Chapter Fourteen Mateo #2
"He looks about as good as you do."
It's not a compliment. I wait for her to go on, knowing all too well she's never been short on things to say, but she continues to enjoy her soup and a view she's had her entire life.
"Last I heard, your dad didn't think you knew this bench was here."
"Found it when I was a kid. Google Earth," she shrugs. "It wasn't an exciting place to hang out back then—the excitement was in the discovery, I think—but I've appreciated it more as I've gotten older. It's quiet. Private."
"It's definitely private. Right up until someone shows up unannounced with a blanket and some soup."
"I'm not mad you're here."
"Nah, I didn't think you were," I say.
"And it's not your first time."
I raise an eyebrow. She tilts her head. I answer. "No."
"Am I allowed to ask when you first came here?"
"A while ago."
She sits with that, and I can't decide whether she's pieced together the truth of what Jamie and I are to each other, or whether she's still working it out.
Honestly, if it's the former, I'd like to ask for her help.
I've been lost for weeks now, and if he looks as rough as she's suggested, I'd love to know what the hell we're doing.
Of course, that's been the question all along.
"I'm glad he has you," she murmurs, as quiet as I've ever heard her. "You're different from everyone else."
"I'm a friend."
I could go on. Defend myself and this ride I've been on for years.
I could argue that we're barely friends now, and may not get back to the way we were.
I could confirm that he very much does have me, and will forever, mostly because I will never again be that guy who tried to order takeout and didn't expect to watch the sun rise.
I'm only the guy who fell deeply in love with Jameson Sinclair and doesn't know how to crawl back out.
And I'm not sure I would if given the chance.
But it doesn't matter what I could say. Harper waves me off.
"I don't think my mom was ever his friend. Even when they confused lust with love, or used each other for whatever, I don't think they really liked each other all that much."
It's very matter-of-fact, and from what I know, she's not wrong.
Still, I hurt for Jamie and Harper. Maybe Danielle, too.
I tuck a few stray strands of hair behind my ear and try not to think about why her first comparison was to something supposedly romantic and definitely sexual.
Then I redirect my thoughts and her words.
"What about Kai?"
She grins, but there's a crease between her brows. "Tricky. I mean, sure, he’s definitely a friend, but Kai was around before—before hockey became all of what my dad did, and most of who he was."
“Before Jameson Sinclair became more than a name reserved for roll call in a classroom full of kids.”
“Exactly, yeah. Like, he was just J back then? And to Kai, he’s still just J, so they're best friends, but they're basically brothers.
He'll always be around, no matter who my dad is or was, and it's not the same as anyone my dad met after he became That Hockey Player.
" She stops and studies me. "I probably don't need to ask whether you've met Kai. "
"You don’t."
Harper snorts and shakes her head. "Anyway, my dad's also been friends with lots of teammates. We've vacationed with them. Spent some holidays together. Honestly, I grew up around them more than my grandparents. But they only sort of count because they're all part of that world."
"They all met Jameson Sinclair, and probably never spent time with him as J, even after he stopped playing. Same goes for Taylor McKeon."
"They never spent time with him as J or Jamie, and wouldn’t be sitting on this bench today even if they knew it existed," she says pointedly.
"And Taylor McKeon is in sort of a separate subcategory.
Only friendly when egos don't get in the way, or when enough alcohol makes them stop caring?
There are a lot of guys like that. I'm sure you saw it when you were at the lake last summer. "
I nearly choke on the last of my soup. "I didn't realize he told you about that."
"I was a little surprised he invited you," she says. "McKeon can be a bit of a dick, and you deserved a better getaway."
"It was gorgeous there."
"It's gorgeous in lots of places. Tell my dad to take you somewhere better next time."
That causes a frown Harper doesn't need to see. "I'm not sure there will be other trips in our future."
"Because of your grandma?"
"My grandma?"
"Yeah, when she died, my dad felt guilty for taking you away from her," she explains. "He knew you were close, and that she needed you, but then he invited you and—yeah."
"Did he say anything else?"
"That he didn't get to meet her."
Jesus. I hold too tightly to the thermos and swallow hard.
