Page 34 of Home for the Hockey-Days

Until recently, I’d have agreed with him. But it turns out they’ve skillfully kept a lot of their issues out of my line of sight. They couldn’t hide the two heavies who showed up at the door on Thanksgiving Day, demanding Dad pay them back the ten thousand dollars he’d racked up in debt to them.

No one knows, not even Athena, in part because she’d offer me the clothes off her back and the other part is because she’d probably kill Dad plus the two debt collectors for daring to darken our door and threaten me.

Panic fills my chest cavity.

When I asked Mom about the insurance, she panicked and couldn’t apologize enough. Every penny she could cobble together had to go to paying Dad’s debt, so the assholes at the door didn’t come back and take, well... me.

A shudder passes through my body as a chill sinks into my bones. We live in a nice house, in a nice neighborhood, we have three nice cars, and from the outside, everything seems... nice.

But if you peel back the layers, the cracks start to show.

My father is in deep, he’s lost himself, who he is, and he’s consumed by his addiction. He’s lost his job, but Mom is a named partner at a local law firm. She’s busted her ass to get to where she is, and she loves him too much to let go. But at this point, I think it’s what she has to do to make him see he needs to get help.

And me? I stay in my room and wait for the storms to pass. If I’m caught in the crossfire, Dad tries to drag me into their fights, demanding I take his side against Mom’s logic.

When the doorbell goes, the yelling stops, and for a blissful moment, I can’t thank the mail-person enough for even a brief interlude in the fighting.

The house is decorated for Christmas, lights and tinsel strung on damn near every wall and piece of furniture. We have three Christmas trees, and yet, I couldn’t feel further from being in the Christmas spirit.

“Rowan, it’s for you.” Mom’s weary voice makes its way up the stairs.

I’m in yoga pants and an oversized Christmas sweater, thankfully Athena doesn’t give a crap about my fashion sense.It has to be her, she’s the only one who knows where I live. Except when I skip downstairs, glad to have a reason to leave the battleground that is my childhood home, it’s August’s imposing figure that fills the front door frame.

My breath stutters to a halt as my ribs compress my lungs. What is he doing here?

He’s holding a Bitches Brew paper cup in each hand and flashes me a warm smile that melts the ice in my veins. “Pick a hand.” He picked left when I gave him the option, so I’m guessing that’s his favorite side.

“Right.” I return his smile as he offers me the cup in his right hand. “What are you doing here?”

Acutely aware of the curious eyes of both my parents on us right now, I keep my own eyes fixed forward on August.

He turns his attention to my folks over my shoulder. “I’m so sorry for intruding on Christmas Eve, I know you guys are probably super busy. But.” He turns his gaze back to me. “I was kind of hoping I could take you out for an hour or two.”

My stomach rumbles. My watch tells me my parents fought through dinner time, and despite the heaped pile of perfectly-wrapped gifts sitting under the tree, there is no cheer to be had within these walls.

Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I nod. “I’d love to.” I move toward him but grind to a halt. “Give me a sec to change?”

He shakes his head. “You don’t need to change. Throw some shoes on, and let’s go.” His sense of urgency unsettles my stomach. It’s like he heard my parents yelling and wants to get me out of here as quickly as I want to leave.

It would have been impossible for him not to hear the fighting. I’m sure by now the whole neighborhood has heard the arguments from within this house.

I nod, slide on the pair of sneakers behind the door, and grab a coat.

“Drive carefully.” It’s Mom who tosses out the warning.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say he doesn’t have a car because I destroyed it, but I didn’t want Mom to feel any more pressure than she already does, so I kept that piece of information to myself.

August holds up a set of car keys. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll take good care of her, Mr. and Mrs. Armistead.”

Before my parents can answer, or contribute anything more, August slides his arm around my waist and guides me outside.

A car I don’t recognize sits at the end of our driveway. “You got new wheels.” Relief unfurls in my chest. “Does it have a name?”

He chuckles as he opens the passenger door with the hand that was wrapped around my waist. “Cars are like ships, they’re generally called ‘she’ not ‘it.’ And no, this isn’t mine. It’s a loaner from the twins.” He winces like it hurts to say the words, but I know it’s more because they did him a favor.

He closes the door and settles into the driver’s seat.

“Where are we going?” I finally take a sip of the drink he gave me. “Mmmm what is this?”

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