Crack In The Ice

Chapter One [Eli]

Home zooms in on an airplane window.

Or close enough.

There's a sudden jab of pain as a fidgety Dean digs an elbow into my forearm.

I look at him. "Ow."

He gives me a sheepish smile. "Sorry."

I lean back on my seat so he can watch the view out the window and maybe stop being so restless, the way he always gets at the end of even the shortest flights.

That was something we didn't know about him until four years ago. Neither of us had ever been on a plane until we boarded our very first one together, after eighteen years without ever leaving Idaho, to move to a whole different country.

I've lost count on how many flights we've been on since.

I don't rush to my feet after we land, but I let Dean start fumbling with his seat belt and contorting to get to the overhead compartment for our luggage. He needs the energy release.

On Arrivals, we're greeted by a familiar smile. The kind of open smile that expands to reach coffee-brown eyes in full.

The Miller Smile. 

Dean's smile matches his brother's and they join for a quick hug. 

As alike as all the Miller boys are, Devin and Dean ended up as different as their genes would allow. They have their father's eyes, the Miller Smile and fresh shaven faces, but that's about it.

While Devin's all his father in the tall lean stature, Dean takes after his maternal grandfather with a stockier, broader built. Dean did get the near-brown hair though, whereas Devin got their mom's crisp blonde.

The drive from the airport into Idaho toward home takes around an hour for a regular driver. Devin's got a heavy foot though, and a brand new car – courtesy of the Olympic-level ski team he's a part of – so we're almost thirty minutes early.

It doesn't matter, though. Mrs and Coach Miller are already waiting for us.

Dean's mom is the first to rush toward us.

"Welcome home, boys," she gushes pulling us both in for a hug, despite her five-feet-two.

Dean wraps one arm around me as we're squished together and sets the other on his mother's back to squeeze a lot more gently.

"Thanks, Mrs Miller," I say.

She pulls back to give me a warning look that's all tenderness and very little warning. "We talked about this."

I smile. "Sorry. Thanks, Liz."

"Do I get a turn?"

Mrs Miller steps aside to leave room for her husband. Dean steps into his dad's arms, and Coach Miller pats his son's back five times – one for each month it's been since they last saw each other.

Eventually, his eyes find me.

"Hi, Coach."

Dean's dad smiles warmly. The Miller Smile. It always finds a way to catch me off guard.

"Come here, son," he says as the father-son embrace dissolves.

My hug is briefer, lasting only two pats on the back. That should be one for each phone call I promised them and then didn't deliver since Christmas.

"Come on, let's go in," Devin says, already standing by the door. "I'm starving."

"You think your brother might be around?" Mrs Miller asks me when we walk into the foyer of The Lodge – the rustic-chic restaurant and bar area of the Astor Ski Resort, per their own website's description.