Page 4 of Icing Hearts

One of the hockey boys, Vince Culbertson, gives me an eyebrow wag, and I shoot him a wink and a flirtatious wave. Vince is cute in a goofball sort of way. The hockey-boy archetype personified.

Tory smacks my suitor, then eyes me with a modicum of intrigue as he leans back in his seat. “Out with it.”

“We need to set a date.”

“That’s not business, Charity.”

He wipes a hand down his face and looks infinitely bored. Not of me—for I’m certainly the only source of real entertainment in his life—but bored of his surroundings. His friends, the scene, all of it.

“Not a date-date. We need to get together to work on our project. Although I’m free Saturday for the former.”

“I have a game Saturday.”

“Fine,” I sigh in faux exasperation. “We’ll go on a date Sunday; I’ll just have to move some things around.” I inspect my signature petal-pink manicure. I’ve become quite adept at making my nails look as good as the girls who get theirs done at the salon.

“We’re never gonna date.”

I huff. “Mark my words, Tory, that statement won’t age well.” I turn and make eye contact with several of the other boys. “You all bear witness to this historic moment. Tor—”

“Victor,” he insists. He always tries to pull that with me.

“Hush darling. Don’t interrupt me.ToryAmato and Iwillget married and have adorable babies, all of whom must now be named after our history teacher. Sorry about that, my pet.” The boys nod, their eyes sparkling with mischief while Tory groans loudly. “Let’s meet at your house tomorrow,” I suggest, not really believing he’ll go for it.

“Not my house.”

I sigh dramatically. “Fine, mine then. But I have to warn you, the only seating in my room is under the covers.” I give him a cheeky wink.

Of course, I could never have him come to my house. If my father found out, it would be World War III.

He loosens a deep breath and looks out the window. “Library. After practice.”

“Fine, tomorrow. Bye boys!” I sing.

“ByeClara!” Vince bellows.

I pivot from the table, adding a little sway to my step for Tory’s viewing pleasure. I turn quick and see that he was, indeed, watching me walk away. “Caught ya!” I call back toward the table.

He shakes his head and cups his hand around his mouth so the whole lunchroom hears, “There’s a stain on your skirt, Charity!”

My cheeks bloom red, I cover my rear-end with a book, and rush to the bathroom. Nothing is there, of course.

Chapter 3

Clara

October in Minnesota is a series of extremes. Mild during the day, freezing or near-freezing at night. Tonight is a freezing sort of night.

All day I counted down the hours, minutes, seconds until my library date with Tory. Now that it’s upon me, my nerves are in overdrive. It’s silly. I’m silly.

Before class today, I overheard Tory trying to convince Mr. M to assign him a new project partner. It didn’t work. It didn’t hurt my feelings, either. I do bedevil the boy, after all. Aside from parties at the Amato residence that garner nearly the entire student body, Tory and I don’t associate outside of school. The chief wouldn’t approve. But a school project is the perfect excuse to get some extra face time. If Tory ever shows up.

The sharpened graphite breaks off on a second pencil in response to my restless tapping. I switch to the eraser side. He’s late. Tory said he’d be here after practice. I don’t quite know when practice ends, so I guess it’s feasible that he isn’t actually late. But it’s dark, and the library is empty, save for a few librarians who gab over their Tupperware dinners. They aren’t even trying to be quiet, and I sigh at their oxymoronic behavior while relishing the smell of old books.

Order and rules bring me peace. Control is my love language. It’s why I love Tory. He’ll never love me back. He tolerates my flirting and joking. It’s easy. Predictable. Dependable. In fact, him being overtly nice to me would be the most shocking thing he could do.

I tap my phone, avoiding the large crack down the middle to check the time again. That makes twenty-seven time checks. I tried to do my homework, but my focus was everywhere but the black words on white paper.

I’m about to shove my books and pens into my bag, assuming he’s a no-show. I glance back up, my eyes land on the thick mop of hair slowly bobbing up the steps to the second floor. Immediately, I straighten, as if the Queen of England has emerged. Tory wears a hint of annoyance as he runs a hand through damp hair before shoving it into the pocket of his hoodie.

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