Chapter 1
Chapter One
Morgan
Three Years Later
I peek into the oven—the garlic bread is just about done; the sauce has been simmering for a while, and the rotini is al dente. Now I just need my kid to show up. I shut off the burners, drain the pasta, dump it back into the pot, and add the sauce while the bread finishes.
I hear a car door open and close, and the garage door close again. Mallory's footsteps squeak on the floor, and I hear the thud-thud of her backpack and gear bag hitting the floor.
"I know you're not about to leave those there, Mal," I shout without looking.
"Ohmigod, whatever." This is under her breath, but I also hear the bags get put away properly in the mudroom, so I let it go.
Her feet pound up the stairs, and she comes back down a couple of minutes later in her favorite chill-at-home outfit: baggy gray sweatpants she stole from her ex-boyfriend and a men's XXL Seattle Skyhawks hoodie.
She's scraped her long black hair into a messy topknot, washed off her makeup, and has her fuzzy Bugs Bunny slippers on her feet.
She enters the kitchen and plops down at the island, tugging her hood up when she spots me at the stove…which immediately triggers Mom Suspicion, because she's not typically a hood-up sort of girl.
"Mal?" I ask, tone level as I finish plating our food.
"Mom?" She returns in the same tone.
"You good?"
“Yeah, why?" She's got her head down, phone on the island in front of her, one hand curled in front of her face, scrolling with the other hand.
Ping…ping…ping…ping: my radar is going off. "Look at me, Mal."
"What?” Still not looking at me.
"Mal." Firmer tone.
“God, fine.” A huff. "It's not a big deal, Mom." She looks up at me, and I gasp.
Huge black eye, green and purple.
"What the hell, Mallory?” I zip over to her, grab her head, and examine it. I sigh. "Let me guess…you skipped skating practice to play hockey again."
"Mom, I'ma better skater than Ms. Bennet, and we all know it.”
"Doesn't mean you don't need to practice. You haven't nailed the triple yet, have you?"
She huffs. "Almost," she grumbles.
"Almost doesn't count," I tell her.
She yanks her head away and goes back to scrolling. "I've almost got the triple, Mom. My program is tight, and we both know it. I've spent like eight hours this week practicing the stupid program, and it’s only Wednesday! Sue for me taking one freaking afternoon to do something fun."
"I get that, Mal, and I don't begrudge the time away from practice."
"Just not hockey."
I strive for calm as we rehash the argument we've been having for what feels like half her life. "Mal, what if you break something? What if you get a concussion?"
She whirls around on the stool, snags her phone, and hops off the stool, tugging her hood back up, stopping with a hand on the railing as she glares at me.
"You do realize figure skating isn't exactly safe, right, Mom?
Like, every single time I practice the stupid fucking triple you're so insistent I learn, I could break a bone or get a concussion!
In fact, I'd argue that I'm at more risk of injury trying to launch myself into the air while skating as fast as I can than I am staying on the ice and getting knocked around a little. "
"But Mal—"
"Not to mention, in hockey, I get to wear protective gear—a mouth guard, shoulder pads, a helmet. You know how idiotic it is that I have to prance about the ice wearing a goddamn bathing suit and tights while hockey players get to wear literal armor and helmets? And yet there you are whining and whining and whining about how I’m gonna get hurt playing hockey?
Sure, I get knocked around, maybe I'll get bumps and bruises, a black eye, sore wrist, banged-up knees, or whatever.
But with the harder programs you have me learning in this obsession you have with me going to the Olympics, my chances of breaking an ankle or a wrist because I biffed a landing are way higher than any comparable injury from hockey. "
"Mal!"
"But sure, get all bent out of shape about a stupid black eye, Mom." She shakes her head, huffing. "You know, I actually had a pretty good day today? Until now." She stomps up the stairs and slams her door; moments later, the thudding beats of some K-pop band or other concuss the house.
Lovely.
God forbid a mother show any concern for her child or try to exert any influence over the direction of her life.
I shoot her a text: [dinner is ready]
Mal: [not hungry thx]
I can almost taste the attitude from the three words. And I'm eating alone. Sweet.
I wrap her plate in plastic wrap and stick it in the fridge, take mine to the breakfast nook where Mal and I typically eat all of our meals. Since Mal isn't here, I ignore my own rule of no scrolling while eating and allow myself to scroll through my IG feed.
Funny dog videos. Funny cat videos.
Six signs you may be experiencing ADHD symptoms due to perimenopause.
