Page 22

22

Ben Stirling

It’s a particularly embarrassing letter. A lot of them are, but this one takes the cake. I read it through a few times and consider crumpling it and tossing it in the trash. I think not though. I think I deserve to keep this one. I think I deserve a nice, heaping dose of embarrassment when I read it back in a few weeks.

I stash it in the drawer with the rest of them and sit on the sofa. I face the blank screen, wondering distantly whether the TV is too big for the room. I didn’t think such a thing was possible. I always thought the bigger the screen, the better. Now, I’m not sure about that either.

I lace my fingers together and sit as still as I can, trying and failing to ignore the fact that I know the Blackeyes are about to go onto the ice. They’re padded up. Warmed up. Psyched up. T-Dog and Sev are bickering about something that doesn’t matter. Something that won’t get resolved today, tomorrow, or the day after. Something that, somehow, will make them play better tonight.

I muted the team group chat when I moved to Seattle, and I’ve been trying really, really hard not to open it. It’s something that’s pathetic in itself. I should have left the chat, not muted it. I should’ve left it months ago. I should’ve left it the day I told Coach I wasn’t coming back. That’s what everyone else does. When you leave a team, you leave the chat. It’s common courtesy, a social contract, manners, or something like that.

I haven’t checked it for a couple of weeks.

Maybe that’s progress.

I’m not going to check it now. Checking will undo any and all progress I’ve made, that’s for sure. It’s just that if I do check, there’s a pretty good chance I’ll be able to work out what T-Dog and Sev are arguing about right now. I usually can.

The mad rush of getting Luca and Jeremiah ready has died down, and I’m suddenly aware of it. There’s been an abrupt shift from chaos to quiet. Commotion echoed through the house for a while after they left, ringing through the rooms on the ground floor and making them feel alive.

It’s gone quiet now.

The house is empty.

I’m alone.

Completely alone.

I don’t move for the whole of the first period. I sit stock still on the sofa with the TV off, hands still in my lap, shoulders tensed against the ache in my chest. It’s different tonight. Harder. Sharper. Brittle. It has a high pitch that makes my ears ring from the effort to keep it inside me. It grows and grows until I have to dig my teeth into my bottom lip to stop it from escaping.

My phone buzzes once. Twice. Three times. I don’t move until it occurs to me that it could be Jeremiah. He and Luca might need something. I fumble in my speed to wake the screen.

It isn’t Jeremiah. It’s Amy.

Hope you boys are enjoying the game.

Just checking that you made it. Let me know you’re okay.

Ben. Are you okay?

I can tell she’s about to blow up my phone, so I message back quickly.

I couldn’t make it, but everything’s okay. Jeremiah took Luca.

I’m coming over. Don’t move.

You have dinner plans, Ames. I’m fine. Don’t worry.

Fuck my dinner plans. I’ll be there in 15 minutes.

The doorbell rings in fourteen minutes flat, and Amy frog-marches me to the kitchen, hands me a glass of water, makes me drink it, and then takes me to the living room and sits next to me. We watch the blank black TV screen together.

Neither of us speaks until the silence becomes unbearable and I’m all too aware that it’s on me to find a way to explain what’s happening to me today.

“Do you ever have one of those days where you feel like you’re holding in a scream? Where it’s so fucking big and loud, it’s choking and suffocating you, but you can’t let it out because you don’t want to traumatize your kid, alarm the neighbors, or get yourself committed?” I ask.

“God, yes. All the time,” she says as if what I’ve said is something that happens to everyone. “Remember when Rory used to have those epic meltdowns when he was three or four, and his therapist told him that when he was feeling worked up, he could go to his room and ‘tell it to Mr. Pillow?’” I try for a smile and fail, but I manage a single nod instead. “Well, let’s just say I’ve been telling a shitload of things to Mr. Pillow over the past year and a half.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really, Ben. Really , really. On bad days I can hardly wait to drop the boys at school. I don’t even drive-thru for my coffee on those days. I just race home, rush upstairs, and scream my ass off into my pillow.”

“Does it help?”

“Eh, it makes me feel less like a bomb about to go off and more like a fizzy drink that’s been shaken hard but opened slowly.”

“Hmm. That is better than a bomb,” I agree.

“Do you want me to take Luca tonight? Sounds like you could use a night alone with your pillow. Rory and Cam are already in bed, but they’ll lose their minds if they wake up and Luca’s there in the morning.”

