Page 90 of As You Ice It

And now, Panda, with his incessant need for scratches, nudging his head into my lap under the table.

Weird, yes. But the house is no longer devoid of personality. It’s not about having artwork on the walls or whatever else might make this look like a home, but having the people bring life into it.

Under the table, Naomi’s hand finds mine, giving me a quick squeeze. She smiles, and it grows as a wet dog nose snuffles right into our palms.

* * *

If I had known that the familiar feel of scissors snipping at my hair and the buzz of a razor on my neck would hurtle me back in time, I would never have agreed to let Mike cut my hair.

Especially not with Naomi, Liam, and Jordan here, watching while I try to pretend nothing is wrong. The mild headache that began during dinner has morphed into a pounding in my skull as I fight off memories.

Hopefully, I’m keeping the feelings off my face. Eyes closed, I have my fists clenched beneath the black plastic drape Mike placed over me. He and Jordan went shopping earlier in the week with my credit card to get supplies. I wonder what happened to Mike’s old set, the one he refused to replace even though the razor’s cord was held on by duct tape, a total fire hazard.

Snip.

“Are you going to cut my hair that short?” Liam asks.

“I’ll cut it only as short as you want it. Or,” Mike amends, “how short yourmomwants it.”

“Good call,” Naomi says, and even with my eyes closed, I can picture her tilting her head to examine Liam. “Let’s see … I’m thinking maybe a mohawk? Or a sideways mullet.”

“What’s a sideways mullet?” Mike asks.

“Shaved along the top and long on the sides. I’m not sure that’s the official name, but I think it would look good on you, kid. Really bring out your eyes.”

Mike laughs, pausing at his trimming, and Liam groans. I almost smile. But then there’s another metallic snip of the scissors, and I tense again.

It’s strange—I’m able to think back on my time living with the Bells fondly. They went above and beyond what my teammates talked about their billet families doing for them. Especially that second year, they really became more of a family. I had good teammates and friends. I played well enough to impress the scouts.

And yet something about having Mike cut my hair is throwing me back to the worst parts of that time. The parts I have locked away in my mind and refuse to think about. Right now, though, I’m not remembering so much as viscerally experiencing a whole host of emotions I’ve shoved down for years.

Mike’s fingers gently tugging my hair … rejection from my parents as their weekly calls trickled to a stop.

The silver snip of the scissors … the sense of abandonment as all my teammates took pictures with their families at the end of our second season and I stood alone in a suit I had to borrow from Mike.

The razor buzzing at the back of my neck … the bitterness and anger burning hot through me as I shifted into a self-destructive spiral.

Mike, waiting up for me one night when I came stumbling in after drinking beers some college girl had bought for us. The disapproval on his face and the kind but firm words that were the start of my turnaround.

Panda whines softly as he settles next to me.

I’d like to reassure him, to tell him it’s okay, but I think that’s what he’s trying to say to me.

Drawing in one steady breath after another, I clench and unclench my hands. Why now? Why does all of this need to bubble up tonight?

I thought I had dealt with this—or at least shoved it all far enough down that it couldn’t reach back up again like a hand sticking up from a grave.

Maybe when it comes to hurt inflicted by family, you can’t do either of those things: get over it or bury it.

One thing I haven’t tried, something that comes to me now, when I’d least like to think about it, is reaching out. Taking a step to mend things.

Mike sets the clippers down and goes back to trim the hair around my ears. I almost tell him just to grab the clippers and shave the whole thing so it will be done. I’m almost willing to do it myself.

Snip.

Naomi’s laughter at something Jordan said pulls me back into the moment, and I’m grateful.

Opening my eyes, I zero in on her. She’s seated at the kitchen island, knees pulled to her chest, bare feet hanging off the edge of the stool. Her smile changes when she catches me looking.

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