Page 6 of At the Edge with You

And she stares right on back.

Everything else fades into the background, and I have to force myself to look away.

Because she may be back and mouthwatering, to boot, but nothing has changed.

I’m a Cook, a washed-up hockey player from the working class.

And she’s a Winthrop, a silver-spoon ice princess.

I wasn’t good enough for her then, and I sure as hell am not good enough for her now.

CHAPTER

THREE

Fable

There is not enough wine or hair clippers in the world to deal with my mom right now.

As I stand in the kitchen, the Winthrop estate is buzzing, with everyone from town coming to offer their condolences. Yes, I’m hiding. I have to, before I’m a drunk mess with a bald head. My mom is on one hundred today, and I swear I bring out the worst in her. She has been on me since I arrived.

Your dress is too tight.

How could you kick off your shoes like that?

What do you mean, you and Chad broke up?

What did you do to your hair?

Why are you always on “Fable time”?

You couldn’t just come here when you were supposed to?

I mean, I get that she’s pissed I was late. I am pissed too. It also didn’t help matters that I stopped to get my hair chopped off, which really made her mad since she loves my hair long. In all honesty, I shouldn’t have stopped so many times on my trip here. If I hadn’t stopped in Indiana for hot dogs, then in Kentucky for a new Derby hat I won’t wear, and then made adetour to Nashville for hot chicken and to visit my favorite mall, I would have been here yesterday. I couldn’t bring myself to drive straight through, no matter how great my audiobook was. It killed me to stop it for all my side quests, but I wasn’t ready to be here. Hell, I’m still not ready.

But I’m here. In Thistlebrook.

And my grandfather is gone.

From where I sit at the breakfast table, I can see Kitty sitting in Grandpa’s chair, his hockey sweater huge on her body, as she continues to thank everyone for coming and for supporting her. The whole town showed out, not that I expected anything less. Everyone loved my grandpa; he was hardworking and charismatic. He made a place for hockey lovers and, in doing so, brought so much revenue to this town. He used to say it was both of us who did that since I did go pro for ice-skating, winning three gold medals, but I wouldn’t have loved it as much as I did if it weren’t for Grandpa, Kitty, and the Ice Thistle.

Andhim.

I lick my lips as I pull my gaze from Kitty to scan the room. So many faces I know and I sure as hell don’t want to catch up with. I hate the small talk, the “How’s your neck holding up from carrying all of those medals? Are you still skating? Why don’t you come home to visit more?”

Or my favorite, “Why aren’t you married?”

Or even better, “I have a son your age. Can I fix you up?”

Yeah, I’d much rather sit here out of the way and out of view. My grandma is stunning with her long silver hair that is straighter than a board. She is still ever so thin, and my grandpa’s jersey hangs off her like she’s a clothes hanger. Her bright-green eyes are full of grief, and my heart hurts for her. My grandparents loved each other fiercely, and it worries me that she’ll struggle now that he’s gone. She may have the Beer LeagueBelles, but Lord knows my parents won’t look past themselves to care for her.

Mom is way too busy at town hall, working with the rangers for forest conservation. It’s her passion and something that has always taken the number one spot in her life. She loves the Smoky Mountains, which give a beautiful backdrop to our town. I glance out the wide windows that line the mansion to take in the rolling hills and mountains that flash brilliant colors. There isn’t much of the fog today that gives the Smoky Mountains their name, but still, they sure are stunning. I don’t have these kinds of views in Chicago, but Chicago doesn’t have one thing these mountains do.

My mom.

I tear my gaze away to look for said parental figure, finding her with a tissue at her eyes as she cries. A few of my grandpa’s buddies stand around her, looking somber like my dad. He stands by his wife, rubbing her back and looking every bit a councilmember of our town. He is a tall, thick man with broad shoulders and a round belly. His hair is dark with white streaked all through it, he has a very pronounced nose, and he’s got the wide lips that I inherited. He hasn’t aged well, his face a bit rutted and his hair thinning along the top. I wish I had parents whom I looked at and got that fuzzy feeling, but when I look at mine, I’m just reminded of all the times I didn’t act good enough for them.

The only time they were proud of me was when I was skating.

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