Amy was going to take Luca for most of the day tomorrow anyway. The team arrived in Seattle late today and didn’t have free time before the game, so the plan is for me to meet them for breakfast before they fly out.

Fuck . I have to get through that too.

I definitely need to scream, and soon.

“That’d be great. Thanks, Ames.”

Jeremiah and Luca are in exceptionally high spirits when they get home. Luca has the distinct look of a boy on a sugar high and is bedecked in every conceivable accessory a hockey fan could ever own. Jeremiah isn’t far behind.

“Thanks for taking me to the game, Jelly,” says Luca, waving once Jeremiah has deposited him on the porch step. “I had the best time. See you at the wall tomorrow. I’ll be late though, okay, ’cause I’m going to my cousins', and I won’t be back until dinner time.”

“Okay, bud. I’ll see you when I see you. Sleep tight.”

When Jeremiah leaves, Luca and I go upstairs to pack his overnight bag. Luca talks the entire time, barely taking a breath as he gives me a detailed account of the game and everything he ate while he was there.

“Daddy,” he says thoughtfully as I zip up his bag. “I don’t think Jelly really understands hockey.”

This should be good. “Why do you say that, sweetheart?”

He scrunches his face and looks up at me quizzically. “Well, when Sev got checked and went down, Jelly was all upset. At first, he tried to close my eyes with his hand so I wouldn’t see what was happening, and then he said, ‘Now, Luca, if anyone ever tries to do that to you, I want you to go like this’”—Luca holds up his right hand in the universal stop sign, fingers pressed together, palm flat—“‘and I want you to say, Stop! I don’t like that!’”

The laugh that bursts out of me is so guttural and far-removed from what I’ve been feeling all day that the sound startles me. Luca laughs too, a soft snicker that turns into an uncontrollable giggle. His eyes shut from the effort and his shoulders shake helplessly. Mine do too.

We laugh and laugh until we're both weak. Helpless. And then we laugh more.

When Luca and Amy leave, I turn out the lights, lock the doors, and begin the arduous task of drawing the curtains in my bedroom.

I pause briefly to eye the pile of pillows on my bed.

I’m not saying I won’t ever scream into one, but I don’t think tonight is the night. The big laugh I shared with Luca earlier broke up the hard knot of anguish I was feeling. It’s not gone completely. I can still feel it. It’s there, just in smaller, more manageable pieces. I know I still have tomorrow to get through, but tonight, right now, I feel okay.

I reach the last window, the one near my bed, and raise my hand to pull the curtain. It hovers and drops to my side.

Jeremiah is in his kitchen. He skipped yoga tonight. He must have because he’s wearing jeans and a T, not yoga pants and a tank. My jacket has been slung over the arm of his sofa and his shoes lie discarded near his bed. He still has his socks on. As he waits for the kettle to boil, he leans against the counter and rubs the ball of one socked foot over the arch of the other absently.

It looks like he’s listening to music because now and again he bobs his head and his lips move as though he’s singing a song he doesn’t know all the words to.

When he raises his cup to his lips, I smell the strong, apple-like scent of chamomile, even though I know damn well that’s impossible.

He sips his tea slowly, closing his eyes and swaying when the song he’s listening to reaches its crescendo. He’s far away, lost in thought tonight. His eyes are daydreamy and bluer than ever. I can’t tell if he looks really happy or really sad.

I want to know.

What are you thinking, Jeremiah? Are you thinking about things that make you happy or sad?

I need to know.

Are you thinking about someone that makes you happy or sad?

He discards what’s left of his tea, pouring it down the drain and rinsing the cup, placing it upside down on his drying rack before patting his hands dry on the back of his jeans. He flicks off the lights in the kitchen and living room. His house is dark but for the LED behind his headboard. It’s red tonight. A sultry, crimson glow that overflows in my direction, growing arms and legs and hands that reach out to me.

Shadows flicker and morph as he moves from the kitchen to the living room. He pauses near the sofa. It’s so dark I can’t make out everything he’s doing the way I usually can. I move my head left and right, trying in vain to find a way to see through the sheer curtain more clearly. He picks something up. Something big and black. In the dim light, it blocks out most of his torso, throwing it into darkness and swallowing him.

Wait.

Is that my jacket?

I see the outline of one hand in front of his chest. It clenches as he fists what he’s holding. His eyes close, giving him a sweet and serene expression that’s in direct contrast to the heady, heavy pulse the red light casts around him.

He doesn’t move for several beats.

Then he lifts my jacket to his face and breathes in.