### Chapter 6: Five Gold Stars for Women’s Liberation “AND THEN WE ACTUALLY GOT TO SEND MESSAGES TO THE ASTRONAUTS ON THE INTERNATIONAL SPACE STATION! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? TOMORROW, WE GET TO SEE THEIR RESPONSES! CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT!” If Maryanne weren’t just ten years old, I’d suspect there was a wild party going on without me, fueled by whatever sugary treats kids get high on these days. She’s bouncing around the living room, her eyes wide with unrestrained joy, her pace frantic as she spills over with excitement. “Firstly, I need you to chill out,” I tell her, trying to steady my breath as her energy is almost palpable. “You’re making my head spin. Secondly, what did you actually ask them?” With a beaming grin, she leans in, practically vibrating with joy. “I asked them if farts smell differently in zero gravity!” I can’t help but stare at her incredulously. “That? That was your question? We’re talking about astronauts floating in the vastness of space, and that’s what you go for?” She shrugs nonchalantly, as if I should already know the brilliance of such a query. “I must know.” My brow furrows as I remember something that nagged at me earlier. “Also, I heard you guys are making bottle rockets at camp. What if you mix up the ingredients and accidentally create a biological weapon?” Maryanne pauses for a moment, her brow furrowing as she considers my words. “Well, then I guess we’d kill everyone at camp.” “Wow, kid. That’s... dark.” I chuckle nervously while mentally bumping my sister to the “potential psychopath” category. “All right, go change out of that uniform. Mini golf isn’t going to play itself!” “Eeee! I love it when you’re home!” Suddenly, she leaps into my arms, wrapping her petite arms around my neck. I hoist her up, her laughter echoing through the room. There’s something magical about being back. I adore my family, but there’s something extra special about this quirky little sister of mine. Other kids might have resented their parents for giving them a sibling after eleven years of solitary reign, but Maryanne has had me completely enchanted since the moment I laid eyes on her when I was barely into my teenage years. I raced home from hockey practice just to feed her, and sang lullabies under the watchful eyes of two very skeptical parents until they finally put their foot down, putting a stop to my not-so-golden voice. I wander down the hall, hearing my parents chatting in the kitchen. Mom has just returned from a meeting, leaning casually against the pristine white granite counter in her fitted slacks and silk blouse, her perfectly coiled curls tucked neatly into a bun. She could easily be the face of a corporate magazine. Dad, on the other hand, embodies a casual slacker vibe. He’s in the same sweatpants he practically lives in, exuding a relaxed charm that belies his entrepreneurial success, which somehow fell right into his lap after the NHL dreams had fizzled out. They make such an unusual pair; she, the type-A go-getter, and he, the laid-back hockey star turned successful businessman. After all these years, they’ve both found their rhythm. My mom is the first Black woman to serve as the town manager of Heartsong, Vermont—an honor she wears with pride, one that was celebrated widely upon her election. As I step into the kitchen, their conversation falls silent as they exchange glances. “Sorry to interrupt,” I say, a hint of mischief dancing in my voice. “Oh, you’re not interrupting,” Mom quickly assures, still beaming. “Just work stuff. Where’s Maryanne?” “Changing out of her camp uniform. I’m taking her mini golfing.” I nod towards Dad’s bare arms and smirk, “Been hitting the course a lot this summer? Your arms are looking less pudgy than the last time I saw them.” He narrows his eyes dramatically. “Pudgy? How dare you?” “The truth hurts, bro,” I tease. “But seriously, you’ve definitely lost some weight. You look great.” “Trying to,” he mutters, a proud look crossing his face. “Guess I shouldn’t have brought so much sausage, then.” I can’t help but grin—I might have gone a bit overboard at my favorite butcher in Boston on the way back home. “Wait, there’s sausage?” His eyes twinkle with intrigue. “Please tell me it’s from Gustav.” “Of course it is! Who do you think I am?” Mom shakes her head, bemused. “I will never understand this obsession.” Dad nods seriously, “Some people just can’t see the bigger picture.” “What big picture?” Mom quips, exasperated. “Forget it! I just love having