“Naked ninja hotties? I dig it.” I smile, and Dani finally gets her hug. Inside, the opening chords of Van Morrisson’s “Brown Eyed Girl” spill out of the old radio, muffled through the door.

“Listen.” I make my voice man-deep. “I think they’re playing our song.”

“Well?” She tilts her head and holds out her hand, corkscrew curls shining under the silver moon. “What do you think?”

“You asking me to dance?”

“In that outfit? Hell yeah, I’m asking you to dance, mama. Shake that fine, sequin-covered ass!” She grabs my hands and we jump and twirl behind the diner, the seagull squawking in vain protest as Dani tries desperately to carry the tune. I keep my hands locked on hers and close my eyes, and my off-key, vocally underdeveloped best friend sings it long and loud into the wintry night, snowflakes falling softly on my tongue.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Not-So-Impossible Orange Dreams

Vanilla cupcakes iced in swirled vanilla and orange buttercream, garnished with an orange slice and shaved dark chocolate

When Dani and I get back inside, only a handful of people dot the dining room, families waiting for their to-go boxes, kids licking cupcake crumbs from their plates. As I refill the salt and pepper shakers on the counter, I keep my eyes on the front door, betting against the odds on one final customer. One last chance.

But he doesn’t show.

“Hudson?” Mom leans out the kitchen door, hair slipping out of her ponytail, eyes puffy and tired. She nods toward the booth near the counter. On one side, Bug’s curled up on the bench with his backpack, a shoeless foot dangling off the seat. “He asleep?”

“Totally zonked.”

Mom smiles. “He was quite a trouper tonight.”

“No kidding.” I replace the big jars of salt and pepper under the counter and line up the shakers against the sugar dispensers. “A few more years and you can give him his own Hurley Girl dress.”

“I think he’d prefer a Hurley Man space suit.” Mom reties her ponytail and sighs. “Okay, Hudson. Now that we’re out of the weeds, we need to have a little chat.”

“Start by telling me where you went tonight.” Mom closes the office door behind me and takes the seat at her desk. “Before the cupcake free-for-all.”

I sit in the small swivel chair across from her, smoothing my hands over the silky skirt of my competition dress. All winter I’ve kept this from her. Now that I have no choice but to tell her, everything I thought I’d be confessing is different. The scholarship, the competition, all those months on the ice at Fillmore—it all means something else now.

I take a steadying breath. Whatever it means, it’s time for the truth. And if I’m finally being honest about my dreams, I have to start by yanking them out of the closet.

“I’ve been skating again, Ma. Training.”

Mom doesn’t say a word as I tell her the entire story: work breaks at Fillmore, the foundation letter, Baylor’s, the Wolves gig, Kara, my guilt about Empire, all the secrets and lies, everything I thought I wanted to achieve this winter. For the first time since my father left, I don’t hide behind my apron and a mixing bowl. I don’t shy away from honesty just because it’s hard and uncomfortable for both of us. I tell her the truth. The real deal about me, about what I want. About who I am. Who I’m not.

My father was the one who bought me my first pair of skates and set me on the ice so long ago. He made sure there was money for private lessons with Lola and all of the equipment I needed. He came to every event, home and away. And he took me skating when I just needed to run around the rink and be silly, no choreography, no moves, no routine. He rented skates and chased me in circles and bought us hot chocolate when we got tired. Skating was ours, mine and his, and in that moment on the ice at the Empire Games, I knew that my mother could no more fill his empty place in the stands than she could fill his empty place in my life. For all the dreams my father and I shared, nothing was strong enough to keep him here with us. And in his absence, I thought I wasn’t strong enough to carry those dreams on my own.

But I was wrong. I’m strong enough to carry any dream on my own. I was just trying to carry the wrong one.

“Dad’s gone,” I say, “and I let him take skating with him. For three years I told myself he ruined it. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. I miss it, Ma. I miss being on the ice. And I’m tired of sneaking around to do it.”

Mom leans back in her chair, eyes glazed with tears. “Baby, I had no idea you were skating again. No idea you wanted any of this. You could’ve told me and saved us both a lot of grief. Not to mention money—how much extra cash have you been floating Mrs. Ferris?”

My face goes hot. “Enough to cover a few months of gas bills.”

“Oh, Hudson …”

“I felt like I couldn’t talk about it because you’d get upset, either about the cost of everything, or just remembering stuff with Dad. So when I got that letter, I thought if I could find a way to skate and earn a scholarship, I could tell you after. Then you wouldn’t have to worry about paying for college, and I could still do something I love.”

“Hudson, your father and I have a college savings for you.”

“You—what?”

Mom reaches for a tissue. “It’s not fifty grand—not even close—but it’s a start. Enough for in-state tuition, anyway.”

“But …” I close my eyes, memories resurfacing. “You guys had the lump sum thing. I remember the lawyer explaining it when we sold the old house. Dad didn’t have to pay anything else.”

“That was for alimony and child support, hon. He’s still putting up for part of your education. He makes a deposit every other month. As much as it pains me to say this—and trust me, it does—he’s not a total heartless jerk.”

I fold my arms over my sequins, images of Dad and Shelvis flickering through my head. “I don’t want anything from him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s your father, even if he’s not around. Helping with college is the least he can do. Believe me.”

I stand up and shove my chair back. “No. He bailed on us, Ma. Divorce is one thing, but he totally bailed. He never calls, he barely ever e-mails, and even then it’s just to talk about himself.”

“I know, and it tears me up that he does that to you kids. But college is expensive, and it’s his responsibility as a father to—”

“He’s not allowed to feel like a good father just for writing a check. I’d rather have a mountain of student loans than let him buy me a single textbook.” I slump back into the chair.

Mom reaches for my hands across the desk. “You don’t have to decide about that right now, and I’m not trying to turn this into a conversation about your father’s issues. The point is, you could’ve been honest with me. All this time you’ve been training for another competition, and I was in the dark. I didn’t even know you still had skates. Are you signed up for anything else? More competitions? Scholarships? Lessons?”

I shake my head. “No competitions. But I do want to keep skating. Maybe just at a club or coaching little kids or whatever.”

“What about work?” Mom releases my hands and shuffles through the mound of papers on her desk. “You’re still on the schedule this month, and you’ve got a ton of Valentine’s orders coming up, and—”

“I know. And I want to do them. All of them. I like baking cupcakes. I like being here with Trick and Dani in the mornings, hanging out in the kitchen, inventing new flavors.”

“You do?”

I nod. “I just don’t want to work at Hurley’s forever. Not as a waitress and not as the future owner. Who knows what’ll happen down the line, but right now, I don’t want the same things you did. I want my own life.”