Page 32 of Test the Ice
It clicks a moment later.
My stomach slowly slides to the floor with the weight of the world on my shoulders again.
“Zoe,” I say her name slowly. “You can turn the lights on. Stop working by candlelight like we used to do in high school.”
I drag myself off the couch and head over to where my purse hangs.
Was I planning on working tonight? No.
But all it takes is one tiny reminder of how bad off we really are to kick me into gear.
Zoe peeks above her textbook. “What are you doing?”
I try to act energetic and walk with a pep in my step toward the door. “I’m going to Uber for a few hours.”
Her textbook slams shut behind my back. “Reese, no. Take the night off.”
“You’re literally working by candlelight,” I joke from over my shoulder. “That means you opened the electric bill before I did, and that means it’s probably a lot higher than expected.”
Her shoulders drop. The wavy strands of her dark hair sway with a heavy sigh. “You deserve a night off.”
I ignore her. “You’re in for the night, right? In case Charleigh wakes?”
“I’ve got our girl,” she says, opening her textbook again.
“Love you, mean it,” I say in the doorway.
We started saying it years ago, when things at home became messy. Zoe is as strong as they come and independent too. Butwhen she was younger, she would scream if she was forced to leave me. One day, I tried to reassure her that I’d see her after school and that I loved her. Her face screwed up, her cheeks turned a bright red, and then she said,“Yeah, but do you mean it?”
I couldn’t blame her for questioning the meaning. Plenty of people told us they loved us, and then their actions told us a different story. That’s where the ‘mean it’part came into play.
“Love you, mean it,” she says quietly.
I smile to myself and shut the door.
After logging into work, my phone immediately starts blowing up. Three rides later, a total of $20 in tips, and I’m being directed to the hockey arena.
The Blue Devils must’ve had a game tonight, which explains why the Uber requests are piled high. I do a great job of not thinking about a certain hockey player until I pull up to the curb with hundreds of fans wearing blue and black fleeing from the arena. So many of them wear his number that it’s impossible not to let his annoyingly hot smirk creep inside my head.
Damn him.
I grip the steering wheel and wait for my rider to approach the car. I peek through the window to search for someone with that deer-in-the-headlights look, but it’s no use. Rowdy fans with their foam tridents–one of my marketing ideas–loiter around, making it difficult to breathe let alone spot my little Honda off to the side.
I open my car door and stand on my tiptoes in search of some guy named Nathan. A gust of wind whips my braid around as I step up onto the curb with my phone in hand.
Where are you?I type, wondering if he’s gotten a different ride.
All of a sudden, the crowd parts, and a guy comes barreling toward me. I take a step backward and lean onto my car.
“Reese?” He glances at his phone and then up at me.
I nod. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“Whew.” He wipes sweat off his forehead and flings it off to the side. “Sorry. For a second, I thought I missed my ride.”
I shake my head and direct him to my car. “It’s no problem. I know how crazy it gets after the game.”
It isn’t until I’m about to step off the curb when I realize that people are staring in my direction. I pause with my foot hovering above the road. Nathan wipes more sweat off his brow with his other hand on the passenger side handle.
