Page 16 of Wild Card
A bigger part of me feels paralyzed by the injustice of it. The missed years. The missed opportunities. I suppose some people might take this total fiasco and make margaritas or what-the-fuck-ever. But me?
I’ve spent the last several months torturing myself over it. Squeezing that lime juice right into my damn eyes like some sort of masochist.
Because I want so much more. I want all the birthdays I missed. I want the first steps back. High school graduation. His NHL draft—the one I looked up on the internet, only to watch his name be called and see him hugging his mom and stepdad. It was the happiest of moments.
And I was nowhere to be seen.
“Okay, well, if this meet and greet from hell is over, I’m just gonna…” I point over her shoulder and into the palatial house, where music and chatter filter toward us.
Cecilia’s eyes narrow, her mouth popping open as though she’s about to say something. But before she can, her husband, a tall, broad man with salt-and-pepper hair and a kind, dopey face, rounds the corner. His tucked-in powder-blue collared shirt reveals a slightly thick midsection over his khaki trousers. He reminds me of an aged, all-state quarterback who still meets up with teammates to relive their play-by-plays.
The grin he hits me with is genuine, though.
I’ve only met Edward once before, and just like then, the guy is impossible to hate.
“Sebastian!” His deep voice booms across the foyer, and his arms go wide as he greets me with a genuine excitement that his wife couldn’t even pretend to muster. “Get in here. What are you doing, Ceci? Let the man in.”
She steps away as Edward reaches forward to shake my hand. “Great to have you here,” he says, following up with a firm handshake.
“Edward. Beautiful home. Thank you for having me. But please, call me Bash.”
He laughs, stepping back and gesturing me through. “Well, in that case, call me Eddie. I mean, hell, we’re all family here.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Cecilia flinch. Then she covers for it by holding her willowy frame tall and tense.
For a flash, I feel a pang of sympathy for her. I’m certain this is not how she envisioned her son’s twenty-fifth birthday party.
But then, she did this to herself. And as much as I like to consider myself a good person, I’m not the soft, doting type. If she needs someone to feel bad for her, that person can be Eddie.
He leads me through the house, spouting off about Tripp’s statistics from last season and practically overflowing with pride. And why shouldn’t he? He raised Tripp as his own. Tripp plays with Eddie’s last name on his jersey.
He’s his dad.
“Tripp will be so pleased you’re here. And everyone is just out back…” Eddie carries on enthusiastically, going through everyone else who is in attendance as though he thinks I’ll know who he’s talking about.
I’m hit with the stomach-sinking realization that I’m an interloper here. The scruffy, surly guy who lives in the mountains, who works two jobs and has no family. If simplydriving through the neighborhood in West Vancouver made me feel out of place, actually walking through their massive, modern home is a flashing sign telling me I don’t belong.
I never did. Even at fifteen, I didn’t fit—and Cecilia’s parents knew it.
My molars grind, and I suck in a deep breath, lifting my shoulders. I might not be one ofthem, but I’m proud of who I am, and I’m not in the habit of letting ridiculously rich people make me feel small.
So I move through the open sliding doors onto the back deck with my head held high. Tripp spots us and rises to greet me. “I’ll leave you to it,” Eddie says before making his exit.
Then my eyes are back on my son.
He may not look like Eddie, but the mannerisms are all his. The copper tinge to his hair and the heart shape to his face are all Cecilia. I think the dark eyes might come from me, but it’s hard to say when, in so many ways, he feels like a perfect stranger.
“Bash, hey!” We start off with a handshake, then he pulls me into a hug. Hard slaps land on my back, and the affection in his greeting surprises me. He’s always been friendly enough, but I wouldn’t call our interactions warm. More stiff than anything. “So glad you could make it.”
He reeks of gin and cologne, so I wait until I step away to take a breath of fresh ocean air.
Tripp shifts to the side, and the view beyond him unfurls. Just over his shoulder, I can see the rocky, wild coastline that graces this neighborhood’s shores.
My gaze scans the horizon, where the humid August air shimmers in undulating waves above the water. Farther up the grass, a catering station stands next to a large white tent, complete with a checkerboard floor, and then?—
Beautiful doe eyes, more lavender than blue. Eyes I haven’t seen in eight months.
All the air leaves my lungs in one rough exhale. Because I’d know those eyes anywhere. I’ve dreamed of them.
