Page 8 of Forbidden Hockey

We eventually tell Mom where we are, but we suspect she knew the whole time. We tell her she’s welcome to visit, hoping that with us out of the house and no longer emotional burdens, we might rekindle something.

Weeks pass. Months. I assume she’ll become a forbidden topic, but it’s the opposite. Hunter’s been reading self-help books, and he forces me to talk about it, since we can’t afford therapy yet.

But he’s told me several times, “As soon as I can afford it, you’re going.”

Joy.

Anyway, we talked about her, and it was helpful at first, but it’s already lost its shine. What Hunt said that night plays over and over.

Fucking Christ, she doesn’t want to be helped, Dirk.

There was something else there, something Hunt doesn’t wanna tell me.

I toss my bag down on my way in from school, kicking my shoes off.

“Put your shoes away,” Hunter calls.

He was so proud of this damn shoe rack. He made me miss a whole Saturday of bed rotting to make it with him. I had big plans. It was gonna be me, GateFlix, and a pepperoni pizza. Instead, it was me and Hunt in waterproof ponchos—because even the rain didn’t deter him—and a noisy table saw that his boss gave him when the work site got new ones.

Hunt’s got his cookbook out, which is still fucking weird to see. My hardass brother with something out of Jamie Oliver’s library and an apron tied around his t-shirt and blue jeans. His brow’s furrowed, eyes stormier than usual.

“Hunt?”

“Set the table—for three.”

“Three?” I head straight to the cupboard.

“Mom,” is all he says.

Well, that’s one way to light my nerves on fire. I have a thousand questions, but I don’t ask any of them. His hands tremble when he reaches for spatulas and shit. They fall out of his hands. There’s a lot of swearing. It’s better I let him be.

We have everything ready to go for five on the nose, but no Mom. Hunt texts her several times, but we don’t get a text till twenty minutes later, saying she’s still coming, but she’s behind. Yeah, no shit. She’s already thirty-five minutes late.

At six-oh-eight, she makes her entrance, breezing through the door, looking around, wrinkling her nose. She misses a step, her ankle collapsing.

“Fucking heels,” she says, but there’s something … off. I don’t mean to stare, but I’m staring, watching closely.

“H-Hi, Mom,” I say. I don’t know how I know not to expect a hug, but I don’t. “You look good.”

And she does, mostly. She has fresh highlights, and the white pantsuit molds to her figure. But her eyes are devoid of spark, and it kills me a little.

Her gaze lands somewhere behind me, lips pressing into a thin line, but then she eases. “Hey, baby,” she says with forced sweetness.

My gut takes a dive, landing in a hollow place. Why did that feel like rejection? My head swivels, searching for Hunter. He’s stiff, all stone.

“Would you like a soda, Mom?” he says, woodenly. Now, that look on Hunter, I know.Protective.Mom’s setting it off. I look between them, still not quite sure.

“I’d rather a crisp white if you have it.”

“Can we just … get food in us before wine, Mom?”

“Trying to be the man of the house, Hunter?” she says. “If you’re gonna be a man, just tell me you don’t want me drinking.”

Hunter grits his teeth, making some kind of decision. “I left a watermelon on the back porch. Dirk, can you grab it for me?”

“Um, okay.” As soon as I’m on the porch, the door shuts behind me. Yep, he was getting rid of me to speak to Mom alone. I take my time, straining to hear their voices, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.

When I head back inside, Hunter’s pulling a chicken out of the oven, and I place the watermelon I know he didn’t really need, on the island. The tension’s molasses thick, and Mom’s at the table with her blazer off now, sipping on a soda.