Page 34

Grayson

My mind is still buzzing from last night. Being around Astrid, and yet not being able to touch her. When we got back, Sloane insisted the two of them have a sleepover in her room.

So, I went to bed alone. Then I woke up this morning, ate a quick breakfast with the girls, and waved goodbye to them. We’ll be flying out tomorrow for the next away game, so they’re headed home.

“This is Grayson O’Connor.”

I answer my phone as I walk toward the exercise room in the hotel. Inside, I see one woman walking at a brisk pace on the treadmill, but otherwise, it’s empty.

“Hello, Mr. O’Connor,” a woman’s voice on the phone says, startling me out of my daze. It’s official sounding and somewhat familiar, but I can’t place it. I pull the phone away from my cheek for a moment, realizing I didn’t even look at it before I answered. The area code is for Denver, Colorado.

When I place the phone back to my ear, she’s in the middle of a new sentence, “…if you have the time.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, stopping short of the doors into the gym, wheeling around, and lowering my voice. Anxiety has already started to bubble in the pit of my stomach, and I try to ignore the sickly sweet roil. “You cut out a bit. What was that?”

“This is Jade Clearing, family attorney for the Welches. I’m calling from Denver, regarding Calliope and Athena. This is Grayson O’Connor?”

I’m pretty sure that’s what I said when I answered the phone, but I can’t remember now. I feel my throat going dry, so I nod, realize she can’t see me, then lean against the wall behind me and suck in a deep breath. I bring myself back to that hike with Astrid, feeling the cool air on my skin, the warm sun at my back.

Some of the anxiety ebbs.

“Yeah, sorry, you’ve got me. What’s up?” It’s not the most professional way to talk, but she’s the lawyer, not me.

“I’m so glad I was able to catch you. I was hoping to discuss some matters of custody regarding Calliope and Athena Welch.”

“…Matters of custody?”

“Yes. This morning, I received an appeal for custody from Kayla Welch.”

“Josh’s sister?” Black dots start to swim around the edges of my vision, and for the first time since I went to the airport and picked up Athena and Callie, I start to realize that I might not be okay if I lost them.

For the first couple of nights, when Athena was crying herself to sleep and Callie hated every molecule of air that even came in contact with me, I’d laid in bed, unable to sleep, wondering if there was someone else who could take them. Someone else who might be better suited for the position.

But now?

I feel a surge of protectiveness for the girls—admittedly, less like a father and more like an older brother, but still. It’s there, and it’s strong, and it wants nothing to do with Kayla Welch.

“Isn’t she in jail?” I press, feeling anger rise up in my voice. “How can she take the girls back if she’s incarcerated?”

“The charges against her were dropped,” Ms. Clearing says, matter-of-factly. Even after only two interactions with her, I imagine this is how she talks about most things. She doesn’t specify why, or speculate on how Kayla’s lawyer might have been able to spin things.

“Is she clean?”

“Ms. Welch recently completed a full recovery program, and according to her sponsors, she’s clean. She’s also cut ties with people from that life—I’m reading directly from the documents here—and believes she can give the girls a fulfilling life in their home, where they can be nearer to their parents, and family.”

My throat chokes for a minute when I think about Josh’s grave, all the graves marking him and his family members.

Kayla, the sister I’ve never met—hardly even heard Josh talk about—is going to try and use his grave as leverage to take the girls away from me? After she was the one who lost them in the first place.

I don’t realize I’ve brought my hand up, rubbing it in circles on my chest, until a shot of pain shoots through the bone, which is tender and sore from the pressure.

“So…what can I do?” I finally ask, thinking Ms. Clearing is waiting for me to say something.

“Well.” She pauses, and the moment hangs heavily between us, my heart thudding into the space between this and whatever she says next, the anxiety washing up and leaving behind a sticky, greasy residue over my lungs.

“I suppose that depends on what you want, Mr. O’Connor. I’m not going to lie to you—custody battles are never a pleasant experience. And the state typically chooses to side with family, keeping the kids with their blood relations. However, given the circumstances, if you were to fight for it, you may have a decent chance of winning.”

My throat bobs, and the phone feels slick in my hand, starting to slide against my ear. I reposition it, try to picture that hike with Astrid again, but it’s slipping away, too weak to keep front of mind. The anxiety in my chest pushes up against the bottom of my heart, which starts to thud along a little more erratically.

“If I fight for it,” I say, lips feeling numb. “If I fight for custody. Against their aunt.”

“That is correct,” Ms. Clearing says. “I’m under hire from Joshua Welch, not his sister, but it would be pertinent for you to find another lawyer, should you wish to file a motion against Kayla Welch. My primary goal is to best support Calliope and Athena, but I wanted to alert you to the movement here, in case you were interested in knowing your options. I have some legal contacts I can send over to you, if you’d like to speak with counsel about your next steps.”

Maybe I’m reading into it—maybe there’s really nothing under the cold, professional shell of her words—but it almost feels like she wants me to fight for the girls. Like she might also secretly believe the girls going right back to Kayla would be a bad move.

Pushing up off the wall, I realize an anxiety attack is settling in. I hurry to get the words out before I’m too sick.

“That would be great,” I push through my teeth. “Because I definitely plan to fight.”

