Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
ELLIOT
“Roxanne,” I sing, drumming my fingers on the heated steering wheel. “You don’t have to stop at the red light.”
Roxanne and I always do, of course, stop at red lights. And stop signs. Cross walks. And for pedestrians in parking lots.
I love this car. She’s peppy, she’s comfortable, and she’s spotless in a way that I’m certain my actual car has never been. I’ve only been driving her for a week, but I’m already dreading the day I have to hand the keys back.
Not that I’m letting myself think about that right now.
The garage still can’t tell me how long it’ll take to order the parts Millie needs.
When, or perhaps if, the parts eventually arrive, they can’t promise when they’ll have time to fit her in.
They also can’t give me even a ballpark estimate for the repairs, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t spent a few sleepless nights doing mental math and quietly panicking.
Still, maybe it won’t be so bad. With the extra income I’m making from giving physio sessions to Arthur, I might be able to soften the financial blow.
I’ve already started mapping out a simple program for him.
Of course, I’ll need to do a full assessment first, but I can already tell an injury as old and stubborn as his is going to take patience, creativity, and probably a miracle.
Good thing I am no stranger to a challenge.
I pull into the community centre parking lot, early today might I add, and ease Roxanne into a space near the entrance.
The engine hums quietly as I keep her running so the heat stays at that toes-toasty, fingers-thawing temperature for when Sam comes out.
Snowflakes drift lazily past the windshield, blurring the view of bundled-up parents loitering by the doors.
I dig my phone out of my bag, swipe it open, and decide to catch up on a few emails while I wait, feeling smug about being ahead of schedule for once.
There is one from the bachelorette party confirming tomorrow’s delivery. I’d messed up the penis cookie delivery date and they weren’t actually needed until the Thursday after. There is another email about a cookie order for an upcoming baptism.
Best not to mix those orders up, Elliot.
My phone starts ringing as I’m replying to the second email. I don’t recognize the number, but it’s local, so I swipe to answer.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Hummingbird.”
My good mood doesn’t just fade, it’s torn away from me, kicking and screaming.
The first time he called me that, I was just shy of seventeen, working the breakfast rush at the little diner that kept me caffeinated and fed all through high school.
I remember darting between tables with plates balanced on my arms, coffee pot in hand, brain already juggling a dozen things at once.
“Slow down, Hummingbird,” he’d said when I bumped into him on my way by.
His smile was easy and his laugh even easier—laid back in a way no one else in my life had ever been.
He’d started showing up a couple times a week after that, always sitting in my section.
I didn’t mind that he was several years older than me.
He didn’t mind either, which…looking back now, should’ve been a flashing neon red flag.
“Shawn?”
“So you do remember me.” His laugh is different now. Rougher. Too many cigarettes, too few good decisions.
I huff out a humourless laugh. “Kind of hard to forget.” On top of being my husband for seven years, he’s also the father of my child.
Even after the affairs, the gaslighting, and the flat out lies, I could never truly hate him—not when he gave me Sam.
But I can, without hesitation, resent the hell out of him for the wreckage he left behind.
For the years of balancing bills like a circus performer, praying I could keep the creditors at bay.
“Guilty,” he says, and I can picture the smile that comes with it. Handsome in that crooked, cocky way, like he still thinks I’m the naive teenager who melted when he leaned on the counter and looked at me just so.
“What’s new?” he asks, as if the last six years have been nothing more than a blip.
What’s new? Oh, not much—just raising our son alone while juggling three jobs to pay off the debt you racked up in my name. Thanks for signing the divorce papers, though.
“What do you want, Shawn?”
“Shit, Hummingbird. No need to be frigid.”
I hate how much I loved the name when he gave it to me.
I’d never had a nickname before. A late in life, surprise only child of parents who had better things to do than pay attention to the kid they were supposed to be raising.
How I craved that attention. Any kind of it.
How he gave me what I’d always wanted and how special it made me feel.
It didn’t last. He changed. Or maybe I did.
I got pregnant halfway through my undergraduate degree.
Shawn and I got married, and he wanted me to leave school to play the wife and mother.
But I refused to quit, even when my life tipped off its axis.
I finished my degree with a baby on my hip and went straight into my master’s in physiotherapy.
The schedule was brutal. Classes all day, work when I could, motherhood always. I studied at night while Sam slept in the next room, often falling asleep over textbooks. Somehow, I made it work. I always did.
I graduated and found a job right away, finally working in the field I’d always wanted. Sam was in a great preschool. For a little while, things were okay.
But while I was building our future, Shawn was tearing it down.
He drank more. He disappeared more. He lied, covered his tracks, and tried to make me believe his behaviour was my fault.
Like I wasn’t giving enough to the marriage.
When he started taking it out on Sam, picking him apart for every perceived flaw, I’d had enough.
And apparently, he had too. He left when Sam was seven.
