Chapter 28
28
ELLIOT
F lying should be outlawed. There’s no reason why humans should be above the clouds. We should be on the ground where we belong. But unless I want to spend thirty hours in a car, the only other way to get to Colorado is by plane.
We’re still on the tarmac, but that hasn’t stopped my palms from profusely sweating. I press them against my jeans to dry them off, and within seconds, they’re clammy again. Beside me, Gerard is the picture of ease.
Our seats are in first class because his body won’t fit in economy. His legs are stretched out, and he’s skimming a sports magazine that he bought at a concession stand in the airport. He might as well be lounging in the Hockey House with how comfortable he is. Not sitting in a metal tube about to rocket into the sky at five hundred miles per hour.
“Gerard, how are you so calm right now?” I ask while wringing my hands.
He glances over at me, takes stock of my fidgeting, and smirks. “Aw, is someone nervous?”
I shoot him a glare. “I’m not nervous. I’m merely rationally concerned about entrusting my life to a giant hunk of metal and a couple of strangers in the cockpit. ”
His smirk turns into a full-blown grin. “You’re adorable when you’re rationally concerned.” He does the bunny ears when he says, “rationally concerned.”
I want to shove those fingers in my mouth to shut him up. But I don’t because we’re in public. Instead, I watch the flight attendants walk down the aisle, checking that everyone has stowed their bags and fastened their seatbelts.
I should probably do that too. I’ve fastened seatbelts many times in my life, yet this one is giving me nothing but trouble. It takes me three tries to click the metal prongs into place. Meanwhile, Gerard buckles his seatbelt as fast as it takes me to blink. Show-off.
Noticing my increasing stress, Gerard reaches over and takes my hand. “Hey, it’s going to be okay. I’ve flown hundreds of times without any problems.”
I know he’s trying to reassure me, but his words only heighten my anxiety. Hundreds of times? That’s hundreds of opportunities for something to go wrong. Hundreds of chances for a freak storm, engine failure, or pilot error. Hundreds of ways to die.
God, why is my chest incredibly tight all of a sudden?
Gerard’s face blurs and black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
Oh, no. I’m about to pass out. They’ll have to make an emergency landing in a cornfield in the middle of Kansas, and it’ll be all my fault and?—
“Elliot. Elliot, look at me.” Gerard’s voice slices through my panic. I force my eyes to focus on his face, on the worry in his eyes. “Breathe with me, okay? In and out. Nice, deep breaths—like this.”
He takes a deep breath, his chest rising as he fills his lungs with air. I try to mimic him, but it’s as if I’m breathing through a coffee stirrer. My chest tightens more, and each exhale comes out as nothing more than a painful wheeze.
“That’s it,” Gerard encourages. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Focus on the air moving in and out of your body.”
I close my eyes and try to block out everything but Gerard’s voice and the sensation of air flowing through me.
In and out. In and out.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the vise around my lungs eases, and the black spots recede.
“There you go, Elliot. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing.”
I nod, not yet trusting myself to speak. We sit quietly for a few minutes, breathing together. Once I’m calm, I pull my hand out of Gerard’s and rest it in my lap.
The pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking. We’ve been cleared for takeoff. Please make sure your seatbelts are securely fastened and that all electronic devices are in airplane mode. Flight attendants, prepare for departure.”
Oh, fuck. Oh, fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck.
All the calm I managed to gather vanishes without a trace. My heart races, my palms sweat even more, and the breakfast burrito I ate a couple of hours ago threatens to reappear. Without thinking, I grab Gerard’s hand tightly. My fingernails dig into his skin, making him wince. But he doesn’t pull away. He squeezes my hand back, though more gently.
The plane starts to move slowly at first, then faster as it hurtles down the runway. The sudden change in direction presses me back into my seat, and the world outside the window gets tinier.
This is it. We’re taking off. We’re leaving the ground and soaring into the sky like a bird. Except birds have wings and hollow bones and are built for this shit. I have a delicate constitution and a penchant for panic attacks.
As the nose of the plane tilts up, I gasp. A quick flash of that scene from Final Destination hits me, and I nearly cry out in fear. I think it’s safe to say that I don’t love this flying thing. Not one fucking bit.
Right when I’m about to share this concern with Gerard, the plane levels out, and the engine’s roar softens to a more tolerable hum. The pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom again, announcing that we’ve reached our cruising altitude, but he might as well be speaking Greek for all I care. My mind is still fixated on the fact that we’re no longer on the ground.
