Chapter 28
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
I woke up in my own bed, and despite the soft winter light and my warm blankets, I felt anything but comforted. There was no sound of his breathing. No heavy arm slung over my waist. No half-asleep mumble about five more minutes when his alarm went off.
My eyes stung.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, feeling the dull ache under my ribs where last night’s conversation had buried itself. I’d done the right thing, but my heart didn’t seem to care about long-term ramifications.
I thought about calling him. Apologizing. Taking it all back.
Which is why I nearly had a heart attack when the phone rang to life in the kitchen. I bolted out of bed so fast, I tripped on my sheets and slammed my knees into the floor. Muttering curses, I stumbled out of my room and ran to grab the phone before it went to the answering machine.
“Hello?”
“Hey, hey!” Not Logan. Maddie. I exhaled, half relieved, half disappointed.
“Hey, what’s up?” She hesitated, and I filled in the gap. “Shar told you?”
“She only told me that you were having a rough week . . .”
I exhaled, slumping against the counter. “Yeah. Rough night, actually.”
“Did you talk with him?”
“I did.”
“And?”
I twisted the phone cord around my finger. “Not so great.”
Maddie groaned. “I’m sorry.”
I fought a second round of tears filling my eyes.
“So . . . trivia tonight at The Den?”
I blinked, sniffing as I spun to look at the calendar. “It’s Friday.”
“It’s Friday,” Maddie said. “Pick you up at seven?”
“Yes, please.”
_____
The Den at the U of C was hopping. It was already decorated for Christmas with holiday lights strung over and around the bar and tinsel tacked on the trivia host’s mic stand.
Maddie snagged us a high-top near the right edge of the trivia section, close enough to the speakers to hear questions, far enough that we’d still be able to hear each other talk.
She brandished one of the pencils sitting next to our answer sheet. “Team name?”
“The Comeback Queens,” I said. The last time we’d been here, we annihilated the competition. It was high time we defended our title.
She cackled. “I love it. Perfect.”
We ordered nachos and ginger ales, because I didn’t trust my emotional state with anything stronger, and settled in as the trivia host explained the rules. We spotted some of the regulars around the room and waved, but there were plenty of new faces, too.
“Okay, tonight’s theme for Round One is . . .” The host paused for dramatic effect, flipping his cue card like he was revealing a game-show prize. “Holiday Movies!”
Maddie perked up like someone had plugged her into a generator. “Oh, we’re about to destroy.”
“Agreed.” This was one category I had plenty of experience with.
The host continued, “Question number one: In what 1990 Christmas classic does an eight-year-old boy defend his home from burglars after his family accidentally leaves him behind for the holidays?”
Maddie and I exchanged a look. “Oh, c’mon,” she said, scribbling in Home Alone.
As the round went on, the questions ramped up from nostalgic comfort shows to only-people-who-lived-in-the-video-rental-section-know-this.
The host dove into supporting characters, production trivia, original release posters.
Maddie hit her first wall when he asked, “In the 1988 film Scrooged, what’s the name of the network’s live Christmas special that Frank Cross forces everyone to produce? ”
She blinked at me, but I was grinning from ear to ear. I grabbed the sheet and wrote: A Christmas Carol: Scrooge LIVE!
Maddie stared. “How—why—how do you have that stored in your head?”
I shrugged. “You know math. My family knows Bill Murray.”
We won round one, though our score was barely higher than the table across from us. A victory, nonetheless.
Between rounds, we talked Christmas.
“What’s your plan?” I asked, popping a jalapeno popper into my mouth.
“Going home for actual Christmas Day,” she said.
“Both of you?”
Maddie nodded. “It’ll be interesting.”
I grinned. “Will your mom let you share a room?”
She snorted. “She’s still so paranoid that something happened between the two of us in high school. I don’t know what I’d need to do to convince her.”
I laughed. “Probably just start making up stories. Specifically about times when she wasn’t home.”
Maddie clutched her stomach. “She’d kill me!”
We ate and started round two on American Presidents, and Maddie told me about Chase’s plans for New Year’s. The Hitmen were doing some charity skate on New Year’s day, but they didn’t have specific plans for New Year’s Eve.
It was exactly what I’d hoped to hear. “My parents are throwing a party. Neighbours, friends. We’ll have appetizers, drinks, and games. You and Chase should come.”
She blinked. “They’d be okay with that?”
“Of course. It’ll be fun. Rob and Shar are invited, too. My parents are dying to see Carter.”
Maddie considered. “That actually sounds amazing.”
I was beyond grateful. Having something to look forward to now that any plans outside of my family seemed to be obsolete meant more to me than Maddie or Shar could’ve possibly known.
I took a sip of my ginger ale. “Thank you. For setting this up.”
Maddie winked. “Family, babe. Don’t ever forget it.”
_____
The last week of the semester went by in a blur.
Final papers. Studio clean-up. Last critiques. Shar’s holiday concert.
At the gallery, things ramped up instead of down. We had a small media event with the selected Douglas students. We did photos and a short Q&A about the emerging artist component of the Marcus Foundation program.
“You did this,” Tash whispered, squeezing my hand. “You got me up on that wall.”
“You did this,” I corrected. “I didn’t know it was you when I voted.”
Norman hovered in the background, smiling his benevolent-founder smile, talking to reporters about investment in the next generation. More than once I looked for Logan on the off-chance he’d show up, but I didn’t even see Alice there.
And, strangely enough, her featured artist wall was empty. Had they decided to switch out the art? Showcase another piece for the official gallery opening?
I wanted to ask him about it. I wanted to know how he was doing after the Blizzard lost to the Avalanche. Whether Rourke was okay since he left after a bad hit and didn’t return to the bench.
I had so many questions. But Logan hadn’t called.
That night, I packed. My suitcase lay open on my bed, my clothes in a pile that looked like a thrift store explosion. I folded sweaters, stuffed socks into boots, and put all my dirty laundry in a trash bag to wash at home so I didn’t have to use our communal machines.
My dad showed up the next morning, and we drove away from campus. We passed the gallery on the way out of town. The parking lot was empty.
Somewhere, Logan was on a bus or a plane or a hotel bed, stretching tired muscles, taping his stick.
“If you’re cold, you can hit the button right there.” My dad pointed to the dash. “This model has heated seats.”
I blinked, turning away from the window and flicked my seat warmer to high.