“What do you want?” I repeat. He already thinks I’m a cold bitch. I may as well give him what he expects.
“I just wanted to check in. Heard you got a new job.”
“Yeah. So?” I have no idea who would have told him and I won’t give him the satisfaction of asking.
“You could have told me you were working for the Otters, Elliot. You know they’re my team.”
I laugh bitterly. “I’m sorry, Shawn. I didn’t have your phone number or any other way of contacting you. Also…I didn’t want to. So, there’s that.”
I hear a muffled curse on the other end of the line, like he’s holding the phone away from his mouth. “You get any perks with the job? Tickets or merch?”
I shake my head, still stunned that this is the conversation we’re having after years of silence. “I don’t know. Probably.” My voice is flat. I haven’t exactly had the luxury of going to hockey games, not when every spare hour has gone to working off his debt.
“Typical. You and the kid don’t even like hockey.”
“So you do remember your son,” I snap, the bitterness tasting sharp on my tongue. “He’s great. Thanks so much for asking about him.” I should tell him Sam is practically best friends with Ben Michaels, just to watch him lose his mind.
“Maybe I should see him sometime.”
The words slam into me like a bucket of ice water.
My chest tightens. “That is not what we agreed on, Shawn.” I let him walk away clean after the divorce, with no child support and no visitation, because he made it clear he wanted no part in raising Sam.
In return, I didn’t go after him for the credit card fraud he committed by getting cards in my name. That was the deal.
“Well, things change. I’m doing alright now.
My girlfriend just had a baby. We’re getting married in the fall.
Or whenever she loses the baby weight.” He chuckles, smug and careless.
“Who knows? Maybe Sam wants to know his little brother. And maybe I’m looking like the more stable parent right now. ”
My hands are shaking so badly I have to press the phone tighter to keep from dropping it. “Leave us alone.”
I hang up before he can get another word in, before I throw the phone through the windshield. The car suddenly feels like it’s shrinking around me, the air hot and heavy. I yank at my seat belt, shrugging out of my coat with jerky movements.
He can’t…he wouldn’t.
Shawn was a shitty father. When Sam was a baby, I convinced myself that Shawn just wasn’t a “baby person.” I thought maybe once Sam could talk and laugh and throw a ball, his father would connect with him.
But the bond never came. It was okay, I told myself, because I loved my beautiful, brilliant boy enough for both of us, enough for ten people.
But what if he’s not bluffing?
Sam is only twelve. There could be a custody fight. One I can’t afford. One I don’t want him to endure.
The phone starts to ring again. I glare at the screen, my stomach knotting, before snatching it up and pressing it to my ear.
“I told you to leave us alone!” My voice cracks on the last word, and hot tears spill down my cheeks, dripping onto my collar.
“Elliot? What’s wrong?”
The voice is softer, steadier, and far less familiar than my ex-husband’s, but I recognize it instantly.
“Arthur?” I try to laugh, but it comes out broken, half a sob.
“Are you okay?”
“Of course.” The pitch of my voice is too high, painfully false. I scrub at my wet cheeks with my sleeve, as though he can see me through the phone. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Elliot, if something is happening, I need you to…you can tell me if something is wrong.”
I sniff, ignoring the weight of his concern. This is not a conversation I can have with a man I barely know. A man who probably already thinks I am a walking, talking disaster.
“I’m fine,” I lie, feeling anything but. “Is everything okay with you?”
He has never called me before. I didn’t even have his number, which is why I didn’t recognize it when it flashed on my phone.
“Yes. I was just calling to schedule our session.”
Of course. The team will be wrapping up their away games this weekend. “Absolutely. When do you get back?”
“We’ll fly in late Saturday.”
“Great. Is Sunday too soon? I teach a class in the morning, but my afternoon is wide open.”
The line goes quiet, just the faint hiss of the connection between us, before his deep voice returns. “Sunday should be fine. Do you need me to bring anything?”
“No. Just wear something you can move in, and mentally prepare yourself to be uncomfortable.” I try to sound cheerful. Still, I have to admit that hearing Arthur’s voice is helping. He doesn’t know what’s going on. He can’t fix any of it. Yet somehow, talking to him calms me.
“Looking forward to it,” he replies, his tone dry.
“Really?”
“No. Not really.” A pause, then a low clearing of his throat. “Well, you have my number now. Call if you need anything.”
I swallow hard and nod, even though he can’t see that either. “Thank you. Really. I’ll see you on Sunday.”
“You will. Goodbye, Elliot.”
“Bye.”
I slip my phone into my purse and take a deep breath, determined to erase the evidence of my tears. Crying in cars is becoming a hobby, and I hate it.
While I wait for chess club to end, I force my thoughts away from both men. One because I’m terrified of the chaos he could unleash on my life with Sam. The other because I’m equally afraid of what could happen if I let someone else in.