Page 4 of At the Edge with You

“Keyboard warriors,” I agree just as my nana and my mom fall into step with us.

My nana takes my free hand in hers, squeezing it softly as our eyes meet. My brown eyes match hers, along with my great-nana’s and my mom’s. They’re the Cook eyes. Dark and muddy brown, like the dirt under our ancestors’ fingernails. Nana gives me a small smile, and I return it as she uses her other tattooed hand to brush her brown hair out of her eyes.

Unlike most grandmas, mine is covered from head to toe in tattoos. Before my mom came along, Hazel and her man lived in a van, traveling the world to give tattoos after dropping out of school. They were wild teens, no one able to hold them down. It wasn’t until my grandpa’s mom died that he was forced to come home to settle things. And when he did, he also knocked Hazel up, and they ended up staying here.

They owned a tattoo shop in town, and Hazel kept it open after my grandpa overdosed when I was eight. It wasn’t until I was fourteen that she closed the shop. The same year my dad left my mom. And me. She said she was ready to retire, but I knew she wanted to be there for me whenever I needed her. To this day, Hazel doesn’t leave me be. Hell, none of the women in my family do.

I call them my girls.

They may be the parental units, but sometimes I feel like the adult, given their shenanigans.

When we stop, Mom reaches over to cup my face, her gaze searching mine and begging me with her eyes to crawl into her lap like a toddler and beg for cuddles. “Baby, are you okay?”

Jesus help me. My mom is just as much of a nuisance as her mother and grandmother. Also like the women before her, she is short but way rounder. She says it’s to give kids a cushy spot to lie when they need a cuddle. She forgets that, unlike her students, I am 6’6”, and I’d suffocate her if I sat on her. She means well, but damn.

When my dad walked out on us, it ruined her, and she clung to me. There wasn’t a moment I ever questioned if my mom loved me. She did, even with other kids competing for her attention. She’s a preschool teacher, and I’m still her number one, but she sometimes treats me like I’m one of her students. Has the need to tell me it’s okay to feel my feelings. Hazel makes fun of Mom for being a hippie, but the woman traveled in a van for most of her life and had dreadlocks until my mom’s first day of preschool.

Pot, meet kettle.

Mom’s kind eyes hold mine as she asks, “Are you feeling a lot of feelings right now?”

I’m thirty-eight fucking years old. My feelings are my own, and I don’t need to be telling my mom that I’m pissed because I haven’t fucking seen…her.

Aggravated with myself that I’m pissed overher, I shake my head. “Mom, I’m fine, just annoyed with his town.”

“As always,” Hazel says, threading her fingers with mine, but I don’t miss the wounded look on my mom’s face. “The town grump keeping up with his reputation.”

“He’s a lovely boy,” Mom corrects, looking up at me lovingly. “People don’t understand him.”

“Exactly,” Bea says, patting my wrist. “Like, how we all know you don’t give two shits what people are talking about and, instead, are wondering why you haven’t seen Fable yet.”

I shouldn’t be surprised by Bea’s observation, but damn, can she not see right through me? Like the little biddies they are, they all share a look while I refuse to dignify that statement with a response. Even if they’re absolutely right, I won’t let them know that.

But for real, where the fuck is she?

Twenty years. I haven’t set eyes on her in the flesh in twenty fucking years.

I press my lips together and will myself not to look around for her as we gather near the back of the whole damn town. As much as I hate myself for it, I glance around at the sea of people in different hockey jerseys in search of one person.

She’s not here.

That’s wild to me. I know Fable and her grandfather weren’t close like she is with Kitty, but I know she loves her grandpa.

Phillip Winthrop was a huge hockey fan. He built the Ice Thistle for his wife because she was an ice skater. What he didn’t expect was to fall in love with the ice too. He picked up the game of hockey quickly and ran the Ice Thistle with every bit of his heart. He was my coach growing up and my mentor. He made the Ice Thistle my home, and I plan to carry on that legacy. One that is destined for great things. The Ice Thistle is always busy. There are four rinks, and games or skaters are always utilizing them. If it is a AAA tournament or practice, peewee games, or beer league, the rink is packed and everyone loves it. Because of that, all of the town turned out in their team jerseys to show their support for Phillip.

We’re a hockey town because of the Ice Thistle.

Because of Phillip.

We are one of the top facilities in the country, and we hold the best and most sought-after tournaments during travel hockey season. The tournaments bring loads of tourists to our town, which helps our small businesses. I learned from the best, and I was promised full ownership of the Thistle when Phillip passed. While sometimes I wonder if it was a good choice to take the deal when I was eighteen, now that he’s gone, I know it was.

Did I lose my heart in the process?

Yes.

Do I regret it?

Daily.

---