Iliana Dobrev cleared 24" vertically while nailing this impossible triple axel in competition…see the video here!
Seattle Skyhawks sign 17-year-old Canadian phenom Conor Mackie to a 3-year, $10M deal. Some hail him as the next Noel Austin, hear the rookie's response to the comparison!
Scroll, scroll, scroll. I almost pass it, initially; Tomlin Falls' official IG account—run by Mayor Alaina Frey's 21-year-old son, an influencer of middling regional fame: This year's third annual Taylor Austin Memorial Hockey Fundraiser is shaping up to be the best event of the year for Tomlin Falls!
With the addition of Joel Brighton to the cops' roster and Adam Juarez to the firefighters’ bench, both Frozen Four champions, the game should be a real barn-burner.
Show up early to get your seats and be treated to a short program featuring figure skating instructor Morgan Wheeler's students before the game.
Family free skate after, and as always, all proceeds go to the Taylor Austin Memorial Cancer Fund.
Um…that hasn't been confirmed yet. Ugh.
Guess I'm committed, now.
I call Alaina's cell, and it rings four times before she picks up. "Morgan, hi. I'm meeting Kath and Olivia at B-and-I for drinks in a bit. You want to join? I was about to call you, as a matter of fact."
B-and-I is local shorthand for Barry and Ingrid's Local Lounge, one of the town's four late-night drinking establishments.
Lonergan's is where the bikers, truckers, hunters, and snowmobilers go—it's a rough place that's been around under one name or another since 1884, and honestly, the structure itself hasn't changed much, only owners.
Clapper's Cabin is a tourist spot, complete with a functioning, historic general store in front—sort of like Cracker Barrel but 100% authentic—featuring jars of candy, racoon skin hats, gold panning kits, and tchotchkes like that, along with soda, snacks, beer, wine, liquor, and hardware/home goods sorts of things; the bar is in the rear and serves meals until 10 pm.
Delgado's on Main is a wine bar, the ambitious brainchild of Della Delgado, who felt the more discerning clientele of Tomlin Falls deserved an upscale establishment where they could listen to jazz, host open mic nights, eat fancy finger food, and drink fancy wine imported from the Lower Forty-Eight.
Turns out Della was right, as it's a popping place most nights.
Funny how even in adulthood, we tend to stay in our cliques: in high school, there were the kids who smoked cigarettes and pot behind the hockey rink, the jocks, the popular kids, the loners and losers, and those who, like me, didn't fit into any one group but who weren’t loners or losers—which was in effect its own distinct group.
B-and-I is home to the no-clique kids who grew up to be no-clique adults. Like Alaina, Kath, and me.
"Yeah, that sounds good, to be honest. I could use a stiff drink."
"Not the only stiff thing you could use," Alaina says.
I splutter a laugh. "Alaina, good lord. Get your mind out of the gutter, woman."
"When was the last time you even went on a date?"
I don't answer because I can't remember right away. "Shut up," I say eventually. "And the real reason I was calling was I just saw Luke's post on Instagram."
"His what-now?”
"So you didn't approve the post, then."
"What post, Morgan? I didn't approve any post."
"Take a look at the Tomlin Falls feed.”
Silence. "Goddammit, Luke," she mutters under her breath. "LUKE ROBERT FREY!" she shouts, loudly enough that I wince and hold the phone away. "I'll call you back after I shout at my kid."
A few minutes later, my phone burbles as she calls me back. "Sorry, Morgan. We got our wires crossed. I gave him the deets so he could make the post, but he wasn't supposed to post it until I verified everything. He misunderstood and just posted it."
"I haven’t spoken to all of my skaters yet, Alaina. I don't know who can and can't or will or won't perform. I have six kids who are a yes so far, but I'm still waiting to hear back from most families, and I have at least eight who won't be able to for one reason or another."
Alaina sighs. "I know, I know. I'm sorry. But, look, it doesn't have to be a polished recital or anything. Whoever wants to skate, just have them do a quick thing."
I laugh. "Do a quick thing. Alaina, do you know me at all?"
A sigh. "I'd like to think I do, Miss Perfectionist. I know your nature is to make it as perfect as possible.
I'm not saying just throw something together all half-assed.
I'm just saying, the post is out there, and we can't exactly un-post it.
It's already being reposted and commented on.
The cat's out of the bag, so you're just gonna have to make the best of it. And Morgan?"
"Why do I not like the way you said my name just then?"
"You should skate."
"Um, no."
"Um, yes. You qualified for the freaking Olympics, Morgan."
“More than twenty years ago!"