I’ve always liked Chip, a simple, easygoing twenty-nine-year-old who works at the same paint factory that my father used to work at and comes here several times a week for dinner. But now I glare at him.
He lifts his hands up. “Hey! Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just telling it like it is.” He nods at the TV. The camera keeps panning back and forth between the ice and Brett, sitting quietly, waiting for the game to begin. My heart skips every single time I catch a glimpse of him. “Grabner was rated one of the top right-wingers in the world. And Madden is a god on the ice. He leads the league in points this year by a wide margin. Losing the two of them crippled us, accident or not.”
I shake my head. “People are assholes.”
Chip lifts his bottle of Bud in a mock cheer. “Here, here.”
“What time does the game start?”
He glances at his watch. “About twenty minutes?”
I’m here until at least eight thirty. Maybe I can catch the end of it at home. That’d give me a chance to admire Brett in private . . .
My fingers fly over the monitor to punch in orders, my attention pulling too frequently to the TV.
I freeze as a tall blonde bombshell with tanned skin appears in the box next to Brett, the fitted T-shirt she’s wearing accentuating her incredible fit body and her perfect round breasts.
I don’t need anyone to tell me that that’s Courtney Woods. I’ve seen enough pictures of her, and of them together.
I take a deep breath.
Okay . . . they dated. They’re obviously still friends. She’s there for moral support. It is a huge night for him.
She slides into the seat next to Brett and sets a pint down in front of him with a smile.
And then she presses into his side and reaches for his hand, weaving her fingers through his.
My stomach drops as he turns to look at her for a long moment. He leans in toward her, and I’m saved from having to watch them kiss as the camera flips over to the commentators.
I learned how to steel my expression long ago. I do it now, focusing on the screen in front of me, feeling the curious eyes piercing me from every direction.
I guess I know what Brett wanted to talk to me about.
“What are you doing here?”
“That’s how you greet your favorite brother?” Jack is sprawled out on my love seat, can of beer in hand, Brenna tucked under his arm. Brenna, who should be in bed.
“You’re her favorite brother?” Brenna chirps.
“Of course I am.” He scoffs.
Her face scrunches up. “Mommy has other brothers?”
“Where’s Victoria?” I interrupt, Jack’s humor lost on her.
“I sent her home. Figured I’d save you some money.”
“And she just left?” She’s normally more responsible than that.
“I don’t think she wanted to.” Jack grins, the kind of grin that tells me my sixteen-year-old babysitter was blushing furiously when he strolled in. Probably explains the poor judgment. Still, I’ll need to talk to her about leaving without calling me to check in.
And none of this explains why Jack is sitting on my couch. “Why aren’t you watching the game with your friends?”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “Didn’t feel like it.” That’s bullshit. Jack always feels like hanging out with his friends, and on a do-or-die hockey night like tonight especially.
“We saw Brett on TV!” Brenna exclaims.
I nearly flinch as my eyes drift to the screen. I have no desire to catch another glimpse of him with his face in her ear. Or worse. “How bad is it?” Toronto was up by three points when I left Diamonds.
“Five–one. We’re done for,” Jack complains bitterly. Though I’m beginning to think that wary look he’s giving me right now has nothing to do with the score of the game.
I sigh, in no mood to talk about Brett and Courtney with anyone. It was all I could do to finish my shift, taking orders and smiling at customers and answering their curious “Did you know?” questions with “Of course I did,” before I could escape to Lou’s office to do my closing. Wishing more than ever before that Diamonds was smaller and the process was simpler, that we all just used one register and weren’t responsible for balancing cash and card receipts. Because a basic thing like counting money suddenly seemed an impossible feat, my head already swimming with disappointment.
And an odd sense of humiliation, as if Brett had somehow publicly slighted me, even though he’s done nothing wrong.
Misty has sent five texts, begging me to call her. Thankfully, she left at six, because dealing with her reaction in front of everyone would have made it ten times worse.
“Come on, Brenna. You should already be in bed.”
Jack leans in to whisper something in her ear. I have no idea what it is, but, miraculously, she doesn’t put up a fight. Nor does she plague me with her usual twenty-questions routine. In fact, she doesn’t say a word as she gives him a big hug and then trails me to her room and crawls under her blankets.
“Mommy?”
My hand stalls on her lamp switch. So close to getting away without interrogation. “Yes?”
“Why are you sad?”
I force a smile, to hide the fact that I am. “Who says I’m sad?”
“Uncle Jack.” She pauses to study my face with a small frown. “And your eyes.”
“My eyes?”
“Yeah. You have sad eyes.”
“It’s just been a bad day.”
“Oh . . .” She pauses. “But then why do you have sad eyes so much?”
The observation is a razor-sharp prick, coming from my child. I can’t even hold my fake smile. “Why do you say that?”
“That’s what Grandpa said.”
I frown. “When did he say that?” It’s not like my dad to say things like that.
“When I was at their house. He was showing me pictures of you when you were little and I said that your eyes looked really bright back then, and they don’t anymore, and he said it’s because you have sad eyes now.”
“He actually called them that?” I swallow the lump forming in my throat. I can’t deny that I haven’t heard a comment here or there, mostly from the Gord Mayberrys of the world—insensitive customers with cheesy “Why so glum?” lines.
Her head bobs. “He said they’re always like that now, and I said not always because they looked different when you were on TV that day. And when you laugh.”
Which isn’t often enough, probably.
The knot in my throat swells by double, pricking me, making it hard to swallow.
I shut the light off before she can see the tears. Sensing her little arms in the air, I bend down to let her wrap them around my neck, the feel of her muscles tightening, her way of trying to console me, offering a moment’s reprieve.
“I’m sorry you had a bad day.”
“It’s okay. Everyone has bad days, but tomorrow will be better.” I have to believe that. “Night, babe. I love you.”
Thankfully, Jack is cursing the TV when I emerge and I use the chance to duck into my room to change.
But I don’t change. Instead, I crawl onto my bed and pull out my phone. Jack always leaves his hotspot open for me. He has no issues spending a hundred bucks a month on a data plan.
I click on the link Misty texted me.