Page 30 of From Ice to Home
I can’t.
After taking a shower,I grab my old jeans and a fresh shirt from the closet before stepping out into the already warm morning. Noah’s dog, Hazel, greets me with a wagging tail, nudging my hand with her wet snout. Rubbing her behind her ears, she almost smiles at me. I got the Saint Bernard for Noah three years ago, and she’s been his constant friend while I’m away.
“Let’s go find Noah, girl.”
Straightening, I step off the porch, keeping an eye out formy dad. But he’s nowhere in sight, although his words seem to hang in the very air I’m breathing. His accusations about my disappointing life choices weigh heavily on my chest. I have no idea how to fix things between us, just like I can’t seem to fix this marriage I’d gotten myself into.
Walking past the worn garden bench, my heart aches thinking about how my mother used to sit there with her books and sometimes even her Bible. She loved being outside, keeping a watchful eye over my dad and her boys…just in case we might need something, she would be ready for us.
I wonder what she would say about all of this…?
My mom always did everything in her power to support me and Noah. She took me to practice, watched my games and made sure I got everything I needed. I never wanted for gear or lessons or trainers. She also supported me in my love for this farm. She would soothe over arguments between me and my dad, whenever we clashed about the decisions I made or the methods I used to fix things. Mom wanted me to take over from my dad one day, but not at the expense of my hockey. She wanted me to have everything.
Making my way to the east cornfield with Hazel trotting excitedly a few steps out in front of me, I look out for Noah and the John Deer. The sound of the tractor engine sputtering to life and then dying again signals Noah’s presence. His familiar frame, now even more solid than I remember, is bent over the engine. He’s elbow deep into the machine, the rachet in his grip clicks rhythmically, its familiar sounds echoing across the field.
“Need a hand?” I call out as I approach him.
Hazel runs toward Noah, nudging his knee with her snout to let him know she’s arrived before lying down next to the tractor, an almost content look on her face.
He lifts his gaze, the frown of concentration melting into agiant smile as he spots me. The grease and sweat streaking his face doesn’t hide the familiar warmth of his smile.
“This old thing is being very stubborn this morning.” Even his voice seems to sound a little deeper every time I come home.
“Then I’m your man,” I say, stepping closer and pulling my little brother into a hug, slapping him on the back. “It wouldn’t be the first stubborn old thing I deal with today.”
Noah laughs, handing me the ratchet before grabbing another tool from the box at his feet.
“So, dad’s not keen on an impromptu visit then,” he grunts, struggling with the fuel line.
“You could say that,” I say, leaning down into the engine to help him.
From this angle it’s a bit easier to twist the fuel line back into place. I take the time to tighten it with a firm grip, careful not to overdo it. I might not be able to fix my relationship with my dad, or apparently with Hannah, but I can fix an engine easily. That’s something we learned very early on working on the farm with Dad.
If something breaks—you fix it.
“Did they kick you off the team?” he asks, straightening and wiping his hands on a rag, gesturing for me to check the new fuel filter. “Because you had a great game last night. You’ll take the Cup, I’m sure.” He gives me a sarcastic smile, his blue eyes sparking with humor. “But you can’t do it from here.”
“Nobody kicked me off the team, Noh.” With a quick turn of the wrench, I attach the last clamp to the fuel line, locking it into position. I stay here, tweaking the fuel line and hiding my face from him in the process. “I just… have a few things I need to sort out and then I’ll head back.”
Noah reaches into the engine next to me, inspecting my handiwork for himself.
“What?” I ask him, grabbing the rag from his back pocket and wiping my hands. “You think I forgot how to do this?”
“Never,” he says with amusement. “But you can’t deny it, brother, your hands tend to get a little soft while you’re upstate.” He laughs and dodges as I swipe at his head with the rag.
“Careful,” he teases. “I’m just saying.”
I roll my eyes and gesture for him to step back as I slide into the tractor seat.
“So,” he starts, casually leaning against the frame. “Tell me…what kind of things do you need to sort out? Is this about Hannah?”
Getting settled in the seat, I freeze with my hand on the ignition. Carefully studying my little brother over the giant steering wheel, I wonder how on earth he could possibly know I’m here because of Hannah.
“Why would you say that?” I ask, unable to hide the edge from my voice.
Noah doesn’t flinch. He’s too used to me by now.
“I saw her at camp this week.” He shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. He’s avoiding my gaze, instead focusing on wiping his hands with the rag. “She’s never home, you know? First time I’ve seen her since you two called it quits.”
