working on my tan. The sibling bullshit annoys me to no end. Because Cora and I aren’t bound by blood, we’re bound by choice. That makes our years of having each other’s backs even more special. She even comes to my home games when she can, especially since my folks have started wintering in Florida. So when busybodies stick their nose in where it doesn’t belong, I just say Cora and I are best buds and leave it at that.
So those people never find out I’m a liar.
I remember the first time my feelings toward her stopped being brotherly like it happened yesterday. We were in college at UMD and the team was headed to the frozen four, the championship hovering just within reach. Cora came to every game, supporting me despite her not caring about hockey. But she cared about me. And when we won, she stormed the ice with every other fan and flung herself into my arms. It felt like I got split open by an eighteen-wheeler but only my heart fell out. And as I held her tight, I realized that I never wanted to breathe another breath without her. And those feelings I caught in that special moment when everyone else but us faded away—they haven’t even begun to stop.
So I ignore.
I deflect.
I keep my feelings under lock and key.
Sighing as I pop another grape into my mouth, I think about our shared past some more. Ever since I got drafted, I’ve been gone more than I’ve been in Duluth. But if I needed Cora from a lonely hockey rink in Nome, Alaska, she’d be on a biplane with her carry-on in hand and no questions asked.
She’s my ride or die.
“So what are you going to do about the mower?” she asks, setting her glass down on a coaster featuring lilies of the valley, her favorite flower. “Your mom’s grass looks like toothless cows gnawed on it.”
“Probably just head on over to Lowe’s and get her a new one. I’m sure it’s an issue with the blade.” I hold my huge mitts up in the air. “Can’t risk losing a finger or two when I need them to wield my stick.”
She pauses and adjusts her glasses. When she looks all vulnerable and innocent, it just makes me think about how I’d like to use my ‘stick’ on her.
“That’s probably best. No one should ever shove their fingers anywhere near a lawnmower blade. Or a snowblower. One of the other teachers I work with almost cut his pointer finger clear off. He shoved a stick in the snowblower because the blades got packed up and when it shook loose, his finger was right there.” A little shiver travels up her spine and gooseflesh spreads across her arms that I just want to soothe away with my palms.
Instead, I sit on them. I don’t know why I keep torturing myself with these damn fantasies that always involve touching her. And whenever I get the opportunity for any kind of platonic touch—a hug here, a little caress there, I always take it so I can breathe in her special sunshine scent.
And dream.
After a delicious homemade meal of casserole and bread, Cora and I settle in on the couch with two bottles of beer from a local brewery, Bent Paddle, and a game of Scrabble. I don’t deny how much I enjoy these quiet nights at home. The guys always want to go out drinking and trolling for chicks. While she sets up the game, I collect the pencils and the score pads. I also slide our beers onto coasters. A few years ago, Cora bought this nice little end unit townhouse, and she’s always been a little anal about neatness and protecting her investment.
“So, how’s school going this year?” I ask, scribbling my name on a fresh sheet. “Who’s your naughtiest kid? Wait… let me guess. It’s a boy. It has to be a boy. Little Jimmy Nelson?”
She giggles. “I don’t have a Jimmy Nelson this year. Or even a Jimmy. You will be surprised to find out that my naughtiest student is Penelope Rademacher. On the first day, she asked me if I had vodka in my water bottle. And when I said I didn’t, she said I should.”
I sputter a laugh. “Jesus, sounds like an alcoholic waiting to happen.”
“I thought the same thing. Penelope matter-of-factly told me that her dad says it takes the edge off. She’s a little lippy, that one. Not sure how concerned