Chapter 1 #8
Except call Noah, probably. That would help.
Or it would’ve helped, if he weren’t currently at his sister’s for Christmas dinner.
She and Gable were hosting for the very first time, in celebration of their first Christmas as a married couple.
Bronwyn had decked not only the halls but the kitchen, dining room, living room, and bathrooms—every square inch of the house glittered in red and green.
And there was a whole crowd gathering, apparently, not just their parents but Gable’s too, some cousins from both sides, and a handful of friends who’d had to cancel their out-of-town holiday plans because of the snow.
Devon appreciated the Christmas spirit a normal amount for someone who didn’t drink, and he loved that his sister collected people and gave them somewhere to celebrate.
He didn’t doubt she had a whole cupboard full of last-minute gifts just in case—maybe only a funny pair of socks or some fancy soap, but she’d make sure everyone had something to open, that everyone felt included and thought of.
Which was frankly bananas, because Devon needed a flow chart to figure out how he was connected to his own relations in this house. It was loud.
Devon was maybe hiding in the den in the basement, a little bit.
The seventies wall paneling had been garnished with a single sad string of Christmas lights—the old non-LED kind, with a handful of burnt-out bulbs.
The couch was older than he was. He had a cranberry mocktail and a plate of cheese and a chat open with Amber, who was literally just upstairs, having come directly from her family’s traditional Christmas breakfast.
Maybe I wasn’t ready, he sent back at length.
“Bitch, you literally suggested we name this year’s lambs after Muppets the second he drove away.” Amber stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking around. “Oh my God, are you the only one down here? You’ve been holding out on me.”
“Shhh,” he said. “We’re hiding.”
“Oh, well, in that case.” She flumphed onto the couch opposite him and shoved her feet under his thigh. “Who from?”
“Kids who want to play mini sticks and parents with nosy questions about my playing days.” He tilted his head back on the couch and turned his face toward her. “Todd—is his name Todd?—went on a fishing expedition to see if I’d out any other drug addicts.”
“Charming,” Amber said dryly. “And I think it’s Trevor. Don’t get me wrong, I love Bronwyn, but she could be a little more discerning when opening her home.”
“Probably, but then she wouldn’t let me in either.” He could deal with it. Currently by running away and hiding in the basement, but he had cheese. It wouldn’t kill him.
“Hey.” Amber didn’t like it when he talked down about himself for being a drug addict, even though it was true and he’d mostly forgiven himself. “Only one of us dated the boy she had a crush on in tenth grade. I’m surprised she lets me in here.”
“Well, you did bring the cheese tray.”
“I understood the assignment. Anyway, don’t think you can just change the subject.” She speared him with a knowing stare. “Why haven’t you called the man who spent two hours staring at your fingers as you wound a ball of yarn yesterday?”
Devon fumbled the cheese. “He what?”
“It was not subtle, Devon. I thought he was going to launch himself at you mouth first. I felt like I should leave the room.”
Now that she mentioned it, it was kind of rude she hadn’t. “Why didn’t you?”
“Uh, because I’ve heard your ‘oh no what if a one-night stand sends me back on the road to perdition’ spiel.”
Recovering from the unexpected assault on his imagination, Devon protested, “Okay, first of all, I have definitely never used ‘perdition’ in a sentence.” He paused and then added, “And anyway, it was morning, so….”
“Oh, of course, it wouldn’t have counted. Silly me. But the point stands. You didn’t call him because…?”
For fuck’s sake. “It’s not rocket science, Amber. He’s cute and I’m nervous. That’s all.”
“Hmm.” She squinted. “You promise you’re not in a shame spiral where you keep repeating to yourself you don’t deserve good things because you used to be addicted to drugs?”
He held up his hand as though taking an oath. “Garden-variety butterflies. Promise.” Had Devon had those thoughts from time to time? Sure. Just because he’d done therapy didn’t mean he was all better.
But he was also, as previously mentioned, a romantic. Sometimes good things happened to you and the right thing to do was hold on and be grateful.
“Fine,” Amber said with a gusty sigh. “But if you haven’t called him by tomorrow I’m going to duct-tape you to a kitchen chair and put him on speakerphone.”
“I accept your terms.” He’d probably even thank her for it. “Do you think I could…?”
“What, here?” She looked skeptical, but then she seemed to reconsider as she looked around the den.
“I mean, upstairs would be a disaster, your sister would take the phone and one of the crotch goblins would hit you with a hockey stick and start screaming. But here… yeah.” Then she wrinkled her nose.
