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“Up to Wisconsin, out of the city. Her kids are grown and out of the house. My one cousin’s married with kids in Milwaukee, and I think she wants to be close to them and all.”
“How old were you when you moved to Chicago, anyway?” I think my school must’ve been the first place he came, based on the rumors back then, but asking keeps the focus away from me.
“Thirteen. It was late spring. I didn’t expect it to be so freaking hot since it had been winter the last time I visited, and that was when I was ten. Scotland doesn’t get snow that much, not where I’m from, and the temperature changes aren’t as extreme as they are here.”
“You must’ve been so sunburned that first summer.”
“Oh, fuck! I had the worst sun poisoning. I was barfing for, like, three days, and I was covered in blisters. My mum was pissed. I had to miss two hockey practices, I was so sick.” His jaw tics. “I never went outside without a ball cap or sunscreen after that.”
“Was it hard to get used to winter?”
“Not too bad, since it meant playing lots of ice hockey.”
“Did you start playing Rep hockey as soon as you moved? That must’ve been a huge change.”
“I did. I was old to be starting. Most of these kids had been on skates since they could walk, but I loved playing, and it was a good outlet for me.”
“Your parents must be so proud of you.” Mine are happy that I have a full-time job in the field they spent all sorts of money educating me for, and that I found a job that suits me. Obviously they’re proud, too, but becoming a massage therapist is a lot different than a professional hockey player.
“I don’t talk to them all that much. I mean, I guess my dad is proud, but he isn’t all that connected to the family, and he wasn’t here when it mattered.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s okay. It’s not your fault. My mum isn’t really a good person, so I don’t much blame my dad for leaving.”
I don’t ask any more questions about his family, because it seems to put him in a dark mood, and I’d much rather have the flirty, sweet, funny Lance. My family has always been pretty close. Even my sister, who has a hard time settling down anywhere, always shows up for the important events, though most of the time she asks for money before she leaves. Fortunately, we’ve arrived at the little café. It’s busy, maybe because it’s a Monday night and lots of places aren’t open.
Lance holds the door open for me and groans when the smell of sugar, coffee, and baked goods hits him. “Now I’m really starving.”
“We’ll feed your beast.” I pat his flat stomach, then realize the unrequested contact might not be all that welcome.
But he grabs my hand before I can pull it away. He threads his fingers through mine and squeezes before guiding me through the tables to the counter. A glass case features muffins, scones and ornately decorated cakes. On the chalkboard menu above the cashier is a list of sundaes and ice cream options.
“There’s a gummy bear sundae?” Lance asks, awestruck. He looks at the girl standing behind the counter. “Is that any good? Do they really use gummy bears?”
“Um. Yes. And everything here is good.”
He looks down at me. “Have you ever had one?”
“No. I usually get their lava cake, but you’re allergic to chocolate, right?”
“You can still get it.”
“Well, how allergic are you?”
Lance frowns, and then his eyebrows pop up, his eyes moving to my mouth. “Uh, on second thought, I guess it might be better to avoid it if you want me to say a proper good night later.”
“I’d like a proper good night.”
His smile is devilish. “I’d like several proper good nights.”
Lance orders the gummy bear sundae and a strawberry tea—this place doesn’t have a liquor license—and I get the carrot cake and lavender tea. We look around for a table, but the options are limited. Lance spots a tiny two-top in the corner, grabs my hand again, and leads me over. He pulls out my chair, tucking me in. Then he moves his chair so he’s not across from me, but perpendicular, his knee touching mine as it bounces under the table.
“I like this place.”
I shrug out of my jacket. “Me, too. April and I come here sometimes.”
“The girl at the clinic, right? The one you don’t want to touch me.”
“That would be her.”
Lance tugs the end of my ponytail, running his fingers through it. His smile falters, and he sifts through the strands again. “I have this memory from when I first moved here—”
The server brings our drinks and desserts over, interrupting him. My heart stays firmly lodged in my throat, though.
