“You’re almost as bad as Molly,” Matthew observes, snickering. “She cannot stand not knowing anything. Once, I think for her twelfth birthday, Jenna tried throwing her a surprise birthday at our parents’ house – the house we lived in at the time had a pool – but Molly was so suspicious that when the day of the party finally arrived, they couldn’t get her into the back yard for the actual surprise. Jenna had to drag her by the arm, and by the time they made it to the back yard, Molly was so pissed off and embarrassed she spent the first twenty minutes of her party in the house pouting before she’d put her swim suit on.”
Yeah. I could totally see my roommate doing that.
“My mom was so pissed that she was being such a little brat. I was convinced they’d ban her from having any more birthday parties.” Matthew chuckles at the memory. “Everything turned out fine, of course, but if Molly wouldn’t have been so damn suspicious leading up to the party, she would have had a ton more fun. And wouldn’t have gotten her ass chewed out in the process.”
I give him a sideways glance. “I’m not sure I get what your point is here and how that relates to me. That story is an atrocious comparison.”
Matthew snorts. “My point is, just enjoy the ride. Don’t be so uptight.”
Uptight? Me? Pfft.
We ride in silence for a few more miles, before turning into the well-lit parking lot of an ice arena.
So not what I was expecting.
CHAPTER 32
MATTHEW
“Girlfriend? That’s a funny way to pronounce Netflix” – Rachel Sinclair, Molly’s occasional (and always sarcastic) study partner.
“Man, am I glad I brought these babies,” Cecelia croons beside me, referring to the hat and mittens she’s just donned, and looking absolutely adorable and delicious in both. Her long wavy hair spills out the bottom of the gray cable-knit cap, framing her flushed cheeks and highlighting her finely arched eyebrows and the cupid’s bow of her pert lips.
Okay, okay – I’m probably waxing poetic a little too freely, and it’s probably not the hat accentuating so much as the fact I can’t stop staring and admiring her many fine features.
We’re seated in the stands of Madison Ice Arena North, a low rent facility on the edge of town, closer to the ghetto than I’m used to, and about a thirty minute drive from the rink where my kids normally play.
They don’t have a game tonight; no. Tonight is actually an exhibition of leagues and kids that have split into smaller teams to play in three-on-three tournament brackets. I don’t have any of my students participating this year; at one hundred twenty five bucks a pop, the astronomical entry fees alone keep them at bay - but I still come year-after-year to watch the younger generations of kids play. Especially the Pee-Wee’s.
The arena is cold – really freaking cold – and Cecelia hunkers down next to me on the wooden bench, sidling up close and clutching a hot chocolate in her gloved hands.
“Brrrr,” she shivers, taking a loud sip, steam rises from the small gap in the top. She lifts the cup and studies the steaming hole with one eye. “How come, do you suppose, the hot chocolate at these things is always just made from water and cocoa mix? Yucko.”
“Because it’s cheap,” I hypothesize. “Plus, it’s cheap.”
Cecelia laughs into her cup and eyes someone above the rim. “But maybe not as cheap as that chick over there,” she nods towards the ice, where someone’s mother stands next to the boards wearing a short skirt, heels, and a sweater. Not exactly ice rink appropriate apparel. I mean – its bleeding fifty-five degrees in here, tops.
“Please don’t let me out of your sights tonight; not with that one running loose,” I say as a horrified chuckle escapes my lips, only half joking. Those rink bunnies (who show up everywhere) can spot a meal-ticket from one hundred yards away, and I don’t want her smelling me. “I don’t even want you leaving to go to the bathroom. Haha.”
“You better be nice to me then,” Cecelia playfully bumps me with her shoulder. “Otherwise, I’ll flag her down with my hat and offer you up on a platter.”
I lean in close. “You wouldn’t dare…”
She leans in, unflinching, and purses her glossy lips. “Try me.”
Just a few centimeters closer, and I peck her lips, sending a surprised and embarrassed blush to her already flushed cheeks. With a gloved hand, she reaches up and touches her mouth, smiling. “Okay, well, that definitely earned you brownie points.”
“I hope so, because your lips taste like hot chocolate and coconut. And coconut just became my new favorite thing of all time.”
“That’s funny; I remember Weston saying the same thing when he discovered your sister wore edible body glitter.”