you home,” she beams, wrapping her arms around my waist, her head just brushing against my chin. At six-one, I inherited Dad’s height along with bits of both their gorgeous skin tones—I’ve got to admit it, I’m pretty damn good-looking. “I wish you could stay longer,” she says softly. “Me too, honestly. But I’m hosting a goodbye party for Beck on Saturday night.” Her eyes widen with alarm. “Is he moving away?” “Not exactly. He’s going to Australia for a vacation—and insists on a farewell party for a month-long getaway.” “I’ve always liked that guy,” Dad chuckles. Of course, who wouldn’t? Beckett Dunne has charm to spare. “I promise I’ll come back next week,” I reassure my parents. “I want to try and be here every weekend for the rest of the summer.” Mom beams. “Your sister is going to love that.” A beat passes before she continues thoughtfully, “Are you going to see Lynsey while you’re here? We ran into her the other night at that pancake place.” “Yeah, I know. She mentioned it.” “Oh, so you’re still talking?” Mom’s tone shifts, gliding carefully over the words. I can’t help but feel a wave of uncertainty roll over me. Sometimes it seems like they liked Lynsey, and sometimes they exchanged looks that said otherwise. “You’d be happy if we got back together, right?” I ask, half-joking. Mom blinks, surprised. “I didn’t realize you two were even thinking about that.” “We’re not. Hypothetically, if we did—would you be on board?” “We will always support whatever you choose,” she says, and Dad nods in agreement. Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but I let it go. I’m not about to press a hypothetical when Lynsey has shown zero interest in rekindling anything with me lately. “All right, I’m off to track down the squirt and head out. Time for her to blow off some steam at the mini-golf before I sugar her up on junk food—and then she’ll crash hard when we get back.” “Thanks for taking her out! We’re looking forward to a peaceful night in,” Dad winks, his gaze flicking to Mom. “Gross. Seriously, I don’t want to think about whatever activities you have planned while we’re gone.” Dad gives her a wolfish grin. “Probably a good idea.” “I literally just said I don’t want to know!” I groan, stomping out of the kitchen, their laughter trailing after me. The next evening, Dad and I settle in for a Stanley Cup highlight marathon, savoring old footage of our favorite championship victories. He’s meticulously recorded every single game for the past twenty-five years, making sure we have quite the library to choose from. When we settle into the game where Garrett Graham won it all for the Bruins in a stunning series sweep, Dad jabs the air, “I can’t believe Luke married into that family!” “Right? I mean, I can’t believe he’s married at all. That’s some serious family ties to join.” I watch as excitement flashes in Dad’s eyes when Graham scores a stunning goal—pure magic that secured the Cup. God, I yearn for that chance someday. I want to hold that trophy in my hands, to feel its cool silver glimmer under the lights of a packed stadium. “Do you miss playing?” I ask Dad, unexpectedly pensive. “Every day.” His answer comes instantly, bringing a weight to my chest. I can hardly fathom how shattering it must have been for him to skate onto the ice for his first NHL game, only to suffer a career-ending injury on the very first shift. In a single fateful play, he’d torn both his ACL and MCL—his knees’ stability decimated. There was no way for him to ever compete at that level again. Hockey was his entire life, and it had been stolen from him. When I was drafted by Chicago, emotions welled up, and I’d broken down in tears, seeing the sheer pride on his face that I’d get to play for the same team—even if just briefly. All I’ve ever wanted was to make him proud. To make both my parents proud. And I don’t care how sentimental it sounds; they’re hands down the best parents anyone could ask for. Maryanne and I are incredibly lucky. Speaking of Maryanne, she bursts into the family room just in time, plopping down between us on the couch and raving about her plans for tomorrow’s trip to the planetarium. “Man, that space camp sounds awesome,” I say, genuinely impressed. “It’s fun,” she confirms. “But—get this—geology camp is even better!” “Oh really? Is it now?” I tease, catching a glimpse of Dad’s barely suppressed smile out of the corner of my eye. “Absolutely!” Maryanne launches into a detailed spiel about geology camp, emphasizing the three whole days dedicated to archaeology, complete with