The seatbelt sign turns off, and Gerard pries his hand from my grasp to unbuckle his. He extends his arms over his head, pulling up his T-shirt ride to expose a glimpse of his toned abs. Under normal circumstances, I would find it distracting, but I’m currently preoccupied with my impending doom.
I make the wise decision to keep my seatbelt firmly fastened. Call me paranoid, but I’m not taking any chances. With my luck, the moment I unhook the buckle, we’ll hit a pocket of turbulence, and I’ll fly into the ceiling.
“You know you can take that off now, right?” Gerard chuckles.
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” He shrugs, reaching into his backpack and pulling out a pair of headphones. He slips them over his ears and closes his eyes, content to lose himself in the music of… I peek at his phone screen and smile. Gerard would spend the flight listening to an audiobook version of On the Road . Ever since I explained to him how much I loved the book, he’s taken great interest in it.
I decide to do the same and pull out a book from my carry-on. It’s Oliver’s copy of The Catcher in the Rye . The spine is cracked, and the pages are dog-eared from countless rereads.
I open the book to a random passage near the middle and read. It’s the part where Holden talks about how much he hates phonies. How everyone at his prep school is fake and only cares about stupid things, like what kind of luggage they have or what clubs they belong to.
As I read Holden’s words, I find that I can relate. At times, I feel like such an outsider looking in at the bizarre world of hockey culture. The obsession with sticks and pucks and stats. The weird rituals and superstitions. The larger-than-life personas the guys adopt when they hit the ice.
It’s all so foreign to me. And yet, here I am, dating the star player and living at the Hockey House. If someone had told me a few months ago that this is where I’d end up, I would’ve laughed in their face. Me, Elliot Montgomery, shacking up with a bunch of jocks? Please. I’d rather eat glass.
But once I met Gerard, everything changed. He sees past my prickly exterior and has taken the time to get to know the real me. The me who loves old books and indie films and can stay up late arguing about philosophy. The me who dreams of traveling the world and writing the next great American novel.
With Gerard, I don’t have to pretend to be someone I’m not. I can be myself—my grumpy, sarcastic, overthinking self. He accepts me for who I am, including my flaws and neuroses.
I think that’s why this passage resonates with me. Weirdly, Holden’s struggle to find his place in the world mirrors mine. We’re both misfits trying to navigate a society that values superficiality over substance. The only difference is that I managed to find someone genuine amid all the phoniness.
I glance over at Gerard, who has drifted off to sleep, his head lolling against his shoulder. The morning sun slants across his face, turning his hair into spun gold. He appears peaceful and content. As if there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than thirty thousand feet in the air with me by his side.
My chest tightens, but this time, not from anxiety. It’s from a swell of intense emotion that takes my breath away.
Love. That’s the only word for it.
Sometime between our first encounter and now, I’ve fallen head over heels in love with Gerard Gunnarson.
Gerard expertly maneuvers the sleek rental car through the winding mountain roads. The scenery around us is breathtaking. There’s no other word to describe the place where Gerard grew up.
Towering evergreens stretch toward the sky, bending slightly under the weight of fresh snow. Eagles soar above us, and deer sprint between the trees lining the road. However, not even the majestic beauty of nature can distract me from the growing knot of anxiety in my gut.
Gerard hums along to the radio playing Ellie Goulding’s “Love Me Like You Do.” He’s the picture-perfect definition of happiness, and why wouldn’t he be? This is his home turf, where everyone knows his name and story. But for me, it’s uncharted territory. I’m the outsider here, the interloper. The city boy who knows nothing about small-town life.
I press my head against the cool glass of the car window and watch the world pass us by. Soon enough, I see a large wooden sign, weathered and worn but still standing tall.
Welcome to Elk Valley. Population 3,085.
Three thousand and eighty-five people. That’s it—the entirety of Gerard’s world. The sum of every person who’s ever mattered to him. And I’m about to meet them all.
Well, maybe not all of them. But it sure as hell feels that way as we drive down Main Street, or as Gerard calls it, “the heart and soul of Elk Valley.”
Quaint little shops line the street, their windows displaying charming assortments of handmade goods and local wares. We pass a bakery with a chalkboard sign advertising fresh apple pie, and I fight the urge to lower the window to catch a whiff of that delicious cinnamon and butter.
