Dad shares a glance with my mom. “Cath, that wasn’t a loan. We wanted—”
“And I appreciate it. Really, I do. It means a lot to me that you helped me when I needed it. But you have Yale to pay for now, and I can pay this back, so take it. Please. I know you don’t have money just lying around. You’d have to work a lot of hours for this and you’re not getting any younger.”
He purses his lips, hesitating for another brief minute before he quietly accepts it.
“Also . . . Brett left these. I figured you’d want to go.”
My dad’s eyes widen as he studies them. “Tickets to game six?”
“If it happens, right?” They have to win tomorrow’s game first.
“These are some good seats.” He pauses. “Does Jack know?”
“I haven’t said anything yet.”
My dad grins. “Don’t. Let me break it to him.”
What that means exactly, I can’t be sure, but it will no doubt involve some level of torture-in-jest.
“When do you plan on going back to work?” my mom asks, coiling a silk scarf around her neck.
“Tomorrow.”
Surprise touches her face. “You should wait a few more days.”
“I’m good. I’ll probably pick up a Sunday night dinner shift, too.” I don’t normally work Sundays, but I need to be busy right now, not sitting around here, stewing over this interview, driving myself insane.
“Can you not afford to wait? How much did Brett leave you?”
I brush the inappropriate question off with “More than enough.”
“Well, then—”
“If you could take Brenna tomorrow . . .”
My mom heaves a sigh, but thankfully doesn’t push any harder. “We could take her right now, so you’re not dragging her over so early.”
“That’s okay.” I don’t think I want to be alone tonight, anyway.
“Don’t forget, if you ever want a Friday night free . . . you know, if you want to go out for any reason. On a date or something.” Dad’s gaze drifts to the television.
“That was all camera tricks.”
My mother opens her mouth, hesitating for only a moment. “You saved his life, Cath. It makes sense that he would feel something deep for you because of that.”
“I know.”
“He’s still in shock over it all. It’ll be a while before his emotions settle to something more . . . normal.”
Until he’s thinking straight again. He used those exact words. No wonder he bolted for Toronto last minute. I’m beginning to think that whispered conversation between Meryl Price and him, over by my sink, was about this very issue. She saw the looks, and she panicked. Maybe she saw Kate Wethers’s mind churning. It’s one thing to appreciate the woman who saved her son’s life. It’s entirely another to allow a poor single mother to become the female lead in this conjured fairy tale.
“You two live very different lives that wouldn’t mesh well. I’d advise you to—”
“I know my reality, Mom.” I don’t mean to snap, but it comes out as such, anyway. Why does she insist on “advising” on everything? As if I’m not capable of thinking for myself?
Dad clears his throat and gives her a high-browed stare. A warning, I think.
I watch them leave, her caution lingering in my mind and souring my mood as I wash the dishes to distract myself, Jack’s deep voice carrying from Brenna’s room.
I know Brett’s still in shock. I know he lives a very different life. I know I wouldn’t fit anywhere in it.
I know all of this.
And yet hearing my mother say it out loud felt like a pinprick to this subconscious hope that’s been flourishing, as I’ve allowed myself to get lost in thoughts of his body’s warmth against mine, the strength of his arms wrapped around mine. Of that fleeting kiss.
Kate Wethers may very well be right. Maybe Brett does feel something for me beyond gratitude. But my mother is also right. It won’t last. The shock will wear off and his body will heal, and he’ll be back to chasing pucks and enjoying the perks of his celebrity status.
That’s just how life is. A person can tell you he loves you one day and tell you that you need to move on the next. He can be everything to you, and then a mere memory.
I’ve already learned that the hard way.
“Night, little monster.” Jack pulls Brenna’s bedroom door mostly shut behind him. “She’s gotten so big.”
“So have you, you gym rat.” I eye him as he strolls toward the kitchen counter, collecting Dad’s empty beer bottle on his way by. He’ll always be my little brother, but he looks like a man now. The baby face is gone, replaced by a hard jawline and stubble.
He chuckles, giving my shoulder a playful push. “I’m not the one pulling guys out of burning cars, Sis.”
I roll my eyes.
“But seriously, can you call me the next time he’s here? I wanna get on the ice with him.”
“I don’t think he’s going to be ‘on the ice’ anytime soon. Definitely not while you’re here.”
Jack yawns and stretches his arms over his head again. The sleeve of his T-shirt falls down and I catch something black on his biceps. “No way!” Pushing the sleeve up farther, I take in the number eighteen tattooed on his skin. “Mom is gonna freak out!” I can’t help but laugh. Of all the things I did do that my parents hated, getting a tattoo was not one of them. “When’d you get that done?”
He grins. “January, right after Madden broke two NHL records in the same game.”
“Wait a minute, you had Brett’s number tattooed onto your body? Obsessed much?”
Jack shrugs. “I told you, he’s my idol.”
“Oh, my God. Wait until I tell him. Actually, no, I’m not sure if I want to. That’s a little bit weird.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Whatever. I’m headin’ out. Let me know if you need help with Brenna. I’m done work every day at five.”
“For the record, I still think you’re nuts for taking that job at Hansen’s.” He’s going to be working with my mom all day, every day.
“For the record, I agree with you, and I’ll probably want to slit my wrists by the end of next week, but there’s not exactly a lot of choices for summer gigs around here.”
“They never called you for that bartending job at the resort?”
“Nope. So it’s basically Target, with Mom, or Diamonds.”
“You could bus my tables.”
“No, thanks. But maybe you can get me a job guarding your house. I’m as big as that goon out there.”
“But he has a gun.”
“I could have a gun.”
“No, you could not have a gun.” My brother loses his house keys at least three times a week.
“You’re probably right. Oh, and I might crash here next Friday night.”
“So Mom doesn’t have to see you stumbling in from somewhere?”
“Something like that. See you later.” A thick arm ropes around my neck, and he pulls me into a hug, his throat growing a little husky as he whispers, “Proud of you, Sis.”
I sigh. “You just want tickets to the game.”
“Lower level, if possible, but I’m not too picky.” His face splits into a wide grin.