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CHAPTER TWELVE

RYAN GETS INTO the car with a deep sigh. “My fake girlfriend broke up with me.”

“Oh,” Louie says. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s fine,” Ryan says. “Although I kind of need people to stop breaking up with me.”

Louie glances at him. He’s kind of curious. He isn’t usually. When his Springfield roommates talk about their girl drama, Louie zones out every time. But if Ryan was dating someone, it must have been a guy. He can’t help but wonder how that works in hockey when you’re in a closet that’s inside of a closet.

“Anyway,” Ryan goes on when Louie takes too long to say something, “I never asked. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No,” Louie says. “There was this girl last season, but…” But things fizzled out before they’d really started. Louie was out of town too much, he didn’t make enough time to text her or call her, and he spent too much time at the rink when he was actually in town.

“But?” Ryan prompts. He could have just let that one go and didn’t. Louie is so going to hold that against him.

Immediately.

He’ll have his revenge immediately. “So, who else broke up with you?”

Ryan doesn’t seem to have any issues sharing his relationship drama. “Ugh, fucking Kaden.”

“What did fucking Kaden do?” Louie asks as Ryan pulls out of the fire station’s parking lot.

“He broke up with me over text and when I went to his place to demand a break-up in person, my car decided that it’d rather be in a ditch.”

“Oh,” Louie says. “ Oh .” So that’s the story.

“What did the girl last season do?” Ryan asks.

“That was totally my fault,” Louie says absentmindedly. Ryan is taking him down a small stretch of road with shops on either side and Louie eyes them with curiosity. He doesn’t go to small towns a lot. It’s kind of charming. Which is such a city person thing of him to think. Every teenager in this town is probably waiting to get out of here. “What was it like growing up here?”

“It was okay,” Ryan says. “Lots of underage drinking. I didn’t spend a lot of time here anymore when I started to get serious about hockey. I got a scholarship for a private school about fifteen minutes from here and I didn’t live there but… eh, I kind of did.” He glances at Louie. “You’re a city kid all the way, aren’t you? Have you ever seen a cow in real life?”

Louie… has not. “I know what a cow looks like.”

“Uh-huh.” Ryan cackles. “Hey, my parents are friends with a farmer at the edge of town. She has cows. You wanna stop there before we go home?”

Louie does not dignify that with a response.

“Oh,” Ryan says when he pulls into a long gravel driveway. “I forgot… you don’t like dogs, right?”

“I’m fine with dogs,” Louie says. He’s not a huge fan, but he’ll live.

“What about cats?” Ryan asks. “Because there are cats.”

There most certainly are cats. The house Ryan has pulled up to is a huge light blue Victorian with a wraparound porch. On the railing, two white-and-orange cats are watching them approach. “I like cats,” Louie says and follows Ryan up to the house.

“Good,” Ryan says. “My parents have a serious cat issue.”

“As in… they have too—”

“Ryan, my love!” A tall woman with Ryan’s nose has opened the front door. The two railing cats seize the opportunity and disappear into the house. “And you must be Louie! It’s so lovely to meet you!”

“Thank you for having me,” Louie says. He still feels like he’s barging in on family time, although Ryan didn’t seem to be lying when he said he really wanted Louie to come.

At least in part, Ryan must have invited him out of pity. Because Louis’s family is— well.

He said too much when they were in New York. He said things he shouldn’t have said. About his dad, and about Bastien. To Ryan’s credit, he didn’t mention it again. If Louie wasn’t hellbent on never bringing his family up again, he’d thank Ryan for it.

“Of course,” Ryan’s mom says. “I’m Monica. It’s so nice to meet you. Ryan’s dad will be back soon, he’s just finishing some things in the garage. Come on in. I hope you boys aren’t starving.”

“We had cookies at the fire station,” Ryan says.

“Did you go see Ami?” Monica beams. “Good. I ran into her at the store the other day and she said you invited her to Hartford.”

“Duh,” Ryan says. “She had to work, though.”

“She works so hard,” Monica says. She squeezes Ryan’s arm. “All of you kids work so hard.”

Ryan takes his shoes off by the door, so Louie does the same. He’s been taking them off at Ryan’s place as well because Ryan always does. They have a huge pile of shoes by the door; Ryan owns way too many sneakers.

“Louie, do you want anything to drink? I made the raspberry lemonade Ryan likes, but aside from me, he’s the only who likes it. ”

“That’s because the girls don’t have taste,” Ryan says.

“I’ll try it,” Louie says because Ryan does know his way around food. He can only make grilled cheese, but whenever he orders food for them, he manages to pick something out-of-this-world delicious.

