Page 71 of The Husband Hour
Matt, his storytelling nerve twitching, flagged Desiree. Stephanie ordered a Tito’s on the rocks.
“Make it two,” he said.
Chapter Thirty
Lauren could hear her mother in the kitchen doing dishes. Her father’s and Neil’s voices carried up from the living room. She locked her bedroom door.
She opened her closet. The pile of boxes took up all the floor space and obscured some of her clothes. Not sure what she was looking for, she pulled the top box down. It was unwieldy and she lost control of it, so it landed with a thud. She froze, hoping the noise wouldn’t summon her mother. A few seconds passed, and she felt safe enough to start cutting through the tape of the box marked Rory/LA/Press Clips.
The first thing she found inside was a copy of the LA Times from May of 2011. The LA Kings had made the playoffs for the second consecutive year, this after a seven-year playoff drought. But by that point, Rory was in a drought of his own. He suffered a streak of games with no points. Lauren tried to help him put it in perspective: No one expected him to be the star of the team. The Kings were doing great—wasn’t that the important thing? Everything she said seemed to make him feel worse.
It had been so tempting to look for outside help, for outside answers.
She called Emerson, a move that would prove to be a tragic mistake.
“I’m worried about him,” she told Emerson. “Maybe you can talk to him?”
Emerson came to visit the first week in May. The second night he was there, something happened to take everyone’s mind off hockey: the U.S. military killed Osama bin Laden.
This dominated the conversation for days. Lauren got tired of it.
The two brothers took long walks, and she made dinner plans with friends from work to give them bonding time.
The visit must have done the trick, because in the days immediately following it, Rory seemed noticeably calmer. She said as much to him one night, climbing into bed.
“Yeah. I am,” he said. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”
“Oh?” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. “Anything you care to share with your future wife?”
She was being playful, but when he turned, the look on his face was serious.
“Yes, actually. It’s something we need to talk about.”
Lauren wanted to rewind, to go back two minutes before she’d climbed into bed. As if by avoiding the conversation, she could change whatever it was going on in Rory’s mind. Because it was bad—she knew it was bad. Was he having second thoughts about the wedding?
Rory reached for her hand, and she closed her eyes.
“You know my contract is up this summer. I go into free agency.”
Wait—this was about his career? “Yes, I know. Are you worried?”
“Not worried. But I’m thinking I can do something more meaningful with my life than ride the bench on a hockey team. There’s so much going on in the world.”
She nodded, pretending to understand. “Okay. Like what?”
“I want to join the military.”
Oh my God. “Where is this coming from?” As soon as the question was out of her mouth, she knew: Emerson.
And she remembered a conversation from many summers ago, at Boston Style Pizza: I don’t think I’d be happy if I wasn’t good at something. Great at something.
“You know, you can quit hockey without doing something this extreme.”
“It’s not about that.”
“Are you even physically eligible for the military?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m an athlete.”
