Page 63 of Crack the Ice

“Like what?”

Great question, Lily. I’d like to know the answer myself.

“I get overstimulated easily. Sometimes I need help managing sensory overload. Other times it takes me a long time to get focused enough to start a task, and if someone comes and asks me a question, I sometimes explode on them. Not because I’m mad at them, but because it took me so long to start in the first place.”

Lily nods, and I find myself doing the same.

“But what’s worst for me is sudden changes or surprises. My brain can’t tell the difference between those things and being chased by a lion. And sometimes I need to be by myself to process things. I don’t have an unlimited social battery. I’m good at masking when I’m not home, but when I start singing and humming, those are called vocal stims. Those happen because there’s too much energy in my brain, and I need to get it out somehow. It’s voluntary. I can control it, but it’s also necessary for me to let it out. If it gets to be too much, you can always tell me, and I’ll stop, but you might have to ask a few times, or I may walk away to let it out. It’s kind of like holding a sneeze in.”

“That sounds uncomfortable.” Her little nose scrunches over the bridge, making her eyes narrow.

“It is sometimes, but just know that if you surprise me, my reaction may not be what you want it to be, and it’s not because I don’t love it. It’s because my brain is processing differently than yours does, okay?”

“Okay!”

“So, do you have any cool hobbies?” Cade asks, making Cecilia’s laugh fill the car. It’s light and airy, and feels like the first bit of sun after a rainy day.

“I hobby hop sometimes. But more often than not, if I get an idea, I have to try it, or it doesn’t leave me alone. Then as soon as I try it, I’m bored and move on to something else.”

“That’s cool,” he says, leaning back into the seat.

I had no idea. It didn’t even occur to me that she could process things differently than I did. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it. I assumed everyone was the same.

I pull into the neighborhood after what feels like the fastest cross-town drive ever. My breath lodges in my throat as we pull up to my house. The last time we were here, it was dark, and I don’t think she fully got to appreciate it. It’s one story, but it’s long—six bedrooms, on two acres of land. I bought two plots to make that happen, because I remembered Cecilia saying, “I want to live in a house with no neighbors when I grow up. A safe space, kind of like a sanctuary. My life has never been private.”

Which I didn’t understand at the time. She was Cecilia to me. But then, as we got older and her mom’s brand got even bigger in the States, I realized how important her privacy was to her. She couldn’t go anywhere without a camera being shoved in her face or people asking what it was like to be the daughter of Selina Samuels. Or even if she was going to follow in her mother’s footsteps and be the next fashion icon of her generation.

Her lips part as we pull into the driveway. “Mav, this is…” She shakes her head, her fingers pressing lightly to her lips. “Gorgeous.”

Every thought I had about this being too much evaporates as her eyes trail over the front of our home. Watching as she loses all thought because of something I did, with her in mind? It triggers something raw, a primitive surge of pride injected straight into my veins the longer she goes without saying anything.

She slowly pushes her door open, one heeled foot hitting the cobblestone driveway with a quiet clack. I take a minute to watch her through the windshield, cataloguing the way her head swivels from one side to the other as she takes everything in.

When she gets close enough to touch the house, she runs her finger over the wrought iron light fixtures, continuing over the purple wisteria flowers that climb up the side of the wall. Something her brother once told me was her favorite part of their house in Spain. She’d pick the flowers that had fallen off the vine and put them behind her ear.

And damn it if my heart doesn’t stutter in my chest when I see her swoop down and pick one off the ground and tuck it behind Lily’s ear. I hadn’t even realized they got out of the car, yet here I am watching like a creep, but I can’t stop.

As if my thoughts were broadcast for them to hear, three pairs of eyes turn and look at me.

“You coming?” Cecilia yells.

Busted.

Hopping from the car, I jog to catch up and quickly slide my key in the door. “I have one for you. It’s inside,” I whisper, putting my hand on her lower back as I usher her through the door. Do I need to? No? But now I have an excuse to touch her, and I’m going to take every bit of it I can, call it making up for five years of her absence.

“Oh my God, Mav. It’s like you took this straight out of my dreams.” Her finger runs down the wall, and neither of the kids says anything. They’re watching her with the same intensity as I am.

I did. I almost tell her.

She gets to the kitchen and stops dead in her tracks.

She hadn’t been this far last time. Her hand flies to her chest, eyes widening as she slowly turns to face me. “Maverick.” My name is barely audible as it escapes her mouth, and suddenly I wish we didn’t have an audience so that I could figure out all the other ways I can get her to say my name like that.

But then, her head tips back, exposing the delicious curve of her neck, and she laughs. Wheezing as she tries to get a hold of herself, I’m entranced. The gleam in her eye when they open again, the curve of her smile, the ease with which she stands in my kitchen like she’s always been here. It’s enough to send a man to his knees.

“I hope you know how messy this is about to be,” she says as her laughter trails off. “I mean, it will never look like this again.” Her finger motions to the spotless state of my kitchen. Everything has a place, everything is labeled, and there’s no evidence of anything being cooked in here, ever.

I close the distance, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her into me. “I told you I wanted your mess. I meant it.”