“I’d have to go back upstairs, though, so—pass. ”
“Amber,” Devon whined. He rolled off the couch onto his knees—ow, mistake, he forgot he got addicted to painkillers for a reason—and folded his hands as if in prayer. “How am I supposed to woo Noah if you don’t get out of my face so I can call him?”
That earned him a gentle kick to the kidneys. “It’s Christmas. He’s probably with his family. You can’t call him when he’s with his family. It’ll be awkward.”
Right, right. He could see how that might be self-sabotaging too. He’d have to wait until, like, after dinner sometime? Like eight?
Jesus Christ, why hadn’t he called Noah yesterday?
“Devon? Are you down here?”
Damn. “Yeah, Ma.”
Footsteps on the stairs, and then she peered around the bulkhead into the basement. “Are you hiding from the children?” she asked after a moment, her voice laced with amusement.
“If I say no, will you believe me?”
“No,” she answered, tone of voice changing not at all.
“Then yes. What’s up?”
“If I promise to run interference with the ankle-biters, will you come help peel potatoes? Bronwyn’s a bit overwhelmed.”
Well maybe if she hadn’t invited half the state to spend Christmas here…
. But Devon could hardly fault his sister for her generosity, even if it came heavy-handed sometimes.
(“If you don’t show up I will send Gable to come get you, Devon, and I’ll tell him to make sure you wear the itchiest sweater Amber’s ever knitted. ”) “Coming!”
“Oh, and Amber, sweetheart”—Ma only called her that when she wanted something, and unfortunately for Amber, the sucking up worked every time—“a few of the little ones have it in their heads to go play on the rink Gable built. They could use an extra set of adult eyes for supervision, if you’re up to it? ”
Sucker, Devon mouthed, content in the fact that his back was to his mom and she couldn’t see him. They both knew Amber would rather have peeled the potatoes, but his mother would never ask him to supervise kids playing hockey.
Amber, unfortunately, had her face towards her, so she couldn’t even covertly give him the finger. “Of course, Mrs. Hughes.”
Devon didn’t think anything of the request at the time—why would he? Nobody wanted to peel twenty pounds of potatoes by themselves—but then his mother handed him a peeler and an apron and a potato, and not thirty seconds later, she said, “Did you know Gable’s stepbrother is back in town?”
Devon was halfway through peeling a potato with nowhere to go to escape her matchmaking. “Ma—”
“He’s some kind of teacher, I think,” she barreled on. “Gable speaks highly of him. And the kids really seem to like him, you know—that says a lot about a person. He certainly seems to be enjoying himself.”
And then she gestured out the kitchen window toward the backyard, where the rink was set up and swarming with kids.
Amber was still in the mudroom getting her outdoor gear on, so there was just one adult out with them—a tall, lean figure who was skating like he was born to it, laughing and encouraging the kids in their game.
He wore a familiar coat with a knitted hat pulled down almost to his Muppety eyebrows.
Devon dropped the potato.
Before his mother could scold him, he called out, “Hey, Amber. You wanna switch?”
There was a loud clatter as she dropped a boot. A moment later she poked her head into the kitchen and said, “Seriously?”
“Well,” his mother said, obviously a bit taken aback, “honestly, Devon, I expected a little more resistance. Are you sure you want to—”
He stopped her with a kiss on the cheek. Was he sure he could handle a kids’ hockey game? Well, no. Not really.
But he was sure if he wanted a chance with Noah that he’d have to try eventually. “Promise I’ll trade back if it’s a problem.”
Amber looked out the back door for a moment, and then understanding dawned and she smirked. “Go get your man, Hughes.”
Devon left her to explain things to his mother and went to find his mittens.
Obviously he wasn’t exactly prepared for an impromptu hockey game. He probably could’ve borrowed a pair of Gable’s skates, but he wasn’t ready for that. He could hang out on the sidelines, though. Heckle a bit. Give conflicting advice.
Flirt with Noah.
Before he even had time to feel the cold, he was standing next to the ice, watching Noah teach a little girl how to elevate the puck. He spent a few long seconds drinking it in, thinking about it, cataloging his emotions.
There was a little wistfulness there, sure.
He missed the game. He felt it like a tenderness in his chest. But he’d most likely be retired by now anyway, even if he were healthy.
And there was something else too, a sort of bubbling excitement that was keeping him warm despite the winter chill.
He didn’t want to use, at least not any more than his normal baseline.