“You used to compete, right?” he asks.

“Yeah, but I haven’t … it’s been a few years.” Now it’s my turn to shift nervously. I stare at the fresh Band-Aids around his index and middle fingers, knuckles undoubtedly scraped when we skidded across the ice this morning. His hands look strong and sure, clean but a little rough, and I imagine them sliding over the curves of my waist….

“Hud?” Mom calls from the front entrance, nodding toward the crowd that just piled in. “Can you help these folks, please?”

“Be right back,” I tell Josh. I seat three tables and cash out another while Dani delivers his lunch.

“How’s your sandwich?” I ask when I finally make it back. “Grilled cheese is awesome in the winter, isn’t it?”

“It’s awesome always.” He holds up half. “Want a bite?”

“I’ll make one later.”

“Cool. Listen, about that favor …” He bites his lower lip so lightly that I don’t think he knows he’s doing it. I stare. I can’t help it. I see the white edge of teeth against his lips, the thin shadow of stubble along his jaw, the blue sky in his eyes, and Parallel Hudson takes over.

What do you need, Josh? Just name it. Anything. I’m totally here for you.

I knew I could count on you, Hudson. The thing is … I don’t know if I’m a good kisser. It’s not the sort of thing you can figure out on your own, you know? So I was thinking, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, maybe you could kiss me, every day for a year, and then you can …

“Hudson?”

I meet his gaze, trying not to think about what it would be like to kiss him. Every day. For a year.

“Is it cool if we skate together sometime?” he asks. “Meet up at Fillmore, maybe you could show me some stuff?”

“What?” I laugh. “You’re the hockey captain. You could probably show me stuff.”

“Not technical moves. Why do you think the Wolves suck so hard? No technique. And don’t even get me started on our lame coach. Please? I’d owe you majorly.”

My brain starts to replay that cozy little café fantasy from before, but I shut it off. He’s not asking me out, he’s asking for skating lessons. Planning a solo program in my head was one thing, but skating with another person on my secret spot? Teaching him technique? Forming a team?

Josh folds and unfolds his napkin, and I click the pen inside my apron pocket. The foundation letter was like a seed that took root deep in my subconscious. Maybe I really am good enough to try again, I secretly thought. Maybe, with a little practice, I can get into shape and compete, score that prize. But Josh is asking for help, asking me to show him my moves, show him how it’s done. His favor isn’t a letter generated by a faceless machine, signed and sent out to an entire mailing list. It’s a real request, waiting for a real, face-to-face answer.

And I’m shrinking in the light of it.

He really could’ve asked me anything else—Can I have that kidney after all? Wanna give the kissing thing a go? Can you dismantle a bomb out on the thin ice of Lake Erie wearing nothing but a feathered bikini?—and it would’ve been easier for me to say yes.

I guess I’m not as ready as I thought.

“You doin’ okay over here, hon?” Dani appears like a rabbit pulled from a hat, setting a fresh glass of water on the table. The look she flashes me says it all: She heard our conversation, and now she’s waiting for my answer, just like he is.

“I’m good,” Josh tells her. He traces lines into the frosted edge of his glass with a fingertip, looking at me hopefully. “So it’s a date?”

“Sounds fun, but I can’t,” I say. Dani sighs behind me. “My schedule is kind of—”

“Hudson?” Mom’s voice cuts through the din again, this time from the window over the grill that looks out over the dining room counter. “What’s going on with Mrs. Zelasko’s order?”

“Coming,” I tell her. I turn back to Josh. “Sorry. I have to work. See you at school?”

“Of course,” he says. His voice is soft, but he flashes an animated smile. “I’ll try not to crash into you next time we meet.”

I laugh. “Thanks.”

I leave Josh with Dani and head back to cupcake central, the heavy doors swinging closed behind me. After checking Mrs. Z’s details in my order book, I set up fresh mixing gear on the prep counter and get to work.

Trick looks at me over his shoulder and winks. “What’s good, puddin’?”

I hold out a jar of Dutch cocoa for an answer, and he turns up the radio, letting Miles Davis do the talking as Team Diner spins into its bad-weather frenzy. Josh heads out. Other customers come and go. Mom, Dani, and a mostly useless Carly run back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room as Trick cranks out that home-cooked flavor, hot and fresh.

But me? I take my seat at the prep counter, lost in the solo pursuit of the perfect cupcake. It’s my place now, back of the house, out of the spotlight, exactly where I belong—no matter how adorable the hockey boy is.

Chapter Four

When Life Hands You Lemons, Stuff ’Em in Your Bra Cakes

Extra-large lemon cupcakes with light pink vanilla cream cheese icing, topped with a maraschino cherry and served two on a plate

By the time I get home, it’s dark outside, my feet and shoulders ache, and Mrs. Ferris is chattering on about how Bug is such an angel of a little boy. After the third “Bug is so wonderful” story, I connect the obvious dots: Mom forgot to leave the money. Again. I fish a few tens from the stash in my underwear drawer, hand them over, and lock the front door behind her.

“Hudson, what were the primary factors that led to the Civil War?” the squirt wants to know before I have my coat off. He doesn’t even ask about the cupcakes I promised him earlier. Which is good, because I forgot them.

“That’s a tough one.” I slide off my boots and stretch my toes against the carpet, careful not to step on the plastic ball encasing Mr. Napkins.

Bug waits patiently, clutching a notebook against his slightly too-small alien pajamas, eyes big and hopeful. “Any ideas?”

“I kinda suck at history.” Mom should be here to field these important questions, but she’s still at the diner making sure all the vendors are paid and the register drawer balances. I hope he doesn’t turn into a serial killer on account of my ineffective parenting. “Did you check your textbook?”

“I only have the second-grader version.”

“That’s probably because you’re in second grade.”

“Hudson, please.”

“All right, all right. Let’s see what you’ve got.” I follow him back to tactical HQ—a.k.a. the coffee table—and check his notes. The American Civil War. There’s the title, underlined twice, with a bulleted list and arrows and Xs and an enhanced sketch of one of the plastic army men from his collection.

“You shouldn’t have so much homework for at least another three years.” I flip through the notebook to an intricate, hand-drawn map dotted with bright green Post-it tabs.

“It’s not homework.” He rearranges the plastic front line, glasses slipping down his nose. I keep forgetting to ask Trick for one of those tiny screwdrivers so I can fix them. “I was watching a documentary on PBS and wanted to learn more stuff.”

“A documentary?” This kid. “Must’ve missed that one.”

“Maybe Dad knows. He’s, like, Mr. History.”

“He’s Mr. History, all right.” I sink back into the couch cushions. Bug was so small when my parents split—so young and bendable. He didn’t understand why our father left, or that we should have any reason to resent him. All Bug knew was that our dad was gone. And now the hole in his tiny, eight-year-old heart reminds him not that our father is thousands of miles away entertaining some ever-changing flavor of the month, but only that he misses someone he loves.