Page 16 of Crack the Ice

I let out a shaky laugh, wiping under my eyes. “Lily said something.” I bat the air between us. “It caught me off guard. I’m fine, honestly.”

He eyes me warily, looking me over like he doesn’t quite believe I’m not hurt. I mean, my ego is bruised, but that’s my own fault.

“Seriously, Markus. I’m fine. Now let’s go wherever it is you’re dragging me to. It’s cold in here.”

He ushers me through the maze of hallways of the arena until he pushes the door to the parking lot open and I’m smacked in the face with sunlight that hurts my eyes.

I hop into his truck, the same one he’s had since he was sixteen, and put my seatbelt on. He turns on the music and starts singing, a telltale sign that my brother is in the best of moods. Good for him. My mind is still stuck on the fact that Mav came after me, just to walk away. Again.

I remember the day Lana told me he was the official guardian of the Jackson kids. Caroline came into our world via the Wilder Foundation after her husband died. Hannah put Lily in the dance class I taught, and the foundation put Cade on a hockey team coached by none other than Mav, my brother, and Lucas.

Those kids have felt like part of the family to all of us for years, but there’s no denying Mav has always been their protector. So it wasn’t really a surprise when she left it in her will that he was the only person she’d trust with them.

It’s different knowing that, and seeing it play out, though. The way he’s so at ease with them, how he falls into “dad” territory so effortlessly. I take a deep breath, letting my head rest against the window, and dream about life I’d planned in my head years ago.

The one that involved him and me, a few kids of our own, definitely a dog or two, surrounded by the friends and family we were lucky enough to call ours. But now he’s living part of that life, and I’m nowhere in the picture.

The truck rolls to a stop outside a big warehouse-looking building with orange lettering out front. He looks over at me, pushing his tongue against the metal ring that cuts through his lip, wiggling his eyebrows as he kills the engine and pushes open his door.

I reluctantly follow suit. I have a hundred things I should be doing right now, none of which include walking around a giant sweatbox that smells like lumber.

“Markus, what are we doing here, and why?” I ask as he pushes a cart around some ridiculous home improvement store. The man looks so out of place here in his perfectly tailored dark wash jeans and his grey Henley, with not an ounce of dirt on him.

He looks at me over his shoulder, and smiles before answering. “I’m building Kait a library at the house. It’s a surprise.”

Freaking swoon. Never did I think I’d see the day my brother fell head over heels for someone, but I couldn’t have picked a better woman for him myself. “You’re building it?”

“Well, no. Monroe and Miller are going to help. I’m just supervising and getting all the materials on the list, and you’re here to pick the paint colors.”

Ohhh! That I can do. We make it two aisles before Markus is stopped and asked for a picture. Some guy asks him to sign his shirt, and another to sign his phone case. He apologizes for the interruption before we move on to screws and wall anchors, all while he tells me his master plan.

“I wanted to do something with the room she was in before we got together. There’s a lot of good memories in there, but I obviously don’t want her sleeping there.” He pauses, turning fully toward me, and the love he has for his wife is evident in the thought he’s put into this. “I think I want to try to match the paint to the dress you and Mamí fixed. It meant a lot to her. Plus, apparently when you bring a woman back to their pink era, it means you’re watching them heal.”

I want this kind of love. The love that amplifies in the quiet moments that no one else but you sees. Built with memories you make together, and doing things for the other without having to be asked because you know it’ll make them smile. I want the kind of love that remembers, and uses that knowledge down the road for something like this.

“I think that’s beautiful, Markus. She’ll love it.”

“Yeah?” He stands a little straighter as if my words of encouragement help his confidence in his own plan. He could paint it shit brown, and she’d still love it because it came from him.

“Yeah, come on. Let’s go build your wife the library of her dreams.”

We walk through endless aisles of shit we would never know what to do with, all mingling with the smells of metal and wood. Every couple of minutes you hear the beeping of a forklift, and the yelling of someone, somewhere. I’m not going to lie, despite my earlier hesitation, it’s relaxing, kinda like the Swedish furniture store, but for people who actually like to build things.

“Okay, I’ve got the wood, screws, caulk, and stain for the shelves. That leaves paint,” he says, checking off each item from his list.

I nod, pointing to the sign hanging from the ceiling. “It says it’s in this aisle.”

“Let’s do it.” He pushes the cart forward, briefly making race car noises as he drifts around the corner. There’s a lightness to me that only comes out when Markus is around, like we’re back in Spain doing stupid stuff in our backyard.

There are so many rows of paint swatches that I’m momentarily stunned. I am so glad I don’t have to make these kinds of decisions daily because I would be overwhelmed in half a second. My fingers run across the different shades of pink. The matte texture under my finger feels smooth. My brain likes the texture, and I soon find myself running my thumb back and forth across it.

I pick up a few, compare them to the dress color in a picture on my phone, and narrow it down to two. “What do you think?” I turn, and all the excitement leaves me as I notice my brother is no longer next to me, but further down the aisle surrounded by people asking for him to sign something.

“Unbelievable,” I mumble, angrily shoving the paint swatches back in their places. “Can’t freaking go anywhere with this man. I don’t know how Kait does it. I mean suuuuure, they’re in the playoffs, but this is the hardware store for pity’s sake.”

Of course someone catches it and turns to me. “Are you his wife?”

My nose wrinkles over the bridge, and I’m about to tell him he can shove it where the sun don’t shine, when someone shouts, “No, that’s just his sister.”