Page 20 of You, Again
My heart tripped over itself in a furious round of cartwheels and somersaults. I swiped my sweaty palms on my thighs and squinted. “How’d that go for you?”
Nolan chuckled. “Very well, thank you. I played hockey on a club team, graduated with a business degree, got my master’s, and worked for a set designer in Hollywood…until my dad died.”
I gulped. “Did you ever want to go back to LA?”
“Are you kidding?” he scoffed. “I dreamed about it every damn night for the first two years I was home. I loved LA. It’s so different from here. Manic, fast-paced, plastic in some ways, more gritty and real in others. And you can’t beat the weather. You’ll never hear me complain about seventy-degree days in December. Ever.”
I gave a half laugh, sobering quickly. “But you stayed here.”
“Yeah. And I rarely plot my escape anymore, either. I don’t need to. I have nothing to hide.” Nolan looked away briefly and flipped his palms up. “I didn’t mean to go into all that. I just…I found my passion for hockey again, but it’s nuanced now. I love the smell of the rink. I love sharp blades and smooth ice. I love the sound of the Zamboni, and I love teaching younger kids. You’re right…we don’t have the strongest group of juniors this year. Maybe one or two of them will play in college instead of eight or nine. That’s okay. I hope they enjoy every second of it ’cause one day, they’ll hang up their skates for good and stick to pleasure skating. They’ll be content to watch their kids play and hope one of them will make this town proud. Like you.”
“That’s…depressing.”
“No, it’s not. That’s real life for most of us, Vin. My point is…hockey is fun. It took losing it for me to appreciate it. And I’m thrilled those guys want to be here in the summer when they could be out fishing out on Carlton Creek or smoking pot in the lot behind St. Finbarr’s,” he said. “It means they love it too. They don’t have to go pro to learn and enjoy.”
Christ, he sounded likemydad. A hockey professor instead of an English and history one.
“You’re good at this, Nol. Fuck, you don’t need me at all.”
“Not true. We need your name…remember?” Nolan singsonged.
“Right.” I bopped him upside the head as I stood. “Text me when you need me next. If you already told me, I wasn’t listening. Do you have my number?”
“If you haven’t changed it, then yes.”
I nodded. “It’s the same.”
“Okay. Thanks for today. And um…I apologize for being a dick about it earlier. I just—”
“Hate me?” I made a funny face to defuse the sting of honesty.
“No. I don’t hate you. We’re good.” He pulled his keys from his pocket and jiggled them meaningfully as he moved to the door. “I need to go to the diner. Maybe I’ll see you at my mom’s on Sunday.”
I followed him and did my best to get ahold of that flip-flop, fluttery feeling in my chest. I wasn’t sure what was going on with me. Maybe I was at some weird nexus where nostalgia aired some unwanted truths from the past.
That kiss the other day didn’t help. I could bury that shit in a heartbeat and I knew Nolan would let me, but instinctively, I knew that nonstop fucking fluttering wasn’t going anywhere now. I had something to say, and this was the best place to do it.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted.
Nolan shot an inscrutable look at me, his hand on the doorknob. “For what? The kiss?”
“No. That was—no. Not that. It was…weird maybe, but not a big deal, right?” I didn’t wait for him to respond. If I was going to open an old wound, I had to rip the bandage off fast. “I’m talking about…when we were kids. I’m not sorry it happened, but I-I’m sorry for the way I left and—”
“Stop.” He slapped his hand on the door and faced me. “Jesus, Vin. Where the fuck did that come from?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Months…maybe years.” I swallowed around the Sahara in my mouth and licked my lips. “Look, I want to clear the air once and for all. I don’t want us to walk on eggshells, trying to avoid any hot topics. I know you’re pissed at me for that night after the graduation party, but—”
“No, I’m not,” he intercepted. “Not even close. Sure, my ego took a hit, but I got over it.”
“Right. Okay,” I replied woodenly.
“Like you said, we were kids, and at the end of the day, it was just a kiss.”
I expected a wave of insta-relief to wash over me, not an indignant desire to defend our younger selves.
Let it go, let it go.
I couldn’t do it.