Page 63 of Melt the Ice

Her lips part as she blinks slowly, trying to process what I said. “W-what?” She finally gets out.

I get it, truly. A guy who found his mom dead in her home a month ago should be rioting, throwing things, something other than spending all my time with her, so I don’t drink myself to sleep. But I’m past it, I’ve accepted it for what it is.

And honestly, I’m relieved. I’m relieved she’s gone, that she’s no longer suffering. But I do want answers. I do want to know why she was on the ranch, what ties she had, and if her knowing Ms. Anna is the reason I ended up here all those years ago. “I have questions, but you aren’t your father.”

I slowly stand, my eyes locked on her. “I need you to hear me when I say this.” I pause, waiting for her to raise her head. “I don’t blame you. But I do need some time to process everything.”

Years of silence, and her death uncovers more secrets than I thought possible. Sure, I knew she had a life before my dad died. She’d go to work, come home, and sing while she made dinner. But I don’t think I ever knew what she did.

There’s a collection of things I pulled from Ms. Anna’s house when I remodeled it. I promised myself I wouldn’t go through it without Lettie, but the need for answers overrules the promise I’d made myself.

I don’t register my surroundings as I walk back to my house. It’s like I’m climbing a mountain, the oxygen thinner than it should be. The effort it takes to move my body seems to get harder with every step. I all but stumble into the house, locking the door behind me. I swipe the unopened bottle of tequila I hid in one of the fake plants by my stairs and head to my room, where my safe is tucked safely in the corner of my closet.

My finger shakes as I hold it up to the biometric scanner. It beeps before the lock disengages. I stand in front of the big black metal box, shaking as I wrestle with what to do. Drink what’s in my hand, or face the music. Take a step toward healing, or take a step back into destruction. I think of Lettie, of what our future would look like if I pick destruction. Would there even be a future if I took that route? I don’t know, but it’s not a risk I’m willing to take. No matter how bad moving forward may hurt.

I pull the shoebox out and put the bottle in its place. I dig through the pile of pictures and receipts until I find the picture Abby had sent to Lettie. My mom, holding me on her hip, a baby cowboy hat perched on top of my head, as I reach for the necklace hanging from her neck. She’s looking at Ms. Anna with a huge smile on her face, while Ms. Anna is staring at me, a smile equally as blinding.

I flip the picture over, my finger brushing against my mom’s handwriting. “Anna, thanks for loving my boy like your own. I know this isn’t his fight, but I know you’ll take care of him should they come for us. Thank you for being our best friend. I know the circumstances we met under weren’t ideal, but you’ve been family since day one. We love you. -Emily and Jackson Monroe.”

They were friends? Not just friends, but best friends…

I dig through the box, pulling out paper after paper. Ms. Anna kept receipts that were years old. This one is faded as all get out, but I can still faintly make out the last two numbers of the year, 76. I set the pile of papers down next to me as I dig my fingers into my temples.

I pull the last paper out of the box, the handwriting looking familiar but so foreign at the same time. “Midland, TX 1997. Thorne contract Failure.”

I pull out my phone and do a search for what's written here and come up with nothing. I shrug, putting everything back in the box before I lock it back up in the safe. Maybe Lettie will know what it means, not that either of us were old enough to know anything, but that’s where she’s from. It could have been a big thing, part of the city's history, or something.

When I’m done, I put the box away, making eye contact with the bottle I swore I’d leave in here. I grab it by the neck and place it on my bedside table. I fall back onto my bed, starfishing as I stare at the ceiling. I try to keep the darkness at bay, it’s easier to do when Lettie’s around. She’s always been the light that chases away my dark, but right now I need to process.

I need to process the fact that there’s something big enough to kill my mom over, hiding in the walls of this place. I need to process the fact that her father killed my mom over whatever it is. But I also need to process the fact that I’m going to have to go out of town at some point, and it’ll be a cold day in hell before she agrees to travel with me.

The last time I brought it up, she tried to retreat. To throw her walls back up, and I don’t want that. I can’t handle that right now. I need her. I need my girl.

My thoughts are all over the place, like a game of pinball, bouncing from one thing to the next. Each thought heavier and darker than the one before, and I just want them to be quiet for a second. So I drink myself to sleep for the first time in weeks. I can hate myself tomorrow.

My heart is pounding, tequila-scented sweat pours from my body as I skate my fiftieth suicide. My legs feel like jelly, my lungs burn, and my hangover is monstrous. “What are you doing here?” Abby’s voice cuts through the silence like a machete.

“The hell does it look like I’m doing?” I yell as I push off my back skate, propelling myself further down the ice.

She steps out onto the shiny surface, arms crossed over her chest, as she watches me go back and forth two more times. “Looks like you’re going to end up on my table before the next game.”

I slide to a stop in front of her, spraying her with ice. If it pisses her off, she doesn’t show it, just brushes it off her sleeve. “What do you want, Abby?”

Her face softens, and I hate it, I hate the pity rolling off her in tangible waves. “Don’t.” I grit out as I take off toward the other side of the ice. I don’t know how many laps I skate before I look up and notice she’s gone. Good. I want to be alone, that’s why I’m here before six am.

I brace my arms on the boards, grab my water from the bench, and spray the back of my head as it hangs heavy in front of me. I’m smacked in the ass with a stick, and my eyes shoot open. Samuels doesn’t say anything, just hands me my stick and nods toward the other end of the ice where half my team stands. “We’ll get through it together. Move,” he says before he joins the rest of them.

I love this team, these guys. They’ve been my family for nine years, they’ve put up with my songs, my ridiculous ideas, me. Reed skates over, wrapping his hand around the back of my neck as he taps his head against mine like we do when one of us scores. “You need to work through your shit, you call us.” He squeezes before pulling away and looking at me. “Got it?”

I give him a stiff nod, and he responds with a downright devious smile. “Good, go get in line. We’ve got drills to run.”

No one speaks as we run drill after drill with less enthusiasm than we would if we were geared up for practice, and by the end of it, we’re all breathless and tired. Most of my teammates file off the ice without a word, but Sammy skates back up to my side, tapping my shin with his stick.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks as we skate a lazy lap.

I look at him, really look at him, his lip ring glints in the low light of the rink, but he’s not in his usual over-enthusiastic mood. I let out a scoff, tapping my stick off the front of my skates. “Not really, I just had a rough night. A momentary lapse of judgement. I should have called someone to work through. But I just... gave in. ”

“Not all days are going to be good days, you know?” We round the corner, starting lap two.