Page 36 of O Goalie Night
“I wasn’t lurking. I heard the car and I happened to look out the window.”
“And instead of letting me handle it, you decided to jump in and do it for me?”
“I didn’t think–”
“You didn’t think I could take care of myself.” What really hurts is that Foster has never made me feel like I need adult supervision. All the times that he’s helped me, I knew he was doing it because he wanted to, not because I needed saving.
Foster blanches as he blinks at me. “No, Beth–”
“It’s fine,” I sigh. “You’re not alone. Everyone seems to think they know what I’m capable of and what’s best for me. There are things I can’t do. I can’t complain at a restaurant, even if the food is awful or they get my order wrong. I can’t sew. My mother has tried to teach me several times and it never goes well. I can’t even skate, but you already know that and come the field trip, everyone at school will too.” I run my hands roughly through my hair. “I can’t do any of those things, but do you know what I can do? I can tell a guy I work with that I’m not interested in him, romantically.”
“I’m really sorry, Beth.” Genuine regret is written all over his face.
I pause before entering my temporary room. “Thank you. And thanks for making sure I got home safe. Goodnight, Foster.” With that, I close the door.
CHAPTER 16
FOSTER
Everyone fucks up, boys.
My mom worked two jobs when my brother and I were kids and as a result we spent a lot of time with our grandfather. He drove us to and from hockey practices and taught us to drive as soon as our legs were long enough to reach the pedals.
He also smoked like a chimney, swore like a sailor, and showed us R-rated movies that were far from age-appropriate.
But he made a mean mac and cheese and he taught Cody and me a lot about life, including accountability.
One day, we were taking shots in our driveway and I fired off a puck so hard it went through our living room window. My brother and I immediately went into damage control mode, trying to come up with a plausible lie that would prevent us from being punished.
When Gramps came out, it was Cody that had the genius idea to claim it was a bird. I watched my older brother swear that a bluejay broke the glass and then flew away.
Our grandfather was a lot of things, but an idiot was not one of them. He said nothing as he looked between our lying faces. Eventually, I cracked under the pressure like any nine-year-old would, crying and admitting that I’d been the one to break it.
He’d ruffled the hair on our sweaty heads and then helped us clean up the broken glass.
“Everyone fucks up, boys. It’s how you handle the fuck up that counts,” he’d said afterwards over ice cream.
Gramps died when I was sixteen, but his pearls of wisdom always seem to come back to me when I need them most.
Like right now. I fucked up with Beth and I am bound and determined to make things right.
Some people would tell me to approach the situation delicately. After all, we haven’t known each other long and I don’t want to come on too strong. But I’m too eager to repair the damage I caused last night to care what the sensible response is. So when she emerges from her bedroom at nine o’clock Saturday morning, I’m there ready to pounce.
“Good morning,” I say as she pads into my kitchen in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, looking surprised to see me.
“Good morning,” she answers timidly. Weaving her fingers together and looking up at me through her long eyelashes she says, “I’m sorry for last night.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I insist. “I was out of bounds.”
“But I overreacted.”
“Only because I overstepped.”
She pushes her hair back from her face and gives me a sheepish smile. “So we were both out of bounds?”
I grin. “Sure. But me more so than you. You get off with a warning. I’m in the penalty box.”
“Alright then,” she rolls her eyes.
