Anything is possible. The only thing I know for sure is that he won’t make the first move, and if I let him walk away now, we’ll forever be a “just”: Just hockey player and skating coach. Just music swappers. Just friends. A not-quite-almost whose time passed through as quickly as the train, fading into the distance before it even had a real chance at staying, at becoming something more, because I didn’t speak up. Because I waited for someone else to do it for me.
“Josh, wait.” I grab the sleeve of his jacket. “That night with Will, when he said that stuff about me—”
“Stop.” He holds up his hand. “You don’t owe me an explanation. I overreacted. I’m not …” He trails off, shaking his head.
“I need to say this.” I grab his hand, holding it tight. “Will and I were seeing each other for a while, but it ended a couple weeks before the storm at Fillmore. Because—”
“Hudson, you—”
“Because I realized I was falling for another guy, fifty-six.”
He raises his eyebrows and takes a step back, but I force myself to keep going, to follow him, to catalog the intensity in his eyes. All the colors. The tiny scar near his temple. The new, temporary scruff along his jaw. The soft lips that once brushed across mine during a storm.
Josh takes a deep breath. “I don’t—”
“Blackthorn? Please. Shut. Up.” I grab the collar of his jacket and pull him into me, answering every last protest with a kiss—a real one, deep and intentional.
After months of imagining this moment, his lips on mine fully, unbroken, uninterrupted, nothing could have prepared me for the real thing. Maybe Will was well versed on the technical points of a good kiss, but this?
Josh pulls me tighter, looping his arms around me. Our hearts find their familiar opposite beat, banging against each other through our clothes as Josh slides his hands into my hair, his beard tickling my lips, thumbs caressing my ear, my face, my neck. Being with Josh is like being touched from the inside out. An unexpected blaze of sunshine on an otherwise bleak winter day. Wrapping your fingers around a mug of hot chocolate after walking home in that frigid lake-effect wind. A fire crackling softly beneath your outstretched hands. The perfect combination of cupcake and icing, the kind where you can’t quite identify all the secret ingredients, but you feel them melting together on your tongue, and you know that for as long you live, this will be the best thing you’ve ever tasted.
Not almost.
Perfection.
Josh pulls away slowly, shell-shocked and smiling. “Um, okay. Now that we’ve got that straightened out,” he says, a little breathless, “explain to me again how this whole ‘friends with benefits’ thing works?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s just … all right. Those cupcakes smell really good, and I was thinking maybe I could score one. Or four.” He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear and steps closer, kissing the sensitive skin beneath my jaw. The spark from his kiss travels straight to my toes and I shudder, nearly slipping on the icy pavement.
“Chocolate Cherry Fixer-Uppers,” I say, leaning into his arms. “Bug’s the one you’ll have to bribe, so if you’re just doing this for free cupcakes, you’re—”
“Doing what—this?” He brushes his lips against my ear again and my bones wobble.
“Don’t push your luck, Blackthorn,” I whisper.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Avery.” Josh’s smile disappears. He looks at me again like that first time on the makeshift rink at Fillmore, playful and serious and a little nervous all at once. He pulls me into another kiss, deeper than the first, initial surprise replaced with utter certainty.
The snow falls on us in soft, white feathers, but I’m not cold. On the other side of the door, the familiar sounds of Hurley’s echo through the kitchen—the sizzle and pop of the grill. Trick’s radio on low, humming those bluesy old tunes. The whir of the mixer as my little brother blends the frosting for his new confections. Somewhere in the distance, the Erie Atlantic whistles again, fairy godmother lamplight glowing on the tracks, the fleeting call of that old night bird echoing through the icy air as it finally exits the station. For as long as I live in this crazy, lake-effect, chicken-wing-capital-of-the-world town, that old train howling up at the moon will always be the sound of someone leaving, the promise of another place.
But tonight, it’s not talking to me.
Tonight, out behind Hurley’s under the blue-black winter sky, the Cupcake Queen of Watonka is exactly where she’s supposed to be.
Acknowledgments
Without the love and encouragement of my husband, Alex, my books wouldn’t exist. For sitting next to me in the front row on the emocoaster, for dragging me away from the computer to take an occasional hike and/or shower, for inspiring me to turn all of our crazy adventures into stories, and most importantly, for always being my bestie, thank you, Pet Monster.
When I said that cupcakes, figure skating, cute hockey boys, and lake-effect snowstorms sounded like a good combination, Jennifer Klonsky was all, hell yeah! Thanks, Jen, for your editorial awesomeness, for your contagious enthusiasm, and for laughing at my inappropriate jokes along the way. It takes a special person, on all counts! Thanks also to Craig Adams, Mara Anastas, Bethany Buck, Jim Conlin, Paul Crichton, Katherine Devendorf, Dayna Evans, Lydia Frost, Jessica Handelman, Victor Iannone, Mary Marotta, Christina Pecorale, Lucille Rettino, Dawn Ryan, Michael Strother, Sara Saidlower, Carolyn Swerdloff, and everyone in the Simon Pulse family who worked so hard to make this book shine.
Ted Malawer, if they made cupcake-flavored Life Savers, I’d send you a whole case. Until then, we’ll celebrate with the real thing, extra chocolate icing on top. Thanks for everything you do to keep me writing happily!
Danielle Benedetti, Zoe Strickland, Jordyn Turney, and Sarah Woodard, readers and book bloggers and all-around amazing girls, beneath this bright purple ribbon is a big box of Josh, just for you.
Since my childhood attempt at figure skating lessons ended with me asking to play hockey with the boys instead, I’m grateful that Amanda Crowley so generously shared her insight into the world of competitive figure skating. Any technical skating mistakes are … well, they’re definitely mine, but let’s not call them mistakes. Let’s … have a cupcake instead! Thanks also to Kate Messner and Mandy Hubbard for early advice on plotting, writing, skating, and everything in between.
Amy Hains, Rachel Miller, Meredith Sale, and Lisa Kenney, I straight up love you girls. I can always count on you to shine the light in my face when I’ve spent too long in the deep, dark writing cave, and for that, I’m eternally lucky.
Speaking of the writing cave, it may be crazy dark, but it’s no longer lonely. To my wonderfully talented friends from the 2009 Debutantes, the Contemps, and Lighthouse Writers Workshop, you inspire and amaze me (and prevent me from drinking all this Bombay Sapphire by myself…. Cheers!).
My family, my friends, and my family friends (especially Birthday Group), your love, support, and inadvertently inspired character ideas keep me in the storytelling business, in more ways than one. ;-) Group hug!
Finally, I’m forever indebted to you, my fabulous YA readers, bloggers, librarians, booksellers, and teachers (an especially ginormous hug to Paul W. Hankins, a true friend and inspiration to students and writers alike). For as long as you keep reading and sharing these stories, I’ll keep writing them. Promise. <3