Chapter 1
One
Kylie
“Siiiiix. Seven.”
I bite back my groan at the nonsense statement that has inundated my classroom for the last few months, having long given up on trying to distract and divert…and understand the intricacies of seventh graders’ minds.
This too will pass.
But why does history—and the time period of history I teach in particular (Constantinople to discovering new continents, and all the interesting things in between) have so many sixes?
I go on through the giggles, focusing on the lesson.
It’s Story Time.
Because instead of reciting facts and having my students summarize PowerPoint slides, fill in the blanks on handouts with dates they’ll never remember, I try to weave history into an exciting story with villains and heroes and plenty of intrigue (and a dash of love for those with romantic souls—namely me).
Thankfully, history provides plenty of fodder for my stories.
And, also thankfully, my fellow teachers in the department are all as enthusiastic as I am about transforming history from the lame, boring subject that was my middle and high school years into something far more interesting.
It took until college for me to discover how multi-faceted, how captivating, how much history impacts our present…
In more ways than one.
But I’m not thinking about my personal history, filled with one of the worst of villains and a morally gray hero (at least on the surface, because my brother, my hero, has never been anything but pure).
I’m thinking about Troy.
A story that’s fictional yet fits in perfectly with the time period I’m teaching—beautiful, sorrowful—and yes—romantic.
So, I focus and get down to Story Time.
Though, while I do it, I try my best to avoid all mentions of sixes…
And sevens.
“What time are you coming over?” my brother, Damon, asks, his confident—and finally after all the years of darkness, happy—voice coming through the speakers of my car as I navigate the twisting roads.
Pine trees rise up on either side of me, and soon enough snow will cover the ground, hiding the fallen and dried-brown needles.
Skiers and snowboarders will descend—or maybe ascend, driving up from the Bay Area, whiling away their time on the slopes.
And the traffic.
Well, that will be hell.
But it’s the price I pay for living in paradise.
And the clear air, the beautiful, deep blue lake, the snow and the trees and the valley surrounded by imposing granite mountains is my definition of paradise.
The beach is nice—though, sand getting in all the places is not my idea of a good time.
A bustling European city is a great change of pace—if I ignore the traffic and noise and people.
It’s just that…Tahoe feeds my soul.
No therapy has been better for me than walking along the quiet trails, sitting by the lake, its cold but gentle waves lapping at my toes, standing on the balcony at my apartment or in Damon’s back yard, staring up at the sky, seeing so many stars it’s like someone has thrown a bag of glitter into the heavens.
But all that beauty doesn’t hold a candle to the love I have for my brother.
Even when he’s being an overprotective lug.
“I told you,” I say as I drive by a turnout on the road, one I’ve had to stop at several times over the last year because I seem to get an inordinate amount of flat tires, “that I’m not coming over tonight. Enjoy your free evening with Joey—they don’t come around all that often during the season.”
Because my brother is a former professional hockey player—former because he gave it up to protect me—and the current General Manager for the Sierra Hockey organization.
And Joey, his woman, the love of his life, and his fiancée, is the head coach for the team.
For ten months of the year they live and breathe hockey, and since we’re in those ten months, the season underway, nights off don’t come around all that often.
“They don’t,” he says, “but I haven’t seen you since last week, kid. I need my Kylie fix.”
God, I love my big brother.
“I’ll come to the game tomorrow,” I offer as I turn into my apartment complex. “Tonight, I need a bath and to binge bad TV.”
“Kylie,” he says gently.
“What?”
“I don’t think you should be alone today.” It’s still gentle, but it’s enough to trigger my memory, my recollection of what today’s date is.
My stomach churns, hands clenching on the steering wheel, a knot of emotion clogging my throat.
Thankfully, I’m pulling into my parking spot and not driving along the twisting two-lane road because it’s all I can do to brake and put the transmission into park.
Then breathe until I can say, “My students have done my head in today.”
“Yeah they’ll do that,” he says lightly before his tone softens, “but you know you don’t have to pretend with me, kid.”
“I know,” I whisper. “Which means I know you’ll believe me when I tell you that I didn’t remember what day it was until you reminded me.”
It’s true.
My past is never far away.
But not once had it occurred to me what date today was…and what it changed in me.
He’s quiet. Then his curse turns the air blue. “Ky,” he says when he’s finished, “I’m—”
“Don’t.” I force my hands to relax on the steering wheel. “You gave me that peace, big bro. Let’s take that win.”
More quiet. Then a sigh. “I love you.”
“Ugh,” I groan.
“What’d I do now, kid?”
“You’re all happy and in love and in touch with your emotions and shit. It’s freaking adorable.”
His chuckle soothes the rough edges of the past. “This is something to complain about?”
“Yup,” I say. “Little sis privileges.”
He laughs again and I know that he’ll let it go, let me go and have the night I said I wanted…but I also know that he needs me beside him tonight, needs to know I’m safe and healed and living my life.
And if there’s anything I need, it’s to help him heal his wounds right back.
To be useful.
To be needed right back.
Not a burden, not an object to be looked after, but a real functioning human.
I spent too long being the opposite.
“What are you cooking?” I ask.
“Pizza,” he says after a moment.
“Barbecue chicken?”
“With olives.” His voice is filled with an affection that cups itself around my heart. Yup. I seriously love my big brother. Especially when he adds, “because my freak of a sister likes the disgusting black circles.”
“Damon,” I say with false affront. “They’re not disgusting. They’re deliciousness in a tiny mouthful.”
“Lies.”
“Just because you don’t have a sophisticated palate…”
“Is that what we’re calling your consumption of copious processed snacks and champagne now?”
“Don’t forget popcorn.” I slurp. “With extra butter.”
He laughs again and I can almost see him shaking his head.
“Damon?”
“Yeah, kid?”
“I’ll be over in twenty.”
Then I shift the car into reverse…and ignore that the past lurking is at the edges of my mind, just waiting for my defenses to falter.
Same as I ignore that it’ll never truly go away.