“Well, Meryl Price was eating them so . . .”
“I still can’t believe you guys met her. What’s she like?”
“It was only for a minute but she seemed gracious.” Mom hands Jack a plate that she made for him.
I roll my eyes at him, mouthing “giant baby.”
He grins in response as half a sandwich disappears into his mouth with one bite.
Mom carries one of my kitchen chairs over to settle next to my father. Emma does the same, finding another open space, leaving me a spot on the love seat next to my brother. It’s strange to have my family in my home. My sparkling-clean home. It’s the cleanest it’s probably ever been. I spent the past two days scouring every inch, trying to keep my mind and nerves occupied.
My family has never all been here at once. Emma’s never been, period. But they’re here now, in an unspoken show of solidarity, Jack going as far as to cut his vacation short by two days. It’s suddenly overwhelming.
I thought I was nervous on the day of filming. Now that I’m about to watch myself on TV—knowing that millions of people are also going to be watching this—I’m considering setting a bowl beside me just in case I need to puke in it.
“Why did I ever agree to this?” I grumble, sliding into my spot on the love seat.
“Because of all those reporters hounding you,” my dad reminds me through a sip of his beer. “I only saw two guys hanging around on the bench tonight when we drove in. He was right.”
“Who was right?” Brenna chirps.
“Brett, sweetie.” I smooth her matted hair and plant a kiss on top of her head. “Remember? The man with the broken leg.”
“I forget what he looks like.”
Rivetingly handsome. “You’re going to see. He’ll be on TV, too.”
“When can he come here again?”
“Better be soon, because I can’t believe you met him before I did,” Jack growls through a mouthful, throwing me a piercing glare.
“He’s in Canada right now.”
“Well, when he’s back.”
“I don’t think he’ll be coming around again anytime soon.” He hasn’t responded to my ranting voice message from last night either. I don’t know if that’s his way of refusing to acknowledge my refusal, or if he’s figuring it’s been two weeks since the accident, he’s paid up, and the interview’s done, so it’s an acceptable time to cut ties.
Footfalls on my porch steps sound and I instinctively hold my breath.
A moment later, the door creaks open and Keith steps in.
“Hey!” my dad hollers, holding up his bottle of beer in the air as if to toast him. “Thought you were gonna miss it.”
I frown at Keith’s uniform. “You don’t start until eleven.”
“I’m covering a few hours for someone. Jetting over as soon as this is done.” He reaches over to clasp hands with Jack. “Dang, you’re gonna get too big to skate fast.”
Jack gives him a mock glare. “No way.”
“Hey, Squirt.”
Brenna only smiles.
“What? No hello for me now that he’s here?”
She answers with that maniacal laugh of hers, which makes me shake my head.
“Quiet! It’s on!” Mom exclaims, ending all conversation.
Oh, God. My stomach rolls as I slide an arm around Brenna to pull her close to me, suddenly wishing that everyone would just leave so I can die of embarrassment alone.
My phone dings with an incoming text and I glance at it, assuming it’s Lou or Misty, both at Diamonds tonight.
It’s a text from Brett.
Are you watching?
A flutter of excitement competes with my anxiety.
With a full entourage. You?
With my dad and grandparents. Granny’s making popcorn. I think she assumes this is one of my mom’s movies.
I’ll admit it gives me some comfort to know he’s watching with me, even if he’s a thousand miles away.
Just wanted to check in. I’ll let you go.
I want to respond, to tell him to not let me go, that he can check in with me anytime he wants, but Kate Wethers and her co-anchor, Rick Daly, a broad-shouldered man of about forty with caramel skin and a wide, charming smile, fill the TV screen, distracting me.
Her strong but smooth voice fills my house once again. “Most of you have heard about the recent tragic car crash that claimed the life of Philadelphia Flyers right wing Seth Grabner and nearly claimed that of Brett Madden, captain of the Flyers and son of Academy Award–winning actress Meryl Price. Thanks to the determination of a good Samaritan, Brett’s life was saved. On Wednesday night, I traveled to Balsam, Pennsylvania, to speak with this good Samaritan, Catherine Wright, a twenty-four-year-old single mother and waitress, who just happened to be at the right place at the right time. For Brett Madden, that is. As you can imagine, there has been a lot of excitement in the media for this story, amplified by the fact that Catherine remained in hiding for an entire week from everyone, including the man whom she saved. Tonight we are bringing you an exclusive interview as Catherine speaks out for the first time since the tragedy.”
“Mommy, you’re squeezing me too tight!” Brenna complains, and in her next breath, she squeals, “That’s our living room!”
There I am, dressed in my dusty-rose blouse and sitting stiffly on my floral couch next to Brett, who’s leaning back, his elbow propped on the armrest. Even with a broken leg and in pain, he looks at ease next to me.
I wore the wrong blouse. Under those lights, the pink matches the pink base color in the couch. I match my couch. Why did no one tell me to go change? And there sit Brett and Kate, looking sleek and stylish in their solid dark colors.
Maybe no one will notice.
“You match the couch!” Brenna exclaims, earning my groan and Jack’s chuckle.
“You look really great, Cath,” Keith offers to soften the reality.
I guess I do look okay, other than my bad clothing choice. “They did my makeup,” I mumble, unable to keep my eyes from Brett, remembering the feel of his arm occasionally brushing against mine in this very spot. The makeup girl did manage to catch him with some powder around his eyes and it helped a bit, but Brett looks pretty banged up. And yet still handsome, play-off scruff, bruises, red angry, scar and all.
“That’s the guy I met.”
I wrap my arm around Brenna and pull her to me tight, shushing her with “Yes. Let’s watch.”
“How did he break his leg?”
“His car hit a tree. Now hush.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Yes. Shhh!”
Shivers run down my spine as I listen to myself recount details from the night, my voice sounding so foreign. The camera has zoomed in on my face, and I struggle not to silently criticize my nose, and my expressions, and anything else I can self-consciously pick apart about myself.
Anyone can see that I’m nervous. They’ve edited the interview well, though, the frames zooming in and out on each of our faces when we’re speaking, catching plenty of close-ups of Brett as he listens to me talk.