Page 72 of Ice Princess

Fishing out more bills from my wallet, I hand the driver a tip.

“Thanks, bro.” He waves the money around with a grin. “I’ll say an extra prayer for you and your girl to work things out.”

I appreciate that. Divine intervention is probably the only thing that can turn this mess around.

It’s quiet on the ranch, and I’m craving some alone time, so I take the long way home. Low clouds cover the stars, choking out the moon. The barn lights in the distance and my cellphone flashlight are all that illuminate my path.

Before long, the farmhouse looms ahead. A yellow light glows from the front-facing window. My parents are waiting for me to come home.

At the thought of another conversation with my mother, all my energy seeps out. I bet mom has a ton more to say about the dinner. In the time spent driving back to Lucky Falls and waiting up for me, she’s probably invented ten more reasons to be angry.

I’m okay hearing about how betrayed she feels, but I don’t think I can handle more cruel taunts aimed at Rebel.

It’s because of that fear that I decide not to go home.

Shifting directions, I cut through the orchard, inhaling the scent of freshly overturned dirt and ripening apples. I’m not sure where I’m headed… until I arrive exactly where I’d wanted to go.

The treehouse.

The ramshackle structure looks extra rundown and lonely tonight. I grimace at the overgrown vines, weathered railings and leaves scattered by the wind. The sunken-in roof is a giant safety hazard too.

Mom’s been mumbling about hacking the treehouse down and building a she-shed for years. But dad’s never allowed it.

“The treehouse has a solid foundation and good bones. Who knows? Maybe one day, it can be beautiful again.”

Testing dad’s theory, I climb up the ladder. The boards nailed into the trunk are slimy with mold and moss. If I didn’t have grip strength from years of playing hockey, I’d have slipped and probably cracked my neck.

Moving carefully, I clear the last rung and pull myself onto the small verandah. The logs dad used to form the floor of the treehouse are colored from age and neglect, but they hold my weight.

I spin in a slow circle, lost in happy memories. Like a movie—I see Rebel and I shrieking with laughter. Collapsing on our backs to find shapes in the clouds. Scooting all the way to the edge of the verandah, our bare feet hanging over while we snack on melting popsicles.

Before she was ‘the Hart girl’ and before I became ‘a Kinsey’, we were just Gunner and Bell.

I blink and the visions of the past are gone, replaced with the cold, dark present.

Was dad right? Can this abandoned, old eyesore ever be beautiful again?

Right now, it seems impossible.

Not unless someone’s willing to put in the work.

I look beside me, and for a moment, the five-year-old Rebel and the seven-year-old me appear, waiting to play again.

A surge of energy pulls me forward and I start snapping pictures of the treehouse with my phone, capturing every angle from the verandah to the roof.

Slowly and methodically, I catalogue all the areas that need to be restored. The rusty hinges on the door. The overgrown canopy roof. The questionable ladder.

When that’s done, I jog to the barn where dad keeps the farm pickup. The keys are always in the ignition. Dad’s the sheriff and few would be bold enough to steal from him.

It’s close to midnight when I drive through the dark, empty streets of Lucky Falls and head downtown.

A privilege of working at a hardware store? I have a key and the alarm code.

A privilege of being the nephew of the owner of the hardware store? I can loot the place without consequences.

I grab brand new hinges, cleaning solutions, and all the tools I need from the shelves. Stopping at the cash register, I write a note and tabulate the total of my ‘shopping spree’ so I can pay Uncle Robert later.

Next, I take over Uncle Robert’s workshop at the back of the store and spend a few hours measuring and cutting boards.

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