Page 75 of Play Along With Me
"It's okay," Audrey assures me, though her eyes have widened slightly. "I'm impressed by your mother's thoroughness. She would have made an excellent private investigator or possibly a government intelligence agent."
"I was a high school guidance counselor for thirty years," my mother explains proudly. "You learn to gather information efficiently."
"The students must have loved that," Audrey remarks. "Nothing like having an adult who knows everything about you before you've even said hello."
My mother misses the gentle sarcasm entirely. "They did! I took great pride in connecting with each student personally."
Our food arrives, providing another brief respite from the Audrey Inquisition. As we begin eating, I watch Audrey surreptitiously, struck by how easily she's handling this situation. She's warm with my parents, humorous without being disrespectful, and somehow managing to both answer and deflect my mother's increasingly personal questions.
Most significantly, she seems genuinely engaged—not just performing for my benefit but actually enjoying the conversation. When my father mentions his passion for woodworking, she asks thoughtful follow-up questions that lead to a spirited discussion about different types of wood joinery that somehow isn't boring.
There's an authenticity to Audrey that's rare and compelling. Even in this entirely fake scenario, she's bringing her real self—her humor, her curiosity, her slightly chaotic energy. It's... refreshing.
And apparently, I'm not hiding my appreciation well enough, because my mother catches me watching Audrey and gives me a knowing smile that makes me quickly redirect my attention to my eggs benedict.
"I remember you mentioned you're working on a novel," my father says during a brief lull in my mother's questioning.
Audrey nods, taking a sip of her coffee. "Trying to, anyway. It's coming along slowly."
"Remind me what's it about again?" he asks with genuine interest.
"It's about a woman who can see people's deepest regrets floating above their heads like thought bubbles," Audrey explains. "She's both blessed and cursed with this insight into what people wish they'd done differently."
"That's fascinating," my father says, looking impressed. "A bit like mind-reading, but more specific."
"Exactly," Audrey nods. "I'm interested in regret as a universal experience—how we all carry these alternate versions of our lives, the roads not taken."
It's a surprisingly philosophical concept, and I find myself wondering how it would feel to have someone see my own regrets. Would Audrey's character see my fears about wasting my prime years in the AHL? My occasional doubts about sacrificing everything for hockey? The handful of relationships I've let wither because the game always came first?
"What an interesting premise," my mother comments. "Have you always wanted to be a writer?"
"Since I was old enough to hold a pencil," Audrey confirms. "Though I went through a brief phase of wanting to be a professional dolphin trainer, until I realized it would involve a lot more fish-handling and a lot less riding dolphins while they jump through hoops."
"Many childhood dreams face the harsh reality of actual job descriptions," my father chuckles.
"Unlike Jake," my mother interjects proudly. "He knew he wanted to be a goalie from the moment he could walk. Show her the picture, Robert."
My father dutifully pulls out his wallet and extracts a worn photograph that I know all too well—three-year-old me in oversized goalie gear, standing in our backyard rink.
"Oh my god," Audrey gasps delightedly, taking the photo. "Tiny Hockey Jesus! Look at those chubby cheeks!"
"He insisted on being the goalie from day one," my father explains. "Most kids want to score goals, but Jake wanted to stop them."
"I liked the equipment," I admit. "All the pads made me feel like a robot or a superhero."
"Plus he was always analytical, even as a child," my mother adds. "Always watching, observing patterns. Perfect goalie mentality."
"That tracks," Audrey nods, studying the photo. "He has that same focused expression now. Though with fewer cheek chub."
She hands the photo back with obvious reluctance. "Please tell me there are more where that came from."
"Albums full," my mother confirms eagerly. "I brought three with me! They're back in the hotel room, but I'd be happy to show you another time."
"Mom," I warn, but Audrey is already nodding enthusiastically.
"I would absolutely love that," she says with a grin that promises future embarrassment for me. "Especially if there's documentation of the mullet era."
"Oh, there is," my father assures her. "Full hockey hair. Not his finest moment."
