Page 135 of Facing Off
I give in since he’s turned me boneless, holding me like this. I want to stay resting over him like this forever.
It feels like I am.
Until it’s time to eat pasta.
Adrian devours the whole bowl and asks for seconds. That portion is demolished, too.
Eventually we’re back on the sofa again. Diana has snuck closer, curling asleep on my soft rug.
My whole body is abuzz.
I should also be peacefully drifting, but I’m quietly rocked, as if I’ve been hit by sizable waves. Lots of them, but there’s one left in the distance. A powerful one that will change everything if I let it catch me, strong enough to wipe all my walls away, no matter how long I’ve had them up.
Not so long ago, I’d have turned and run as far as I could in the opposite direction.
I don’t have the energy, I tell myself. Maybe later.
For now, I need to deal with this other strange…tenderness…growing in me. The one that’s compelling me to quadruple whatever Adrian’s given to me, this healing we’re trying, and pour it back on him. Not because of balance and scales—who’s thinking anything about scales right now? Not me—but because…because…
The wave, maybe. I’ll blame it. I don’t know.
“When was that memorial again? For Jesse.”
He’s stunned. Adrian doesn’t say anything for a few long moments. “This weekend.”
“We’ll go. I’ll come with you.”
52
ADRIAN
Jesse’s memorialis the day before the Wings are set to fly out to Edmonton for their first pre-season game.
It’s taking place in my hometown, a place called Hope, which is about a two-hour drive from Vancouver.
We get there right before the service is about to start, and walk into a community center that I used to volunteer at as a teenager.
There are fold-out tables and chairs available for seating. They arranged them to face a podium on a small stage. Most of the spots are already filled with people, busy in their own conversations.
Criss-crossing streamers hang from walls, reminding everyone this is a celebration, focusing on Jesse’s life, not his death. There’s also a main tribute station full of his favorite belongings, including his beloved hockey jersey. Next to that table is pizza and drinks, freely available to anyone who wants them.
I keep staring at Jesse’s hockey stuff.
Sonya holds my hand. Mine is getting damp, but she hasn’t complained. She also hasn’t asked me about whathappened to him. I can tell she’s curious though, with how she’s taking everything in.
I want to tell her, but I can’t put into words what I’ve spent every day atoning for. I’m struggling to face it. Still, she deserves to learn the truth. No matter what, I’m telling her tonight. My gut pretzels. I wouldn’t blame her if she walks away afterwards.
Sonya finds us tucked-away seats. By some miracle, I haven’t been recognized. I’m relieved, because this is all for Jesse. I don’t want to pull attention from that. The baseball hat riding low on my forehead helps.
Lights dim.
Someone taps on a microphone by a podium.
My stomach drops to the floor.
It’s Jesse’s dad. He looks older, has lost most of his hair, but those same serious eyes haven’t changed. They are the same color as Jesse’s were.
“I’d like to thank everyone for being here,” he starts off. “When I was putting together this memorial, I realized something. Jesse loved it here. This town may hold hard memories for me, but it’s also the perfect place to celebrate my son.”
