North Carolina is colder than I expected, and all I brought was a Royals windbreaker. I cross my arms and hike my shoulders to my ears, but it doesn’t help much. Bailey’s wearing gym shorts, and I hope she gets frostbite on her knees. She lived in Raleigh. She should know better.
Madison picks us up from the airport, and as happy as I am to see her again, I can’t freaking stand how hyper the three of them get when all I wanna do is put my head against the window and fall asleep. Madison doesn’t even need a GPS. She’s paying more attention to Delilah in her rearview mirror and Bailey in the passenger seat than the road, but she knows exactly when to turn, exactly when to slow down before a speed trap. She’s lived here so long, she probably considers this home more than Buffalo.
I recognize nothing we pass. I might’ve felt numb to it before the medicine. Now, the sadness that comes over me is so intense I feel sick to my stomach.
It’s better, in a way.
Mom and Dad’s house is a forty-five-minute drive from the airport in an actual honest-to-god gated community. I mean, there were a couple times in Buffalo when a fan or two would hang around outside our house waiting for autographs, but I didn’t think hockey was big enough in North Carolina that they’d need that much security. It’s probably just Dad being rich, white, and full of himself.
The house itself is massive, all white stone, big windows, and a front door that looks like it belongs on a palace. The landscaping alone must’ve cost tens of thousands of dollars, not to mention the Christmas lights that are probably visible from space.
It’s overkill, if you ask me.
There’s a chime as we walk in the front door, an automated voice echoing through the house announcing front door open. The vaulted ceilings and hardwood floors and wide-open spaces make me feel cold and small and the apple cinnamon air freshener reminds me of Cauler and god I don’t want to be here. I clench my backpack straps and try to breathe.
“Mom and Dad are doing some last-minute grocery shopping,” Madison says, hanging her keys on a hook by the door.
“And by grocery shopping you mean liquor shopping, right?” Bailey asks.
Madison scoffs. “We have that under control.”
“Time to get blackout drunk before they get back?” I cut in. I immediately regret it, even before Bailey rolls her eyes and heads for the curved staircase at the other side of the entryway.
“What’s her problem?” Madison asks. She leads us into the kitchen with all its spotless stainless steel and dark granite countertops.
“She’s been like that all morning,” Delilah says. She tosses her bags onto the floor by the breakfast nook and goes right to the liquor cabinet. I’m pretty sure it was designed to be a full-blown pantry. I take a bottle from Delilah and a glass from Madison and wander out into the family room. The whole back wall of the house is lined with huge windows overlooking a pool that’s been closed for the winter. I have never stuck a toe in that pool. Nothing about this house feels homey or familiar. I could walk into the Vinters’ front door right now, kick off my shoes, and go into the fridge like I own the place, but here, I feel like I have to ask permission to get a glass of water. Like the first couple weeks at my billet family’s house in Michigan, before I got comfortable.
I ease myself down onto the couch, careful not to crush any of the throw pillows, and twist the cap off the bottle. I don’t bother with the glass. Madison and Delilah follow after a few minutes, joining me on the couch with their heels dug in and pillows hugged to their chests, comfortable and belonging as they settle in to drink and watch some reality show. I gulp down as much alcohol as I can stomach in one go.
“Take it easy, Mickey,” Delilah says softly. “Remember—”
“Yes,” I snap. “I remember.” Still, I give her the bottle when she holds out her hand, and she pours me a small glass and places it on a coaster on the coffee table in front of me. Setting my limits.
Bailey comes skulking down the stairs a little while later, sitting across the room with her laptop and headphones, watching lacrosse videos. She’s the first one up when the door chimes. My palms start sweating. The soft rumble of Dad’s voice carries down the hall, along with another man I barely recognize until Mikayla laughs. That’s enough to get me off my feet. I follow my sisters back to the foyer.
Spencer’s stuck lugging his own suitcase on top of Mikayla’s and a giant bag of wrapped gifts, straining with the weight of it all instead of setting it down. He still manages to look more at ease here than me. Mikayla doles out hugs around her growing baby bump. Nicolette pushes the door open with her foot next, a bunch of plastic grocery bags hanging from her arms. “There’s more in the car!” she says when she catches me staring.
If it means avoiding Dad, I’ll carry groceries all day. Mom gives me a kiss on the cheek as I pass by her on my way out to the driveway. Her Benz is parked outside the garage, the trunk open and still full of grocery bags.
The garage door is open, showing off a row of sports cars, probably worth enough to get all six of us through college without our scholarships. Even the rental Spencer, Mikayla, and Nicolette showed up in is probably costing them a hundred bucks a day.
One of the first things Cauler said to me is that I’m taking up space at Hartland. Using a full ride I don’t need, for a year that doesn’t even matter.
I’m going to have to start my own scholarship fund or something to make up for this guilt.
Dad’s not in the kitchen when I come back with the groceries, so I help Mom put a few pizzas together for dinner. She starts by asking me about finals and hockey, then eventually moves on to my mental health and medication.
“It takes a while to adjust,” she says when I tell her about the drunken meltdown. “If it doesn’t work for you, you can always switch to something else. There’s plenty of options. Adding therapy would help.”
“I know,” I say.
“And heavy drinking is one of the worst things you can do when you have depression.”
“I know.”
She gives me a soft smile, reaching out to brush hair off my forehead. I almost lean into the gesture. I don’t remember a time I felt this close to her.
Spencer keeps Dad occupied through dinner, talking about the season so far and trade rumors he hopes actually happen to get the Coyotes in a better position for the spring. I almost butt in to say he should hope for his own trade, but then I’d get dragged in. Dad’s awkward glances are more than enough for me. Once dinner’s done, the cards come out and the liquor cabinet gets broken open for real this time.
I sip on a bottle of pop all night.
I fall asleep on the couch as soon as they turn on a movie and have every intention of sleeping there for the rest of the trip until a hand on my shoulder wakes me. The house is mostly dark except for the green and red coming from the Christmas lights around the windows and the dim glow from the black TV screen that’s not actually off. Everyone’s gone. Except for Dad standing over me.
“I have a room set up for you,” he says softly. I feel like he could’ve said the same sentence in Spanish and I would’ve understood it better. There’s not an unused room in this house, and even if he forced Mikayla to stay with someone else once Spencer heads back to Arizona, it still wouldn’t be my space.
Still, this weird sense of guilt settles in my stomach. I brought up the room situation back in November to hurt him, and apparently it worked.