Next door, a hardware store sells everything from hammers to hoses. Out front, a group of old men sit in white rocking chairs, carving pieces of wood and swapping stories .
They look up and wave as we pass, and Gerard returns their gesture with a grin. Ladies and gentlemen, the prodigal son has returned.
We continue past a diner that has probably been there since the 1950s. Its parking lot is full of pickup trucks and SUVs. Through the wide window, people engage in animated conversations over plates loaded with eggs and bacon.
Gerard’s excitement peaks as we drive by a picturesque white clapboard church with a soaring steeple that reaches up to the sky. “That’s Elk Valley Community Church. My family has been going there every Sunday morning since I was in diapers.”
I admire how the church stands tall and proud against the snow-capped mountains. It would fit right in on a Hallmark movie set, full of charm and small-town tradition. But as pretty as it is, I feel uneasy at the thought of ever stepping foot inside.
Churches and I don’t mix. Not since my mom dragged me to Mass once as a kid. She stuffed me into an itchy sweater and made me sit still for hours. I always felt out of place, as if everyone could see right through me.
As we pull up to a red light, a group of townsfolk approaches the car. Gerard lowers the window, letting in a blast of frigid mountain air that makes me shudder.
“Well, look who it is!” a gray-haired man in a red flannel jacket exclaims. “Gerard Gunnarson, as I live and breathe. Welcome home, son!”
“Thanks, Earl,” Gerard replies with a megawatt smile. “It’s good to be back.”
Earl peers into the car. His pale blue eyes narrow slightly, and his bushy eyebrows knit together. “And who’s this you’ve got with you?”
I shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny, suddenly feeling like a bug under a magnifying glass.Gerard, bless him, doesn’t miss a beat, though. “This is Elliot Montgomery. We met at BSU.”
A hush falls over the group. Their eyes sweep over me, assessing and denouncing me all at once .
“Well, isn’t that…something,” a woman in a puffer coat says in a carefully neutral tone.
I don’t miss how she purses her lips in a way that suggests she finds “something” not entirely to her liking.
“It’s nice to meet you all.” I attempt a smile, but I’m pretty sure it comes off as more of a grimace.
Salvation comes when the light turns green. Gerard waves one last time and eases his foot off the brake. As we leave them behind, I sigh heavily.
“Did that seem weird to you?” Gerard asks, his brow furrowed in confusion as he turns onto a side street. “The way they were acting, I mean.”
I gaze out the window, realizing that the towering pines and snow-capped mountains in the distance have suddenly lost their charm. “Not really.”
“What do you mean, ‘not really?’”
I bite my lip, unsure whether to share the swirling thoughts in my head. It’s not an easy topic to discuss. Nor am I in the right state of mind to explain to Gerard that the people he knows might not be all they’re cracked up to be.
“Gerard, I’m Hispanic,” I say, choosing to rip the Band-Aid right off. “And in case you haven’t noticed, Elk Valley isn’t exactly a beacon of diversity.”
He blinks, his mouth opening and closing in disbelief. “But…what does that have to do with anything?”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “It has everything to do with it. I’m different. I don’t look like them, I don’t sound like them, and I sure as hell don’t fit into their neat little boxes of what’s ‘normal.’”
Gerard frowns. “But that’s ridiculous! Your race doesn’t define you. It’s a part of who you are, like your brown eyes or sarcastic sense of humor.”
I smile. Leave it to Gerard to compare my ethnicity to my snark. But as sweet as his words are, they don’t change the reality of the situation. “I know that. And you know that. But to them?” I jerk my chin at the window, indicating the townsfolk we just encountered. “To them, I’m a curiosity at best and a threat at worst.”
The next several minutes pass by in awkward silence. Gerard taps the steering wheel as he mulls over my words. I know him well enough now to know he’s struggling to reconcile his idyllic childhood memories with the uncomfortable truth.
“I never thought about it that way,” he admits, sounding sad. “I guess I’ve always been so caught up in the hockey world that I never stopped and considered how it might appear from the outside.”
My heart clenches at the lost expression on his face. I reach over and give his thigh a gentle squeeze. “It’s not your fault, Gerard. You grew up here. This is your normal.”
I don’t tell him that the hockey world isn’t much different from Elk Valley.
“I just hate the thought of anyone treating you differently because of your race,” he says.
At the next red light, I lean over the center console and kiss him, showing my gratitude for the amazing person he is.