Page 8 of That Thing You Brew
Tasha pulled me into a hug. “I hate this for you. I wish … Never mind. It’s not about me.”
I squeezed her. “It’s okay to wish. I hate this for me, too.”
“Have you told Jannell yet?”
I shook my head. “I can’t speak to her, either.”
Tasha stood and offered her hand. I let her pull me up. “I can talk to her for you, if you’d like. Save you from the anxiety of a conversation or long, blabbering email where you give too much information and can’t sleep for days agonizing over every word.”
I laughed. That’s exactly why I hadn’t written one yet. “Thanks.”
She grinned. “What are sisters for? Why don’t you doomscroll for a bit to clear your head and I’ll pop back in when the coast is clear?”
“All right. Thanks for covering for me.”
“Anytime.”
Tasha left, and I pulled out my phone. I wasn’t much of a doomscroller, but I did want to get on Instagram and send Xavier a thank-you message.
Xavier’s account was the sweetest thing I’d ever seen. For every picture of him, there were twice as many of his sisters. He had three younger ones, all figure skaters. He was so proud of them, captioning their photos, videos, reels, and even some bloopers—photos going back to when he first started playing hockey, only about ten years ago. His father had played in the NHL, and his mother was a figure skater, and they decided all their kids would be figure skaters. His first post was a selfie of him as a young teenager, on the day of his first hockey game.
A few family pictures, some with his mom, some with his dad. Never a girlfriend or a girl friend. I wondered if he was dating anyone or had. All the fans speculated. Did he have a sweetheart back home in Seattle or in one of the cities he’d played in before coming here? It was generally believed that he was single, because how could you hide a girlfriend living such a public life, unless you never saw her?
I paused on a picture of his family’s castle in Alpintraum. On the smaller side compared with the ones in the bookstore’s wall calendars, it was still impressive and beautiful. I often imagined going back in time and playing on the balcony that overlooked the beautiful gardens instead of on a tiny pallet stage in a corner of the dusty Ren Faire lawn, my hands caressing my harp strings while Xavier looked on, dashing in embroidered puffed sleeves, pantaloons, and stockings.
His father had played hockey in Germany before he was drafted at eighteen years old by Calgary. Heinrich Schwann wanted to see the world, and he did. He’d also met Xavier’s mom there during training camp. He fell hard and fast and proposed a week later, after he was assigned to their minor league team, so they could be together. He’d been traded to Seattle the next season. The family lived there during the hockey months, and he retired when his last contract expired and the team didn’t have the cap space to re-sign him. He’d left the game instead of uprooting his family to play for another team.
It was amazing what you could learn and deduce about someone from social media videos and captions, Google, NHL commentators, and a little math.
Prep school in Seattle, summers in Calgary, Christmases in Alpintraum. I felt like I knew him.
That was ridiculous, though. You can’t really know someone unless you spend time with them. Right?
I never tried. I couldn’t even get a full sentence out to him without stammering.
The last photo was taken earlier this afternoon. Xavier and Jason, in their fancy game day designer suits, holding long overcoats in the crooks of their arms. They stood in front of a cozy-looking house by an outdoor pine strung with lights and dusted with snow. Jason’s brother-in-law, Brady de la Tour, was tagged, so I assumed it was his house. Brady was the equipment manager for the Volts, and Jason was married to Brady’s sister, Lauren.
The caption read, “Dex the Halls needed a ride to the game tonight so I volunteered to be his driver. He doesn’t like his new nickname. If you like it, chant it when he takes the ice!”
I snorted. I loved Xavier’s sense of humor. After a few more seconds of staring at his perfect face, I tapped the icon to open a message.
But the words didn’t come. I wrote a few words and deleted them, repeating the pattern until I lost count.
Tasha popped her head into the kitchen. “All clear.”
“Thanks.”
I stuffed my phone in my apron pocket and squared my shoulders.
Back to work.
I’d message him later.
Maybe.
CHAPTER3
Xavier
