Page 90 of Snowballed

Rocky is sympathetic, but I can tell from the expression on her face that she is shocked at what I did.

And I regret it too. I know how sensitive Noah is about being used for his family, his appearance, and his money. And yet I asked for money.

Desperately trying to get her on my side, I add, “He thinks there’s something wrong with me, isn’t that dumb? Before Christmas, he told me I should go for therapy. Can you believe it? That’s so California.”

Rocky shakes her head. “I went when I was twelve or thirteen. My mother was worried that I was getting an eating disorder.”

“Seriously? You’re so gorgeous and healthy.” Rocky is strong, beautiful, and confident in her appearance. She’s the last person I would think of having an eating disorder.

“I was always the biggest and tallest. My parents encouraged my hockey. To make me see my size as an advantage. And the therapist helped too.”

I’m still thinking this over, when she adds, “You’re not crazy if you go to therapy. Sometimes you just have one problem you need help with.”

“It sounds like you think I should go too,” I say.

She nods. “Remember, I suggested it to you after your father died.”

I had forgotten about that until now. “Was that because you thought I needed it?”

Rocky sits beside me on the bed and drapes an arm over my shoulder. “Yes. You were in a lot of pain. And hockey used to be an escape for you, but it wasn’t anymore.”

Of course, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to connect the decline of my on-ice play to my father’s stroke. First, I thought it was because I was missing some practices and games to be with him. Then after his death, I chalked it up to grief. But now, two years later when even my mother is dating again, what’s my excuse?

“Jeremy and I broke up too,” Rocky confides, but she’s not upset at all.

“What happened?” I ask.

“One night he was struggling to open a jar, so I did it for him. That hurt his male pride, and he kept trying to prove he was better than me in other ways. I’ve got no time for that shit.”

I wish I had Rocky’s self-confidence. Of course, she is both strong and smart, so Jeremy has zero chance of being “better.”

We’re playing Merrimack that night, and I’m starting. I’ve been feeling really good about my game, but now I wonder how long that can continue without Noah’s coaching. But I remember his advice to concentrate on winning every shift and not worrying about the big picture. Getting to play is better than having to sit around thinking about how I messed up with Noah.

We lose 5—2. Losing fits my mood anyway. Afterwards, we all go out to dinner and to my shock, Helen nabs the seat beside me.

“Did you and Noah break up?” she asks me.

I am in complete shock. There is no way she could know this. Only Rocky knows and she would never tell. Unless—horror of horrors—Noah has already asked Helen out. Then I realize how ridiculous that is. He wouldn’t do that. And if he did, Helen wouldn’t wait to ask me for confirmation, she’d be jetting back to Burlington immediately. More likely Helen has a secret surveillance system that tells her the moment he’s single.

“Are you going to answer me or what?” she says.

“What would make you say that?” I hedge.

She holds up her phone. “He messaged me to ask if you were okay. Why wouldn’t he message you directly?”

I stare at her phone as if it’s a message straight from Noah. Even after I’ve acted like an insane person, he still cares about me and this gives me a tiny glimmer of hope. Maybe he’ll be there when I get home, and we can piece things back together.

“It’s complicated,” I tell Helen.

She blows out a raspberry of disgust.

When I get home from my road trip, the first thing I see is the empty space where Noah used to park his car. When I go inside, his bedroom is empty. There are no clothes or laptop and no family photo. The bed is stripped, and his clean linens are folded and stacked on top. I pick up his towel and hold it to my face, but the heady scent of Noah has been replaced by fake spring breeze. There’s an ache deep inside me and I wonder if it will ever go away.

My mother tells me the details over our lonely Sunday dinner.

“Noah’s living in the hockey house until the end of the month and then moving into an apartment in Burlington.” Of course, my mother manages to add a note of envy to that sentence since she too would like to move into an apartment in Burlington.

When I don’t respond, she goes on, “We’re getting someone to look after the farm on the weekends that you’re away. A retired man named Bert Huskins. He came by this weekend, and Noah took him through everything. He used to work on a farm, so he said it’s a piece of cake. Nice fellow.”

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