Page 102 of My Merry Mistake
“So. This is payback,” I say.
She shrugs. “I guess.”
“Well, I came to your house to check on you because I wasworriedabout you.” I watch her. “Because Icare.”
Her eyes flick to mine, and even though I have no proof—and it might be wishful thinking—I swear I see relief there.
I move out of the way of the door. “Do you want to come in?”
She stands there awkwardly, like a kid on the first day of class. “I don’t want to impose.”
I walk away, leaving the door open. “If it’s really gonna be payback, then you have to impose.”
“That’s true.” She steps inside and closes the door behind her.
“How’d you get past the doorman?” I ask.
“Oh,” she says like she’s just remembered something. “Right. He asked me to give you this. I think he assumed you and I were . . . whatever. Anyway.” She holds a plain white envelope in my direction. “Montana stamp. Maybe someone from home?”
I take the letter and turn it over, trying not to linger on the return address. “Thanks,” I say, then tuck it in my back pocket.
“You okay?”
“Always,” I say. It’s not exactly true, but I don’t want to get into it. I turn toward the living room, searching my mind fora way to change the subject. “You haven’t been here since that Halloween party,” I say. “You didn’t come this year.”
“I was working.” She’s standing there like she’s not sure where to go, but then her eyes drift to the paused screen on my TV. “Are you playing video games?”
I pick up the controller and shake it. “You want a turn?”
“You have a concussion,” she says. “You’re not supposed to play video games. Or be on the computer or the phone. No screens at all.”
“Okay, first of all, it’s amildconcussion,” I say. “And I think those are more like guidelines than rules.”
“They’re not.”
“And second of all,” I say, ignoring her, “did you look up the treatment for a concussion?”
She scoffs a no, but wow, is she a bad poker player.
“You sure?” I ask. “Because I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that you looked up treatment for a concussion.”
“Whatever. Everyone knows that you can’t be on a screen if you have a concussion.”
“Uh-huh.” I toss the controller on the couch. “Fine. I don’t have to play. But I get bored really easy.”
She rolls her eyes, then lets out a sigh. “How is it . . . really? Your concussion?”
It’s a sincere question. She’s really asking. “It’s good. I mean, notgoodgood, but manageable. Could’ve been worse.”
“It looked . . .notgood.”
“It looked gnarly.” I shouldn’t have watched it, but I did. “Seeing my head bounce like that was wild. Looked worse than it was, though.” Every hockey player knows they’re one collision away from the end of their career, which makes me grateful for every second I have on the ice.
We stand there for a long few seconds, then she says, “Your place looks different during the day.” She walks over to theentertainment center and picks up a framed photo I put away when I have people over. She turns. “Is this you?”
“Uh, yeah.” I take the photo and put it back on the shelf, staring at Hunter’s face a beat too long.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” She frowns, and I know she’s seen on my face what I don’t usually show.
