Page 83 of Thin Ice

"What? He doesn't. Full ride."

Liam threw a marshmallow at him. It hit Noah in the chest and fell into his mug. Priya laughed and Remy shook his head, and the moment broke open into something warm and easy, and Liam's hand squeezed my knee once, gently, and I covered it with mine and held on.

"We'll figure something out," he said, eyes catching mine.

The snow kept falling. The fire kept burning. And I loved him. I loved him and I couldn't say it.

***

I told them I was going to grab coffee.

Seven-thirty in the morning. Everyone still half-asleep in the cabin. Noah under a blanket on the couch, Priya in the kitchen with her hands around a mug of the terrible coffeemaker coffee, Remy in his chair by the window already looking at footage on his phone. Ethan wasn't up yet. Liam was in the bedroom, still warm, the covers pulled to his chin.

"The place on Route 4 has good stuff," Liam said. His voice was thick with sleep. "Get me a large black."

"Anyone else?"

Orders came from around the cabin. Noah wanted a latte. Priya wanted Earl Grey. Remy said "Anything with caffeine" without looking up.

"Twenty minutes," I said.

Liam rolled over. "Take the car."

"Yeah."

I took the keys off the counter. Put on my coat and walked out into the cold. The snow from last night was still on the ground, and the sky was flat and gray, and the lake was frozen and silent.

I got into the car. Started the engine. Pulled out of the gravel lot and turned left onto the lake road.

The coffee shop was right. Route 4.

I turned left.

Peninsula Point was fourteen minutes from the south shore. The houses got bigger at the bend. Longer driveways, hedges, gates. The Caldwell place. The Lockwood place. Then came the turn for the private road, the trees opening up, and the house.

Stone and glass. Jutting over the water as if it were making a point. Every window was dark except the kitchen.

I parked in the gravel circle. Cut the engine. Sat there.

I hadn't planned what to say. I hadn't rehearsed anything. I'd been lying in bed at three in the morning with Liam's arm across my chest, knowing I had to come here one more time, and the knowing was the plan.

I got out. Walked to the door. Didn't knock. This had been my house a week ago. The handle was cold. The door opened.

The foyer smelled the way it always smelled. Floor polish and cold stone and the faint eucalyptus from the diffuser my mother kept by the stairs. The house was quiet, but not peaceful. It was filled with dread.

I walked toward the kitchen. My shoes on the hardwood. The family photos on the wall, the ones my mother had chosen. Sailing. Christmas. My father and I at a regatta when I was twelve, his hand on my shoulder, both of us squinting into the sun. I looked happy in that photo.

I think I was.

They were at the dining table. My father at the head, my mother to his left. Coffee, the Times folded beside his plate, eggs and toast. The morning choreography of a marriage that ran on schedule.

My mother saw me first.

Her face opened. Something moved through it fast, hope and fear tangled together. She set her coffee cup down. Her hands were shaking.

"Alex."

My father looked up from the paper. His face didn't open. It closed. The jaw set, the eyes narrowed, the posture straightening.