“Go have a seat. I’ll be right there.”

Louie follows Ryan into a spacious living room and—“Holy crap.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says. “It’s a bit extra.”

“It’s amazing,” Louie says. His mom would hate this house. One entire wall is just bookshelves, painted black, with the books organized by color. The couches are turquoise and the coffee table is made of wood but painted black with turquoise flowers to match. A piano across from the shelves has been decorated with the same flowers. A black cat is snoozing in a basket on top of the piano, and a calico is sitting by the window, tail swishing.

Louie stops by the piano. In black picture frames, the Harris family is beaming at him. In one of the photos, a maybe ten-year-old Ryan and four girls are dressed in green, all of them holding up candles so they look like a human Christmas tree. In another one, the entire family is making weird faces. The next one shows just the girls in overalls, all holding power tools. The tiniest one has a humongous chainsaw. Then: all the girls and their dad in tutus. Ryan, his dad, and six cats, all sitting on the stairs. The entire family in Ryan’s jersey with Ryan in the middle.

They’re fun photos. Not the stilted everyone smile and look at the camera stuff. Ryan mentioned something about his mom shooting weddings; she probably studied photography.

“I have a lot of sisters,” Ryan says off-handedly. “Although I really only grew up with Ivy.” He points at one of the girls, maybe two or three years older than him. “The twins were twelve when I was born. And my oldest sister was a sophomore in high school.” Ryan’s lips twitch. “I was, uh… an accident.”

“A happy little accident,” Monica says, marching into the room with a tray and three glasses of lemonade. She’s put straws and actual raspberries in their drinks. “Here you go.”

“Thank you,” Louie says. “I love your piano.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s really something,” Monica says. “Frankie will turn everything into a work of art. The piano, the kitchen cabinets, the basement door…” She laughs. “Frankie is Ryan’s dad,” she adds when Louie looks confused.

“Your dad?” Louie asks, eyes on Ryan.

“Yeah, selling painted furniture to rich New Yorkers is kind of his thing,” Ryan says. “Well, I guess he’s really branched out. Where did he ship that huge chest with the water lilies? Paris?”

“London,” Monica says. “Yeah, he’ll get an order from Europe every so often. But he’s painting a shelf he wants to give to the kindergarten right now, and he’s not taking any orders until he’s done with it.”

“I told you,” Ryan says to Louie, “they’re all really artsy. Be careful, Mom may whip out her camera.”

Monica smiles. “You do have a very photogenic face, Louie,” she says. “But I won’t bug you. I took the day off.” She nods at the piano. “Do you play?”

“Not well,” Louie says.

Ryan shakes his head. “You play the piano? We have a piano at our house.”

“You can’t really call it playing ,” Louie says. He used to take lessons, but at some point, his dad sat him down and told him it was time to get serious about hockey and to forget about piano because piano wasn’t going to make him any money. He still played every now and then, mostly when his dad wasn’t home, and his mom was the only one who was listening, but he hasn’t had access to a piano in a while.

He’s thought about sitting down to play, but he didn’t want to annoy Ryan.

“Huh,” Ryan says and takes a lemonade. “Mom. Delicious. Thank you, for real.”

“I made extra for you to take home,” Monica says .

Louie sits down and takes a sip of his. He was never particularly passionate about lemonade, but he is now. It’s sour and it’s sweet and there’s just enough raspberry coming through.

“So, Louie,” Monica says, “tell me about yourself. Where are you from? Sounds a little like Boston.”

It’s funny that Louie is happy because for once someone doesn’t already know everything about him. Or his family. “Yeah, I grew up in Boston.”

“His mom’s from Montreal, though,” Ryan whispers. “He speaks French .”

Monica smiles. “Maybe he can teach you some. Do you remember any of your high school German?”

“Nein, not really,” Ryan says with a grin. “You’ll just have to deal with your non-artsy son.”

Monica’s smile only gets brighter, then she turns back to Louie. “When Ryan started playing hockey, it was a whole new world for us. I’ve learned so many things.”

“Although off-sides took a while,” Ryan says.

“Only a season or so,” Monica says with a laugh. “We do know what’s going on now, though.”

“Uh-huh,” Ryan says. “You texted me good game when I caused the worst turnover in the history of turnovers.”

“I am your mom. I think all your games are good.” Monica tuts at him. “That’s literally my job. Someone else can worry about your turnovers.”

Louie would pay actual money for his dad to care less about turnovers. Or whatever else Louie did wrong. He would take a good game , even if it was a shit game.

A cat hops onto the couch next to Louie. Not one of the ones they saw outside but a huge gray tabby that climbs into Louie’s lap.

