eyes.

She doesn’t flinch or move away despite how near I am to her.

“April,” I say softly.

“Mm?”

“I’m not supposed to do this…” I watch as her eyebrow quirks, already anticipating the worst. “But because it’s you, I’ll sneak your dad a few more boxers. Let me know if you ever need more.”

Her dewy eyes collapse into slits as she lets loose a real, sincere laugh that comes all the way from her stomach. Embarrassed, she covers her mouth to hold it back but it spills from the sides of her palm.

“Yeah, what’s up with that?” April chuckles. “The verylastthing I expected was to walk in here and see you as the ambassador for underwear.”

“I guess you haven’t heard what happened yesterday,” I reply with a dry grin.

“What happened yesterday?”

“Forget it.”

“Now I’m curious.”

“Let’s just say, I’ve been getting lots of compliments on my… glutes.”

She giggles.

I straighten and meet her eyes with a satisfied smile.

“What?”

“I really like that.”

“What?” She arches an eyebrow.

Your smile, the way you blush, the way car oil stains your fingertips, the way you breathe.

“Your freckles,” I say instead. There. That’s a non-creepy response.

A blush steals across her face. Like clockwork.

She brushes her cheeks as if trying to sweep them off. “They’re ugly.”

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