Page 109 of Play Along With Me
The casual acknowledgment of parenthood—"any parent," "your old man"—is as close as we ever come to addressing the elephant that perpetually occupies the room of our relationship.
"Thanks, Dad. I should probably go—I have work in thirty minutes."
"Still doing the bartending thing?"
"And the café thing. Gotta pay rent somehow while I finish the novel."
"Right, right. Well, good luck with all that. And with the new guy. Happy for you," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Take care, Audrey. And... thanks for calling. It was good to hear from you."
"Yeah. You too, Dad."
We hang up, and I'm left with the strange, hollow feeling our conversations always leave behind—not quite satisfaction, not quite disappointment, but something ambiguous that existsin the space between the relationship we have and the one we might have had in some alternative universe where he didn't start a replacement family three states away.
My phone buzzes with a text as I'm putting on my shoes. This time, it is Jake.
Jake: Just got to practice. Already missing my hoodie thief. Dinner tonight?
The simple message sends a completely disproportionate wave of happiness through me. I'm grinning at my phone like an idiot, and I don't even care.
Me: Hoodie is being held hostage. Ransom demands: one dinner, minimum two desserts. Non-negotiable terms.
Jake: Counter-offer: dinner, unlimited desserts, and exclusive access to my extensive collection of NHL-branded sleepwear.
Me: Deal, but only if said sleepwear is optional.
I hit send, then immediately panic. Too forward? Too suggestive? Too soon to be making jokes about nudity when we just spent our first night together?
But Jake's response comes quickly.
Jake: Very optional. Highly recommended, in fact. Speaking of hockey... want to see where I work?
A moment later, a photo appears: an ice rink from ice-level, pristine and glowing under bright lights, with goal nets at either end and Saints logos visible on the boards.
Me: Impressive workplace. Very... cold? And flat? Mine's marginally warmer.
I snap a quick picture of my bedroom, making sure to include a strategic glimpse of bare leg beneath Jake's borrowed hoodie, and send it before I can second-guess myself.
Jake's response is immediate.
Jake: That's... definitely more interesting than the ice rink. Practice suddenly feels very long.
Me: Poor Hockey Jesus. Pray for strength. Or think about game strategy. Or cold showers. Whatever works.
Jake: Not helping. Coach is giving me suspicious looks now. Worth it though. See you tonight? My place, 7?
Me: I'll be there. With or without your hoodie, depending on my mood.
Jake: My preference should be obvious, but I'll leave the final decision to you. Can't wait.
Me: Me neither. Now go stop some pucks or whatever it is you do. Earn that NHL paycheck, Marshall.
I set my phone down, unable to suppress the ridiculous grin that's taken over my face. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, still wearing Jake's hoodie despite needing to change for work—and barely recognize myself.
Is this what happiness looks like? This light, bubbling sensation that makes even my cramped apartment with its overdue electric bill and ever-growing pile of laundry seem somehow charmed and perfect?
I pull on my café uniform shirt but leave Jake's hoodie on over it. I'll take it off before my shift starts, but for now, I want to keep this tangible piece of him close, this physical reminder that last night wasn't just an elaborate fantasy my imagination conjured up.
"Don't wait up," I tell Mr. Darcy as I gather my keys and bag. "I'll probably be at Jake's tonight."
