Page 147 of Jaded

But maybe that’s not who I want to be. Day River is a broken town, one that’s always owned me, held me prisoner of its ice and cold and heartbreak. But I’ve always wanted more, if not for myself, then for Syd.

The smell of something burning jerks me viciously back to reality. “Shit!”

I race around the island, but luckily it’s the toast and not the eggs giving off warning smells. The eggs are close behind, though.

I turn off the stove, slide the eggs onto plates. One I devour in a few quick minutes, standing beside the stove. Too anxious to sit, or even to taste what I’ve cooked.

The second . . .

“Syd?” I rap my ugly knuckles against her door. “I know you’re up.”

No answer.

I jiggle the doorknob, but unsurprisingly, she’s locked it. Irritation thrums under my skin—I’ve asked her not to do that. “Sydney.”

My knuckles rap the wood again, harder this time, so she knows I’m serious. “C’mon, Syd. I know how to pick a lock.”

“Course you do,” she snorts, low enough I don’t think I was meant to hear it. When she lifts her voice, it further affirms my suspicions. “I’m doing homework. Leave me alone.”

Homework at nine in the morning on a Saturday. Right. “I have breakfast.”

“Not hungry.”

“Syd.” I sigh, tilt a shoulder against the doorframe. “I know you’re still mad at me. Can we talk about it?”

“No.”

“Can we talk later?” I stare down at the plate in my hand. “After work, maybe?”

“Sure. Yeah. Whatever.”

Love that answer. I hold in the groan building in my chest—and the desire to throw the plate on the floor so I have both hands available for breaking down her door. “Sydney.”

Without warning, the door whips open, and there stands Syd. In sweatpants and an oversized Day River High hoodie, her hair drawn into a rumpled bun atop her head—her face drawn in hard, angry lines.

“You wanna talk?” she snarls, the vehemence in her voice almost making me draw back. “Fine. Let’s talk. I had a big opportunity, and you took it away from me. You always say you want me to do better and get out and blah blah blah bullshit, but when I actually try to do it, you throw it in my face and treat me like a kid. Why? ’Cause what, you’re jealous of your brother?”

The words land like physical hits. My fingers grip the plate too tight, and all I can do isstare. I don’t even know if I’m breathing through the shock.

“You ever think maybe it’s time tolet the fuck goandmove the fuck on?” Sydney growls, still glaring, and I have no words, nothing to say, nothing to rebut anything she’s just said. “You’re so scared of the past, you’re going to ruin my future. Fuck you.”

She slams the door in my face.

It’s only after, with her words echoing in my head and that wall of white in front of me that I realize my hands are shaking. I don’t even know if I’m angry or wounded or bitter or chastised, but there’s nothing I can say or do that wouldn’t end badly.

“Eggs will be on the counter,” I murmur, and I march back into the kitchen. Throw the plate on the countertop without stopping. Don’t stop as I snatch up my coat and keys.

Simply head right through the door before I break something I’ll regret later.

I try to lose myself in work.

Not that there’s much work to be lost in at a failing rink on a Saturday morning, but I do my best. The Dingoes don’t have practice this morning—thanks to the evening tourney—and the high school’s been cancelled today as well.

Again, thanks to the Ice Out.

I cut the ice for a men’s league. Clean out locker rooms, mop. Cut the ice for a group of figure skaters. Start wiping down surfaces in the break room and Zam room. Cut the ice for open skate.

That offers some distraction, as a wash of people flood the rink—children as young as two or three, older kids, teens, adults—everyone looking to get on the ice ahead of the big event.

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