It would've been absurd to predict where any conversation with Harper could have led, but even with the last month barely a memory, I didn't think she'd bring me back to the funeral so smoothly.
I chance a look at her now, and she seems to know she hurt me somehow.
But as much as I've been surprised a couple of times already, I don't think Jamie told her about our argument.
The fact that he and I both look terrible could be caused by anything, really.
I gesture toward the empty lid in her lap and smile when she hands it over. "I should probably go soon. Leave you to your peace and quiet."
"If you want to," she says. "But what about your peace and quiet?"
The ocean calls to me, and I think I turn toward it in search of an answer to Harper's question.
She waits me out while she folds my blanket, and I'm close to telling her to keep it.
There's probably a hoodie of mine left behind in a drawer not far from us, and there's no reason I shouldn't fill an empty house with a few more of my things.
I wonder about the picture I gave him for Christmas—the one year we let ourselves share a moment of it—and hate that I never saw his new home to know whether it's hanging there.
I hate a lot of things I've never done.
Then I shake my head. "I'm just missing my friend."
Harper helps me out with practice over the next week and a half, before she flies back up to school.
We finally exchange numbers too, and I feel like I'm drawing nonsensical lines in windswept sand.
I don't think I've given away anything about Jamie she hasn't already heard from him, or figured out herself, but I don't want him to think I'm using her to tie myself to someone drifting so far away.
If he's finally learned how to keep from turning around, I don't want him to think I'm using his daughter just to make sure he looks back when I call his name.
If I call his name.
As winter shifts into spring, Jamie's team is making another push for the playoffs.
I watch more of the games than I should, but none of them at Kai's.
Los Angeles is having an incredible year, and when anyone around school talks about hockey, it has nothing to do with New Jersey.
I keep my head down as much as I always have, focused on my students when I'm working, and sprawled on the couch with Sophie on a handful of nights in between.
I'm spending more time with my family because my parents tug on the strings that will always guide me home, but when spring break comes around, I skip out on my volunteer work altogether.
And I go camping with Logan instead.
He'd texted me a month ago, our first contact since December, and asked if I'd mind a phone call.
I hadn't minded at all.
When we’d talked, he mentioned his plans to get away for a while, and coincidence or not, he'd made reservations for a campsite the same week I'd be off work.
"No strings attached, I swear," Logan said. "But you're good company, and I figured you might like to be off the grid for a while."
He’d figured correctly.
"I've got a sleeping bag, but not much else."
"I've got everything we'll need. And I'll even drive us there and back."
"It's out of your way," I pointed out.
"Eh, it's slightly out of the way. Worth it for the good company I mentioned."
And without thinking too hard about it, I’d let the church group know I'd be out of town, and I’d explained to my parents that I could be reached through the park rangers in case of emergency, and I’d told Jamie nothing.
It's a long drive from home, and just before I lose signal on my phone, I stare at it from Logan's passenger seat and second-guess a little of everything.
Then I turn it off and toss it into the backpack at my feet and do my best to forget.
Setting up our tent goes surprisingly smoothly given that my last camping trip was probably thirty years ago.
Logan apologizes for the large mat we'll share—one he borrowed from his brother and sister-in-law without thinking—and I wave a hand at the sleeping bags that will keep us apart.
I set up chairs next to the fire pit, and he sets up a small propane stove nearby.
We eat and we drink. Before, during, and after, we talk and stare at the stars.
Logan and I go to sleep separately and together, and other than a few distant voices from other sites and crickets closer than that, I only hear him breathe.
I'm awake to notice because my tossing and turning never stops.
I'm on edge most of the night, physically more comfortable than I expected to be, but anxious enough to consider going home in the morning.
"Give it another 24 hours," Logan murmurs, pressing coffee into my hand as I drop into a chair. "If you still want to leave tomorrow, we will."
I don't think I said anything out loud, but maybe there are bags under my eyes giving me away. My free hand attempts to keep my hair out of my face, a hair tie left somewhere in the tent, and I force a smile weaker than what Logan deserves.
"I'm sorry."
"For?"