Page 91 of As You Ice It

It softens, and for a moment, I can breathe again.

Then Mike says, “Your dad called me this week. Said he couldn’t reach you.”

I go very, very still.

So does everyone in the room except Mike, who switches to my other ear.

“Are you planning to keep ignoring him?”

I don’t answer. I can’t look at anyone’s faces, afraid of what I might see there.

“Avoiding them won’t fix anything,” he continues, his voice gently reproachful. “I think you should consider going home for spring break instead of?—”

I stand swiftly. The scissors nick the top of my ear, but I ignore the sting of pain as I rip off the drape.

“All done. Looks good.” My inflection sounds dangerously manic.

“You didn’t even see it,” Liam says, a tremulous question in his voice.

“I’m fine—I mean, it’s fine.”

Mike blinks at me, the scissors still in his hand. His frown tells me he knows something is off, but not what. I can almost see his brain scanning, trying to follow the threads, plucked loose by his condition.

“Your ear,” Naomi says quietly, and I realize she’s standing in front of me.

She lifts a paper towel toward the side of my head, but I grab it from her hands and press it to my ear myself. “I’m fine.”

“If you say so,” she says, and I can’t stand the hurt in her voice.

“Hey, Mike,” Jordan says, hopping down from his stool and shaking his hair out of its ponytail, loose and long around his shoulders. “How about giving me a fresh look?”

Jordan is being my shield, offering up hair he doesn’t want cut as a way to pull Mike into a tangible moment. As a way to defuse whatever bomb is about to go off in my chest.

I don’t feel like I deserve his kindness.

“You know,” Mike says, “normally I’d say yes. But to be honest, it suits you. Liam—you ready? Hop up here, kid.”

Liam, still clearly trying to figure out what just happened, does as Mike says and climbs onto the stool I just vacated. Mike picks up the drape I left on the floor, shaking off the hair.

“What’ll it be? Just a trim or something a little more dramatic?” Mike asks. “Naomi? What do you think?”

It’s still startling how Mike can shift from thinking I’m in high school one minute to remembering Naomi, a woman he’s only met a few times. He did forget her name earlier, but only Jordan and I caught it. Once, I caught him frowning at Liam, as though trying to place him. There’s no rhyme or reason for how it works.

I step past Naomi and start down the hall leading to the bedrooms. The paper towel comes away from my ear red. Maybe the cut is a little worse than I realized.

“Do whatever Liam wants,” Naomi says, and I hear Liam’s cheer over Mike’s chuckle.

I duck into the hall bathroom. It’s the one Mike uses, and though Jordan must have come in and cleaned off the countertops, the room smells of English Leather—the same scent Mike has been using for years.

Gripping the edge of the counter, I lean forward until my forehead touches the cool surface of the mirror.

It’s all too much, and I’m buckling under the weight.

Back in Wisconsin, tree branches would break off during a winter storm. Ice would make them rigid, and when strong winds blew in, they were unable to bend and would simply snap.

That’s me—frozen, inflexible, breaking from the slightest breeze.

“Camden?” Naomi knocks softly on the door.

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