***

“I’ll be taking some observations on the effectiveness of sensory intervention on anxiety,” Astrid says, glancing over at me. The way her eyes catch on me, I wonder if she can tell that I had an anxiety attack in my hotel room this morning, slumping down against the wall while breathing hard.

It was like the harder I tried to stop it, the harder and faster it came on.

We’re standing in the center of an indoor Minneapolis farmer's market, people bustling around us, laughing and carrying canvas bags along with them. Astrid is wearing another thick, knitted sweater, and this time, I don’t resist the urge to touch her, wanting to clear my mind of the thoughts from my attack this morning.

I reach out and pinch the sweater between my thumb and finger, catching Astrid’s eyes as I do. Our gazes hold for a second, and I ask, “Like this?”

“Yeah,” she says, and I don’t miss the slight hitch there, the weight to her gaze. “Exactly. Tactile.”

We turn together and enter the flow of other shoppers, stopping to look at the booths. Inside the warehouse, it smells like roasting nuts—cinnamon and cloves, straight Christmas, even though it’s not quite Thanksgiving yet. We pass an area filled with tiny pine trees decorated for the season. We walk quietly, going by candle makers and stacks of wreaths, bottles of dried spices, hand-knit clothing.

“Where did you find these sweaters?” I ask, darting a glance at her. The one she’s wearing today is a deep emerald green, featuring little trees in a line across the front. It’s snug against her chest but looser around the waist. She’s wearing the same beanie from last night, and her hair curls slightly where it peeks out from under the cap.

Every time I look over and see her beside me, I just want to loop my arms around her waist, haul her up against me.

“Thrifted them,” she says, side-stepping around a woman with a huge stroller. When she meets my eyes again, she adds, “Why, you want one?”

“Sure.” For some reason, the idea of matching with Astrid makes my chest do something funny. In fact, nothing in my body can act normally around her. “I’d like that.”

“Thrifting could be a good outlet for touch, too,” Astrid says, as we approach a stand of winter vegetables. “Pick up that spinach.”

I dart a look at the farmer on the other side of the stand, talking to someone about the stacks of ruby red pomegranate. Slowly, I pick up the spinach, then look at Astrid.

“You have to really dial in for it to work,” she says. “This week, I’ll have you focus on tactile intervention, and we’ll gather information the same way, checking in each night. So?”

“So?” I parrot, raising an eyebrow, not really sure what I’m supposed to do, but feeling silly with the bundle of spinach in my hand.

“What does it feel like?”

As if her words have shifted my brain, my consciousness moves into my hand, and suddenly, I’m dialed into the greens in my hand. “Waxy,” I say, shaking it a bit. “A little wet, but still firm. Crunchy.”

“That’s good. We’ll move around here, and you can practice with different items.”

Before we go, I flag down the farmer and buy the spinach, as well as two pomegranates for the girls. I wonder if they’ve ever had them before, if Josh’s family served them around the holidays. My mom used to make a fruit salad with the little pomegranate pearls inside.

I say as much to Astrid, and she laughs, her eyes going a bit far away. I wait for her to come back to me, and when she does, I ask, “What?”

She pulls her head back a bit. “What, what?”

“What were you thinking about just now?”

For a second, it looks like she might tell me, but she just shakes her head, turning and making her way along the aisles.

“Come on,” she says, waving me forward. “We have a lot more to get to.”

As we go, she holds her tablet, asking me questions—the ones I’ve gotten used to answering. They’re the anchor questions, to help her figure out how I’m doing.

When she asks, “Last serious anxiety attack?” I pause, averting my eyes.

A moment later, she prods, “Grayson?”

“This morning,” I admit, clearing my throat. She lowers the tablet, her eyes widening.

“I thought the other interventions had been helping,” she says, referencing the fact that I’ve been going for a lot more walks, using my happy place with her during games to push the anxiety away.

“Yeah,” I feel—strangely—like she might be disappointed with herself right now. Like she should have been able to fix me with just two pieces of advice you can find on the internet. “Well, I tried visualization, but it just…wasn’t enough.”

The tablet hangs at her side. “Was there something that triggered it? Or just random?”

“Well.” I think about that faraway look she got earlier, and I wonder, not for the first time, if I’m always sharing more with Astrid than she’s sharing with me. “Yeah. But nothing major.”

She watches me, and I feel the tension between us, ready to snap. This strange tugging, like we’re both asking for more, but not willing to give it.

“Okay,” she says, moving to the side and holding up a reusable produce bag. “Touch this. Kind of like your jersey?”

That draws a laugh from me. “Sure, yeah, I guess. More like my practice jersey than my game day one, though.”

“Close your eyes and picture it,” she says, and I do, realizing I’m so primed to follow her instructions that I don’t even question it. I’m closing my eyes, the fabric pinched between my fingers, when she says, “When you’re out on the ice, and you start to feel anxious, you don’t have to have spinach on you.”

That draws another laugh, and she goes on. “Pinch your jersey like this. Really feel the fabric, how the pattern moves against itself. Focus on the feeling of your feet in your skates, how your hands flex around your stick. It’s a form of grounding.”

“Grounding,” I say, opening my eyes and looking at her. The rest of the farmer's market—the bustle, the people—has fallen away. Now, all I see is her, staring right back at me.