Page 64 of Secret Puck
Heath
My mom wantsto go to breakfast Saturday morning before I head to the arena. Mav is still sleeping when I get back from Ginny’s, so I’m on my own when I push through the door of the café.
She waves from a booth, her other hand wrapped around a coffee mug.
“Hey,” I say as I sit across from her. “Sorry I’m late.”
“It’s okay. You know I like to have my first cup of coffee in silence anyway.”
I smile at the reminder that something is still the same.
The waiter stops by to pour me a cup of coffee and take our order. After which, I lean back in the booth. “Kevin isn’t joining us?”
“No. Just the two of us.” Her smile is warm and genuine as she studies me. “I’ve missed you.”
There’s an uneasy ache in my chest as the sincerity of her words hit me. Maybe our bond wasn’t always the healthiest—me taking care of her more than the other way around, but in some ways, it’s good to know I’m still missed, if not needed.
I spent the first year of college trying not to fuck up. If I’m honest, I didn’t even want to come to college. I mean, I did. Of course, I did. College is fucking awesome. But I was so scared. My mom was barely hanging on by a thread after my dad died. I’d lost one parent and the panic was real that I’d leave and the other one would disappear without me watching over her like I’d done for the past four years.
I was the one who made her smile when no one else could. The person she relied on to remember things like paying the electricity bill and mowing the grass.
And I wasn’t perfect. I found a release for my teenage angst with other things. Fast cars, easy chicks, occasionally getting high. But I did my best to never bring any more burdens inside the four walls that were already crashing in on us.
So imagine my surprise when I go away to college and nearly give myself a fucking ulcer with worry only to return home this past summer and see she’s fine.
No, not just fine. Fine is the word she used when she was wearing last week’s clothes lying on the couch and staring at the TV in a comatose state. She wasn’t fine. She was good. She didn’t need me to walk around the house singing Disney songs or brush her hair while we watchedFriendson repeat.
I should be happy that she is doing well. I am happy. I’m just also bitter. Where was this woman when I needed her to hold me and tell me everything was going to be okay?
It isn’t fair. I know that. There’s no right way to mourn, and my dad’s death rocked us all to the core.
You don’t get to tell people how to feel. Fuck. You don’t even get to tell yourself how to feel. It’s a real bitch of the human condition to be in control of everything and also nothing.
“Is everything going okay? You look good.”
“I am.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. I can’t bring myself to return the gesture. Her fingers linger and each second that passes feels like an eternity. I don’t know why I can’t just accept and enjoy her company.
She gives me one last squeeze and then pulls back. “You looked good on the ice last night, too. I still can’t believe how talented you and your brother both turned out. I can barely walk a straight line. You got your athleticism from your father. He would be so proud.”
“Can we not?”
She flinches and I wince.
Dammit. Why can’t I just sit here and let her talk about him? Partly it’s because I’m afraid that conversation leads to me telling her how bitter I feel. And what good would that do? She’s finally on her feet and I knock her down with memories of how she hurt me when she was drowning? No way.
“Can we talk about something else?” I try again.
She nods. “Sure.”
We suffer through breakfast talking about stupid shit like the weather and repairs she’s having done on the house back in Michigan. My mood sours with each bite, and I’m all too eager to head to the arena when it’s time.
Adam walks in just after I do. “Hey, man. Where were you this morning?”
“I’m sorry. Did I need to check in before I left?”
His brows raise.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I’m in an awful mood. Had breakfast with my mom this morning.”
