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“Come on!” Tuck groans. “If I baked brownies, I’d share them with you!”
Sebastian snickers. “Tuck, if you baked anything, no one would ask.”
“They’re for Summer,” I say. “We’re having a picnic tomorrow.”
Tuck flings his arms around Sebastian’s neck and makes swoony sounds. “Oh my gosh! Sebastian, have you ever heard something so adorable? I’m gonna melt over here.”
Sebastian struggles to get free from Tuck’s grasp, but Tuck holds on tenaciously. “Get off me, bro.”
I shake my head as I put a cover of tinfoil over the tray and pop in into the refrigerator to keep until tomorrow. “Don’t touch my brownies,” I say forbiddingly, drilling Tuck with a glare.
“Me? Brownies? I can’t stand brownies. If they’re gone tomorrow morning, it was Sebastian.”
Sebastian nudges Tuck in the ribs, and suddenly they’re playfighting like school children. I stroll past them, rolling my eyes. But my lips twitch just a little at the same time. These guys can be ridiculous half the time—way more than half, actually—but they’re not so bad.
I glance at the clock. Six forty-seven. I’m already counting down the minutes until my picnic with Summer tomorrow.
22
SUMMER
Ireally don’t want to be the one to say it.
“These brownies suck,” Hudson spares me.
Laughter flutters from my lips. “Nooo,” I say, though I don’t think many people would buy my protest. “They’re just a little … a little …”
“Sucky?” Hudson supplies. The tiny rise at the corner of his mouth lets me know he’s at least taking the fact that he baked a … let’s say, not exactly great, batch of brownies in stride.
I force myself to take one more bite, thoughtfully munching on the too-dry, too-salty, oddly flavored concoction. “I think you used just a little too much …” I can’t quite put my finger on it.
Hudson snatches what’s left of the brownie from my hand and drops it into the tray. He then carries it over to the nearest trashcan, unceremoniously dumps the whole thing, glass tray and all, into it, and then walks back to the blanket we’ve spread over the campus lawn.
He dusts off his hands as he sits back down. “Let’s never speak of them again.”
“Alright,” I agree with a giggle.
I’m honestly so proud of Hudson that he tried baking, though. The way he looked at that picture of me baking with my mom, and how he talked about how he used to do the same thing with his mom, I know those memories mean something to him. Even though I’m pretty sure he buries them deeper than he should.
We’ll set aside anymore mention of his imperfect first batch for now, but I’m definitely going to encourage him to keep baking. Maybe we can bake together sometime. The thought makes me feel fuzzy and warm in my chest.
To change the topic, I ask a question that just popped into my head. “When did you learn how to skate?”
Hudson blows out a whoosh of breath. “I’ve been able to skate as long as I can remember. My dad had me in skates as soon as it was safe to. Probably before that point, actually,” he adds with a laugh.
There’s a strange mixture of emotions as I contrast the idea of cute little Hudson skating for the first time, with the possibility of his father pushing it on him for selfish reasons—not just teaching him to skate, but forcing him to.
Hudson’s dropped comments about his dad here and there, especially in relation to hockey, and I’ve gathered that the role hockey plays in their relationship is less about bonding over something they both love, than his father driving Hudson to satisfy his own ego.
“I guess you don’t remember if you found it hard or not?” I ask.
Hudson shrugs. “Not really. As far back as I can remember, I was skating like I was walking. Why?”
“I dunno. I was thinking about learning to skate.”
Hudson’s eyelids snap open. “You don’t know how?”
I shake my head.
