Chapter 3 #3
Jay and I flanked him, each holding an elbow, and we made slow, wobbly circuits. I tried not to show off, but damn, it felt good to be on skates again. Jay, of course, showed off plenty, executing tight turns and sudden stops that sprayed ice. Milo’s frustration mounted with each stumble.
“I’m never going to get this!” he finally wailed, plopping down on the ice in the middle of the rink like a toddler instead of a ten-year-old. I hid my smile, glad to see my kid finally realizing it was okay to show his true colors.
Jay skidded to a stop beside him. “Took me a whole season to stop falling on my face. You’ve been at it for twenty minutes. Get up.”
The blunt, brotherly advice worked, which was a surprise.
Milo got up. I mean, he fell again…but he got up again. And by the end of the second trip, he was doing a sort of determined, wide-legged shuffle that could almost be called skating.
Progress, huzzah.
The other nice development was watching Jocelyn glow.
I’d been flabbergasted to hear about her history with Brakkor—it explained her shock at seeing him again at the wedding—and when her car broke down and he rescued her from that wicked storm we had the first week, well…
I didn’t even pretend that we had space for her at Korrad’s house, and she eventually seemed content at Brakkor’s place.
And, I was happy to realize, in Brakkor’s bed.
And when he stood up in front of the entire town and supported her work on the Eastshore Lighthouse?
I cheered louder than anyone. My best friend had found her dream job—she was in charge of arranging the move of the ancient lighthouse from the cliffs we could just see behind the house—and her Mate.
How amazing was that?
She’d be staying here on Eastshore, and that made my slight out-of-balance feel…better. I still didn’t feel like I completely belonged here, but Milo did, and Jocelyn certainly did, and I hadn’t received any threats from the debt collectors back in Texas so…
I was beginning to feel like maybe I could finally exhale.
And that feeling seemed to grow each evening at the dinner table.
I cooked more than Korrad. My culinary repertoire wasn’t huge, but it was varied. Jay, after a particularly successful batch of my chicken tikka masala—from a jar, but I toasted the spices myself, thank you very much—declared, “This is way better than Dad’s meatloaf.”
I’d frozen with a spoonful of rice halfway to my mouth, my eyes darting to Korrad in horror. Way to undermine the man in his own home, kiddo.
Korrad just took another huge bite, chewed, and shrugged. “He’s not wrong. You try doing ‘Tuesday Meatloaf’ for a decade. Your red beans and rice, Kesha? A Tuesday revelation. The chicken and dumplings two days ago were my favorite.”
He said it so matter-of-factly, without a trace of resentment, that the knot in my stomach loosened. He wasn’t keeping score, huh?
Well, I was afraid I still was.
Dinners became…well, I guess they became our anchor, the time of day where we all came together and discussed what we’d done. The four of us crammed around the kitchen table, passing plates, talking over each other. It was messy and loud and perfect.
Tonight was spaghetti night. My from-scratch sauce—a recipe from my grandma that simmered for hours—was a crowd-pleaser. Milo was vibrating with barely-contained excitement.
“The fort,” he announced, as if beginning a royal decree, “has a new… feature.”
“Oh?” Korrad asked, his fork catching the light as he swirled his spaghetti; I found myself watching his fingers and wondering how they would feel to touch. “More pinecones to drop on bad guys?”
“Better.” Jay leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was still perfectly audible. “The vantage point. You can see, like, everything from up there.”
Hiding my wince at the way he’d mispronounced vantage, I asked, “Up where?” as I gave Milo another napkin and gestured toward the sauce on his chin. “I thought your fort was in the woods.”
The boys shared a look; a quick, silent conference. “It’s… near the woods,” Jay corrected smoothly. “But the best part is this other spot. It’s kinda high up. You have to be really careful getting to it, though. The access is… creative.”
I froze, frowning. “Creative access. That sounds like a synonym for ‘I broke a limb.’”
“No, no!” Milo shook his head vigorously. “It’s safe! It’s just… a bit of a squeeze. And some of the wood is old.” He shoveled a huge bite into his mouth, effectively ending his testimony.
Korrad’s brow furrowed, the safety inspector in him clearly piqued. “Old wood can be rotten wood. If you’re climbing on anything structural, you need to be sure—”
“We’re being super careful!” Jay interjected, then, with the tactical brilliance of a child changing the subject, he pivoted. “Which is why we wanna build something new. In the backyard. A proper treehouse in the oak. Then we wouldn’t have to bike so far.”
“A treehouse is a great idea.” Korrad’s frown melted into consideration. “That’s a summer project. You’d have to learn to use tools properly. No more kinetic sand in the drill.”
“Deal!” Milo said, his mouth full.
“It’s perfect for the oak out back,” Korrad mused, setting his fork down. “Start with plans. Learn about load-bearing, joists, proper fasteners. I can show you. Brakkor and I are framing one of the new houses next week. You could come by the site, see how it’s done.”