Page 123 of Unloved

It’s the most direct I’ve ever been about this topic, trying to handle it with care. We’ve both danced around the other’s hurt, both of us desperate only to make the other feel happy—even if that meant ignoring the bad.

But this is important. I want him to see me as a soft place to land.

His bowl is noisy as he sets it on the coffee table and runs a shaky hand through his hair.

“Um, I think sixteen? Originally. But that time she got better fast—she did chemo and it worked for a while. And then it came back around, but it was in her heart. An angiosarcoma, super rare and really aggressive. They gave her six months after the diagnosis.”

My heart squeezes, but I stay still and silent, letting him speak without interruption.

“It was only four, though.”

“Matt,” I say, but stop because—what can I say? There’s nothing I can say that would make this better, make it hurt less. How many times after my dad’s stroke had someone said, “I’m so sorry,” or God forbid, “Everything happens for a reason.”

Four months.

A ten-year estimation would be hard to swallow—my dad’s not-so-confident “he’ll probably be like this for the rest of his life” was a living form of grief for my mother and me. But at least he is here, still breathing; he can still smile at me in his favorite leather recliner.

“Tell me about her.”

CHAPTER 44Freddy

Tell me about her.

When was the last time anyone asked me that?

A smile breaks out across my face—even thinking about the force that was my mom shoots a bolt of joy up my spine. I’m not sure where to start, so I blurt out, “She was really smart.”

Ro rewards the quick confession with a smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “She finished her master’s early—sports medicine—and got offers, like, everywhere. But she had a friend from high school who was playing hockey already, so she took the offer with Dallas, because she didn’t want to be alone—I think. Her parents were kinda cold and not that nice—I only met them once, when I was really young. I barely remember the visit, but Archer says they were never very kind to her.”

“Was Archer her friend?”

“Yeah.” I smile again, remembering the photo of them on our living room wall, a Polaroid tucked into the frame that held her diploma. A blurred photo of my mom and Archer at their high school graduation just as Archer lifted her in the air—joyous surprise on her face, a hand on her cap to keep it secured. She’s looking at him. And Archer is grinning at the camera, cap half off his head with the commotion.

“She was really new to the team still, when she met my dad—” Icut myself off at that, the mention of my dad starting to push away the good feeling that memories of my mom bring.

“You don’t have to talk about him,” Ro says, her voice sounding distant.

But… but Iwantto talk about him.

“He was—isa narcissist. He thought he was the best on the team, and I think it was more, at first, that my mom found him charming. He pursued her wildly—very publicly. Showed up to every practice or stretching session with her armed with flowers and extravagant gifts.

“Archer wasn’t playing anymore; he’d gotten hurt bad the first year my mom worked there and he started coaching. She helped him through his injury, but then John Fredderic showed up and ensnared my mom.”

Clearing my throat, I add, “My mom was the best person I’ve ever known. She was—”

I reach up to my eye, feeling an itch, and come away with my fingers wet.

Shit. Am I crying?

“Sorry.” I laugh and shake my head, wiping my eyes earnestly. “I can’t believe I’m crying. It’s been, like, four years.”

“Hey,” Ro says before crawling over to my side of the floor and grabbing me in a hug—one I quickly return full force.

“I wish you could’ve met her. I told you that you remind me of her a lot—kind and gentle. Nice to everyone. Helpful and genuine. But my dad, he… he ruined it. All the time.”

“Were they ever married?”

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