mock excavations. “And we get to build our own magnetic fields! And! We go rock hunting! The brochure says we’ll find tons of agate!” “What’s agate?” I ask, genuine curiosity sparking in me. “Agate! It’s a gemstone, duh.” She rolls her eyes like I’m the least educated person on the planet. “Don’t you know anything about Vermont geology?” “Not a clue. And I’m quite offended you think I would. I was popular in school!” “I’m super popular!” Maryanne boasts, continuing to rattle off various geology camp highlights. “Oh! And we get to dig for serpentine!” “Wait, like snakes?” I ask, puzzled. “No, it’s a rock! Serpentine! It’s super pretty, greenish-black, and smooth as silk. The brochure says they give us these cute little pickaxes to use for digging.” “Uh, hold on a second! They’re giving kids pickaxes?” Maryanne doesn’t miss a beat. “So?” “Alright, that just seems downright irresponsible!” Dad howls with laughter, his enjoyment at our little banter infectious. Before I know it, time flies, and I’m reluctantly packing my bags on Friday to leave Heartsong after the morning rush, heading back to Hastings in the early afternoon. The instant I step back into my apartment complex, it’s abundantly clear that something is off. The residents seem to have morphed into a collective of unfriendly pod people. Not that we were ever the friendliest bunch, but at least there used to be smiles and nods when I walked through Meadow Hill. Now, it feels like hostility is the new norm. Take Niall from downstairs, for instance. When I bump into him in the guest parking lot where I’ve parked my Mercedes, he jabs a finger at me and snaps, “Your music’s too loud.” With that, he locks his little Toyota hatchback and storms off, leaving me baffled. Harry, the concierge in the Sycamore building, greets my suggestion of a gathering with a scowl as if I just proposed karaoke night for the tenants. Not that I’m obligated to tell him; I was simply being courteous. And as I make my way down the leafy path, I bump into one of the married couples residing in Weeping Willow. The wife gives me a cold stare, one that could freeze even the warmest of hearts. “Hello,” I chirp, attempting to brighten the mood, but she merely grumbles, “Yeah, okay,” before marching past. I’m now standing at the mailboxes, fresh from my two-day absence, when the woman living next to Niall—Priya, I think?—approaches cautiously as if entering a lion’s den. “Hey there,” I attempt cheerfully, yet her expression says it all: a blend of disdain and mistrust. “Sure,” is her curt reply. I can’t quite figure out if her “sure” is better or worse than the icy “yeah, okay,” but it feels like a downward step in the welcoming committee. “Priya, right?” I rehash my introduction, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m Shane.” “I remember your name. I don’t forget names,” she quips, her tone unwavering. Right. “That’s impressive. Diana mentioned you’re a counselor or something?” “I’m a psychotherapist.” She shoots me a condescending glance, opening her mailbox with deliberate care. “I have both an MD in psychiatry and a PhD in psychology—from Harvard.” “Wow.” “Hard to believe, isn’t it? Just astonishing that women can be doctors in the twenty-first century… that our value isn’t solely defined by how men perceive us,” she retorts, sweetly smiling, but her tone drips with sarcasm, and I falter. “Definitely. Five gold stars for women’s liberation,” I reply, forcing a smile, feeling my stomach sink. Her dark, piercing eyes narrow. “Are you mocking the feminist movement?” “Not at all. I think it’s great!” I hastily tuck my mail under my arm, my discomfort bubbling to the surface. “I’ve got to run now.” With that, I escape the vestibule, her piercing gaze following me like a shiver down my spine. What the hell is wrong with these people? While I didn’t expect a welcome parade, I assumed a college guy moving into a complex full of families might’ve elicited some measure of warmth. But today, it seems that every single person I’ve encountered has transformed into a miserable curmudgeon. It isn’t until hours later, when I finally step outside for a swim, that I stumble upon a friendly face—one I haven’t encountered before, belonging to a woman in her fifties exiting the pool area just as I’m arriving. We’ve crossed paths before, but this is the first time she takes a moment to chat rather than discreetly ogling me behind her book. “Hello! It’s Shane, right?” she calls, her dyed-red hair bright against the backdrop of an unyielding sun. She is