Page 68 of Melt the Ice

He clutches his imaginary pearls and staggers into the living room dramatically. “Ouch, Lettie, you wound me.” I can’t help but let out the smallest laugh. The friendship these two have developed is honestly entertaining as hell.

I distract myself by sitting in my normal spot on the couch next to Abby. It's like I’m on autopilot. I don’t necessarily want to sit next to anyone but Scarlett, but I need some sense of normalcy. I need to know that not everything has changed.

“Mr. Shephard, I can’t thank you enough for pullin’ my car into the shop,” Hannah says in her most southern accent.

“Darlin, you don’t got to thank me for doing my job,” Abby reads in her “manly” voice.

“‘Oh, but I do,’ I say as I trail my finger down the middle of his chest, his hand wrapping around my own. The sheer size difference between them should be enough to make me pause. But this man has been the star of my dreams for years, ever since he changed my tire when I was fresh out of college. ‘I could think of lots of ways I could thank you that don’t require talkin'.’”

I let out a holler. “Get 'em, girlie!” The enthusiasm feels so foreign, like it belongs somewhere lighter. But it feels like me. Almost.

I force a smile, even manage a laugh that doesn’t sound completely void of emotion, and for a second, I think I’ve faked it well enough, that is, until Tate’s voice cuts through the silence.

“You good, Monroe?” The question hits like a check from behind. My head snaps toward him. You good? Repeats over and over like a bad omen. I look between him and Abby, searching for an out, a joke I could possibly use here, anything to dodge the conversation, but nothing makes it past my lips.

“I…” My hand runs over my jaw, trying to ground myself as I sink back into the couch. “No.”

Abby’s eyes soften, not with pity, but full of understanding. “What’s going on?”

I run my thumb across the chain around my neck, the familiar edge of the ring grounding me. “I don’t want to feel so… blah,” I say honestly. “But I don’t always know how to shift it. Some days it just feels like too big a hill to climb.”

Old me would have said to fix it. Would have apologized for bringing down the mood. But healing Lucas is learning not to weaponize my own heart against myself. “The only person who’s ever seen this side of me is Lettie,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “The me that hangs somewhere in the balance. Not happy, not sad, just… here. Trying.”

Scarlett’s laugh floats in from the kitchen, and my whole body relaxes. I don’t even try to hide it. “She’s my guiding light” I admit. “She has been since we were kids.”

The words aren’t a desperate plea for her to come back and love me like they were before. They’re an acknowledgement of what I’ve always known.

I let out a shaky breath, “Could I have done something differently?” I ask. “Would it have even made a difference in the end, or would she still have ended up buried in the dirt?”

The next question comes out as a whisper. “What happens if Lettie leaves, too?” The fear doesn’t threaten to rip me open the way it used to. It simply exists, a shadow I’ve learned to stand beside instead of inside. Her love strengthens me, but in losing my mom, I realize I am strong enough to stand on my own, even if I don’t want to.

My head falls forward, hands clasped between my knees. “God, the regret is eating me alive. The what-ifs…” I shake my head, “I'm allergic to planet bullshit. I want off this ride.”

Abby blows out a breath, her tone soft but firm. “Monroe…”

By the time I look up, she’s already kneeling in front of me, and the concern in her eyes cuts through my defenses. “There was nothing you could have done,” she says. “You did everything right for years.”

Her hand lands on my shoulder, the way it does when she wants me to pay attention. “This isn’t your fault,” she continues, “but you know as well as anyone else that we all have our demons. You’ve danced with yours, alone, for a long time. There’s no shame in letting us help you carry it.”

The tears sting at the back of my eyes, falling before I can blink them back. I pull her into a hug, voice rough with emotion, “Thanks, Knighty.”

“It’s Wilder,” Tate grunts, and it’s so perfectly him that it pulls the smallest smile from me.

Abby and I pull apart, and I throw him a lazy salute, “Right. Thanks, Wildey.”

He rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath, but I catch the corners of his mouth twitch. For a moment, I almost feel normal again.

Pushing off the couch, I head into the kitchen, going straight for the street corn and pasta salad that I was eyeing earlier. I pile a little bit of everything onto my plate, not because I’m super hungry, but because I need something to do that doesn't involve having a mental breakdown in front of my friends.

Abby’s right, though, per usual. My mom’s silence carved pieces out of me for years, shaping me into the caretaker, the forgiver, the son who bent himself into shapes he was never meant to be, to earn any form of affection. But it never came, and now, she’s gone. But her silence doesn’t get the final say.

A strange lightness takes hold in my chest, one that says I don’t have to be anchored in pain, but in possibility. Who is Lucas Monroe without grief? Without the constant ache of being unwanted?

I don’t know yet. But I want to find out, figure out who Lucas Monroe is beyond the pain of who I’ve tried to be.

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