The Mistake

July

Garrett surprises me by showing up at the garage on a Thursday night with pizza and a six-pack. I don’t see much of him during the summer, what with me living at home and him working sixty-hour weeks at a construction company in Boston. We text here and there, usually about the NHL playoffs. We get together to watch the Stanley Cup game every year, which we did last month. But for the most part, our friendship goes on hiatus until I head back to Hastings in September.

I’m happy to see him, though. I’d probably be happier if he hadn’t brought beer, but hey, how is Garrett supposed to know that my father whipped a beer can at my head this morning?

Yup, shit got real today. Dad threw a can and a tantrum, which resulted in me nearly taking a swing at him. Jeff, of course, broke it up and played peacekeeper, before dragging Dad’s drunken ass home. When I popped in for lunch, the old man was drinking Bud Lights in the living room and watching infomercials, greeting me with a smile that told me he’d already forgotten what had happened.

“Hey.” Garrett strides up to the Hyundai whose brake pads I just replaced and gives me a macho man-hug that involves many a back slap. Then he glances across the room at my brother. “Jeff, my man. Long time.”

“G!” Jeff sets down his socket wrench and wanders over to shake Garrett’s hand. “Where the hell have you been hiding this summer?”

“Boston. I’ve spent the past two weeks slaving away on a roof with the sun beating down on my head.”

I grin when I notice the sunburn on his nose, neck and shoulders. And because I’m an ass, I lean in and flick the red patch of his skin on his left shoulder.

He winces. “Fuck you. That hurt.”

“Poor baby. You should ask Wellsy to rub aloe on your booboos.”

He gives a wolfish smile. “Oh, trust me, she has. Which already makes her a way better roommate than you.”

Roommate? Oh, right. I totally forgot that Hannah’s been staying at our place for the summer. Which reminds me that the guys and I should probably talk about what’s going to happen in the fall. If Hannah’s planning on moving in officially. I’m totally over her, and yeah, I love her company, but I also love the dynamic we have going, just us guys. Injecting a dose of estrogen into the system might short-circuit it or something.

“Can you take a break?” Garrett asks. “You too, Jeff. There’s enough pizza for three.”

I hesitate, picturing my dad’s reaction if he wanders outside and sees me chilling with my buddy instead of working. Fuck. I’m not in the mood to throw down with him again.

Jeff, however, answers before I can. “Don’t worry. John’s done for the night.”

I look over in surprise.

“Seriously, I’ve got this,” my brother tells me. “I’ll finish up here. You take G around back and relax.”

“You sure?”

Jeff repeats himself, his tone firm. “I’ve got this.”

I nod in thanks, then strip off my coveralls and leave the garage with Garrett on my tail. We walk down the path leading to the house, but right before we reach the sprawling bungalow, I veer off toward the grassy clearing at the far edge of the property. Years ago, Jeff and I had set up a fire pit out there and surrounded it with a semi-circle of Adirondack chairs. And in the woods beyond the clearing, there’s a tree house we built when we were kids, which any housing inspector worth his salt would condemn thanks to its shoddy workmanship and unstable facade.

Garrett sets the pizza box on the rickety wood table between two of the chairs, then picks up the six-pack, tugs a can off the plastic ring, and tosses it at me.

I catch it, but don’t open it.

“Right, I forgot,” Garrett says dryly. “Beer is for pussies.” He rolls his eyes. “There are no chicks around, man. You don’t have to pretend to be all sophisticated.”

Sophisticated? Ha. My friends know I don’t drink beer unless it’s the only option available, but I’ve always claimed my dislike for it stems from the fact that beer is weak and tastes like shit.

The truth? The smell serves as a depressing reminder of my childhood. So does the taste of bourbon, Dad’s backup beverage once he runs out of beer.

“Just don’t feel like drinking right now.” I place the can on the dirt and accept the bacon-loaded pizza slice he hands me. “Thanks.”

Garrett flops in the chair and reaches for a slice. “So how crazy is it about Connor? First round pick—that’s gotta be good for his ego.”

A bittersweet feeling washes over me. The NHL entry draft took place a couple of weeks ago, and I was thrilled to hear that two Briar players made the cut. The Kings snapped up Connor Trayner in the first round, while the Blackhawks drafted one of our D-men, Joe Rogers, in the fourth. I’m damn proud of my guys. They’re both sophomores, both talented players who deserve to be in the league.