tanned, almost burnished, and unlike my other neighbors today, she actually seems to beam at me. “Yup, that’s me.” I extend my hand, feeling the easy warmth in her gaze. “Nice to meet you.” “I’m Veronika, Cherry Blossom, 1A.” Her handshake lingers just a tad too long, compelling me to wrench my hand away, feigning an urgent need to pull out my phone. “Great idea! We should exchange numbers!” she exclaims with delight, her raspy voice reminiscent of someone who might have smoked her fair share in her youth. “It’s good to have a neighbor's contact info. Would you like me to add you to our Meadow Hill group chat?” There’s a group chat? A sly grin forms on my lips; I can bet it was presumably planned by none other than Diana Dixon, who probably plotted to keep me out of it. “I’d love that!” I reply, playing it off cool, letting my dimples flash in her direction. She giggles like a schoolgirl, and we exchange numbers, her saunter heavy with confidence as she struts away, leaving me with a sense of bemusement. I stretch out on one of the loungers, draping my towel over it as I decide to scroll through my phone before taking a dip in the pool. Just finished an intense workout and every muscle in my body is crying out for relief. It was arm day and now even the thought of using them again makes me wince. I’m in full off-season training mode, determined to be in the best shape of my life by the time hockey season rolls around. No room for slacking—this time next year, I’ll be joining my first NHL training camp. The very last thing I want is to show up out of shape, panting like a fifty-year-old smoker. Glancing at my phone, I see new messages lighting up our guys’ group chat—THE BOYS ALL CAPS, thanks to Beckett’s peculiar naming conventions. Yeah, ALL CAPS is part of the title. I’ll never understand why girls swoon over that dumbass. BECKETT: Anyone down for a club tonight? WILL: Pass. I’m too sunburnt to move. Originally, the group chat was just me, Beckett, and Ryder, but Beck added Will after they became inseparably tied at the hip. These two will never stop raving about time-travel movies and their escapades—something I can’t quite say I’m on board with, but to each their own. BECKETT: You should have asked one of the milfs to rub sunscreen on your dick. WILL: I don’t sleep with clients. Gonna keep saying that until you accept it. BECKETT: Never. Ryder, you down? RYDER: Me personally? Hell no. But lemme ask the wife if she wants to go, and then I’ll be down. BECKETT: Wow. RYDER: Wow what? BECKETT: That woman owns you now. You realize that, right, mate? RYDER: Yes. And? I raise an eyebrow, surprised at how much my buddy Ryder has changed. He’s evolved from a guy who avoided relationships like the plague to a married man who willingly hands over the reins of his free time. If I had Gigi Graham in my life, I’d hand over my dignity too, wouldn’t you? My mind wanders back to a specific night, one I’ll not soon forget. I still replay that moment when I heard her come, a satisfying, tantalizing memory lingering in the back of my mind—something I’ve relived a few times in the privacy of my own thoughts. I’m pretty sure he knows I heard them fooling around last fall in that study room at the library. I can’t fathom the idea that he might have let me watch, only if Gigi had wanted to indulge me. Watching isn’t my kink, though. Being watched? Now that’s a different story. But it’s not something I’m about to bring up with any girlfriend—especially not with Lynsey; the moment I hinted at this little detail of mine, her expression of disgust told me everything I needed to know. She accused me of watching too much pornography, which isn’t even close to the truth. I prefer the real deal. But right now, the real deal seems lightyears out of reach, especially now that I’m off the hookup grid thanks to the Crystal fiasco. If I want to get laid, I’ll need either a girlfriend or navigate into a friends-with-benefits situation. I’m just about to type that I’m not venturing out tonight when my phone vibrates in my hand. Excitement sparks when I see the notification. VERONIKA PINLO HAS ADDED YOU TO THE GROUP NEIGHBORS. Hell yes! Progress! Despite the frosty reception I’ve faced all day, at least I’ve scored some points with Veronika. Maybe my outgoing personality can win over the rest, proving I’m not just the scary college guy living in their midst. But as soon as that hope begins to take root, I’m hit with another notification. DIANA DIXON HAS REMOVED YOU FROM THE GROUP NEIGHBORS. So much for progress.