Page 151 of My Merry Mistake
The drone of the white noise and the darkness of the sky make me drift off, the image of Finn’s face filling my mind. And when I wake up to the bump of the landing gear hitting the ground at Billings-Logan International Airport, my nerves ramp right back up.
Time to make a fool of myself for a boy.
Finn
I’m home.
When I wake up on Christmas Eve morning, it takes me a minute to remember where I am. Copper Ridge Ranch. Silverwood. I showed up yesterday to touch base with the board of the community center here.
I knew from emails with Jane, who pretty much runs everything, that the center had grown. By quite a bit. It’s now extending beyond families in need to families who want to be part of what’s happening.
It’s one thing to hear about it over an email—it’s a whole other thing to see it in action.
I’m told the way this place has brought our little community together has been an unexpected by-product of the decision to open in the first place.
We have a fundraising team, along with volunteers who work directly with the kids, from after-school programs to tutoring to serving food. There are always ideas for making an impact, and while I can’t be here regularly, it’s nice to know almost my entire family is involved in some way.
Last month, Rowe brought a group of kids out to the ranch to teach them about horses—which is hilarious because growing up, she was the one who never paid attention. My mom makes all the after-school meals, and I’m pretty sure even my brothers helped with the center’s first annual Christmas party. We’re expecting a great turnout, and I knew I had to be here to help, even if it meant missing a game.
Yesterday, after a big, family meal at the ranch, I spent a good portion of the rest of the day in meetings discussing a possible expansion of the community center. I never planned to start a nonprofit, but after getting involved in the tutoring club back in Chicago, it felt like something I could do for my hometown.
Maybe I was always meant to find Brady’s letter, addressed to “Dear Chicago Comets.” Reading it made me realize that while I can’t impact the whole world, I can help impact one person . . . and that might mean the whole world to them.
When I visited his tutoring club and met the kids and people running it, it hit me that I could do more than give money. I could give time. I could get to know these kids. Maybe even make a difference.
That whole experience inspired me to buy this building and start something similar in Silverwood. My parents helped get it up and running, but we realized pretty quickly we needed more help, which is when we hired Jane.
I imagine I’ll end up back here one day, maybe working with the community center, maybe working on the ranch. And even though I’m not ready to walk away from hockey just yet, I know that when the time comes, I’ve got a lot to look forward to.
I stare at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom, which looks a lot like it did before I went away to school. Medals and trophies line shelves and walls, along with newspaper clippings and photos from the good years of growing up here.
My feet still hang off the end of the bed. I’d gotten so used to it that I still scoot down sometimes to fall asleep.
A photo of all of us kids on a hike to Two Medicine Lake in Glacier National Park catches my eye. It’s pinned to a bulletin board over a too-small desk, and I wonder if I’ll ever look at it without the pang of sadness. The memories are good, but the loss is so great it’s hard to think about them.
The letters.
I didn’t leave them in the glove box—maybe I should’ve—but I didn’t. They’re now shoved in the side pocket of my laptop case. Why did I bring them with me? Why do I keep them at all?
As if it’s not hard enough to put it all out of my mind now that I’m back home.
Or maybe I want to show them to my parents, get their permission to toss them in the fire without ever reading them.
I get up, take a shower, get dressed, and walk out into the kitchen. Momma told me last night she has some things to do in town, then said something about “having a chat when she got back,” which was odd since Momma doesn’t usually “have chats.” When she wants to say something, she just says it. I didn’t press her, though, mostly because I was exhausted.
The coffee is made, and there are fresh cinnamon rolls on the stove with a note from Rowena:
Made these for you, Skip. Let me know what you think. —Rowe
I pick one up, take a giant bite, then close my eyes to savor the taste.
Man, that’s good.
Rowe inherited Momma’s love of baking, and over the summer my brother, West, built her a little “on your honor” farmstand that sits along the road near the Copper Ridge gate. Rowe got the idea from some girl on social media, and last I heard, she’s making some money.
Once I’ve inhaled two cinnamon rolls, I grab another one and pour myself a cup of coffee. I shove my feet in my dad’s work boots, shrug on a coat, and step out onto the porch. I pause because this is the view I live for, and I’ve missed it. I love the energy of Chicago, but there is nothing like the big sky of home. I pull my phone out of my pocket and snap a couple of photos.
Like everything else, this makes me think of Raya. I should’ve told her I was leaving, and I feel bad about that now, but I said I’d back off. Give her space. I didn’t want to go back on that, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped thinking about her since that kiss.