“Chicken,” Ryan and his mom say at the same time. “That’s Ryan’s cat Chicken,” Monica adds. “He found him when he was… how old we re you? Seventeen?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Ryan says. “He followed me home. And we did try to figure out if he belonged to someone, we didn’t steal him. Just to be clear.”

Well, maybe Louie is going to steal him. He’s purring like a lawnmower in his lap and he sticks up his chin when Louie scratches him. Louie wouldn’t mind having him sit on the couch with them, watching their division rivals’ games.

“I thought about bringing him to Toronto,” Ryan says, like he was reading Louie’s mind, “but I think he’d be sad without the others, and this place is—”

The front door opens and a tall man—is everyone in this family really tall?—in paint-splattered overalls comes striding into the living room. He has great hair. Kind of like Ryan, who will probably never go bald.

“Sorry for making you wait,” Ryan’s dad, presumably, says. “Hi, you must be Louie. I’m Frankie. So nice to meet you. Give me five minutes to put on clothes that aren’t covered in paint, all right?”

“I’ll get the food ready,” Monica says, nodding at Louie and Ryan. “You boys look like you’re great at carrying plates.”

And there are so many plates. And bowls. Ryan’s mom has made two charcuterie boards—one with meats and one with cheeses, she’s made a chicken salad, a tortellini salad, a fruit salad, and tiny BLT sandwiches. There are bowls with dips, with olives, with tomatoes, and stuffed mushrooms. She also made sourdough. She bought a baguette.

Ryan laughs at the dining room table that is covered in colorful bowls and plates and trays. “Mom,” he says, “this is so much.”

“So?” Monica says, surveying the scene. “Isn’t this great? I can’t wait to eat all of this.”

Honestly, Louie has never in his life been this excited for lunch. He wants to try everything.

“Oh, I forgot the focaccia I got at the bakery,” Monica says and once again disappears into the kitchen. “I also have pickles. Do you boys want pickles? They’re the good ones from the farmers market.”

“Sure, I’ll have a pickle,” Ryan shouts.

Louie feels like he’s fallen into an alternate universe. He obviously spent time at his friends’ houses when he was younger and he’s sure they were exactly like this. Normal. But during the past few years, he’s really only been around his own family. At their house in Boston. With its minimalist furniture and its white-and-gray color palette. Can you even call that a color palette?

His mom would never serve lunch like this. She hates charcuterie boards. She says that’s not a meal. But when most of the bowls and plates are empty less than an hour later, Louie is so full that he’s scared he’ll explode.

No one really expected him to say anything. Monica and Frankie updated them on all of Ryan’s sisters, although Louie can barely keep track of the names. Ryan’s mom is photographing a wedding on Saturday—“It’s a barn wedding. But a fancy barn. They bought flowers for five thousand dollars if you can believe it.”

Ryan’s dad has started painting book edges and his Instagram followers are all over them—“I have more followers than Ryan,” he tells Louie proudly.

“Well, you actually post cool stuff that people want to look at,” Ryan says as he dunks a piece of sourdough bread into his mom’s homemade tzatziki. “Did you make a gallon of this like always? Because I want to take some.”

Louie also wants to take some. Actually, he wants to stay here. He wants to stay here and not talk about hockey.

Frankie does ask how the hockey is going because he and Monica couldn’t come to the game in Philadelphia, but there’s no analysis of plays. No one is grabbing their phone to look at anyone’s stats. No one is telling Ryan that he has to work on anything. They do go through their entire schedule, but only because they’re trying to figure out when Monica and Frankie will come to Hartford to watch a game again. They talk about which day is most convenient, not which game is the most exciting one to watch.

After lunch, Ryan’s dad cleans up and loads the dishwasher, then he takes them to his garage to show them what he’s working on. Louie will have to look up how expensive that furniture is—he’s not the least bit surprised that rich Manhattaners are all over this stuff. Ryan takes Louie upstairs later to show him the hockey dresser in his room. It’s small, under the roof, but it has a big, round window just above the bed. A hockey stick that has been too small for Ryan for at least a decade is leaning against the wall by the door.

This is where Ryan spends his summers. Or part of his summers. In this bed, with a mom who makes sourdough bread, and a dad who loads the dishwasher, and at least half a dozen cats. Probably more. Louie isn’t sure if the black cat on the stairs was the same one he saw in the living room earlier.

They have cake in the afternoon and then they get back into Ryan’s car, a basket full of leftovers in the trunk.

And Louie doesn’t know what to say. He should say thank you.

He can’t. He’s afraid that it would split him right in half.