22. Oliver
twenty-two
oliver
We ride back to her brownstone building. She seemed to feel a little better after the hot cocoa—my abuelita’s recipe, which she always made for us to cheer us up. But now, as I sit on the bike with the extra helmet in my lap, I have the strangest urge to follow her.
“Sydney,” I call.
She stops mid-step, but she doesn’t turn around.
“What’s the quote?”
“‘It’s better to have loved and lost than never loved at all.’”
My heart skips.
After a second, she continues up the steps. She pulls keys from her pocket and unlocks the front door. Even with her stuff still in Penn’s car, which is pretty lucky. I wait until the light turns on in her third-floor apartment. Only then do I rev the engine loud enough for her to hear. Like some fucked-up goodbye.
I speed toward my family home on the other side of the lake. It’s late, but they won’t mind. Abue lives with my parents and two younger siblings, both of whom are still in high school.
My brother plays soccer, while my baby sister is a master at the violin.
As soon as I enter the familiar neighborhood, my homesickness kicks up in full gear. I flip the kickstand down and hang my helmet on the handle of my bike, then head up the worn concrete walkway.
“I’m home,” I call out.
The first to greet me is the damn dog. She jumps on me, her tongue flicking out to lap at my face. I lean down to accommodate her, rubbing her silky brown fur. Abue comes around the corner next, her expression warm… if not a little concerned.
Her greeting to Sydney wasn’t exactly what I expected either.
“Twice in one day,” she observes. “I hope things aren’t serious with that girl, Gabriel, because rage is an ugly emotion for one to display so young. You look skinny. Let me fix you a plate.”
I shake my head and follow her deeper into the house. My mom shrieks when she sees me, jumping from the table where her and my father play cards every night, without fail.
She throws her arms around my neck and smothers my face in kisses.
“We saw your game,” she says, touching the bruise on my cheek. “Do you have to fight?”
I extract myself. “It’s part of the sport.”
She sighs. “You getting hurt hurts me , Ollie.”
“I know, Mama.” I kiss the top of her head. “I have to ask you something.”
“So this isn’t a visit just to see us?” Her eyes always have a twinkle in them. Some all-knowing, amused sparkling.
I used to think that was normal. That most women—especially mothers—were always happy. Not only that, but joyful . But I think it’s just her. She sees the positive in absolutely everything.
“That bracelet I gave you for your birthday…”
She grins and pushes up the sleeve of her sweater. “I wear it every day.”
I knew it would be exactly as Sydney described, but… “Can I see the engraving on the underside?”
She unclasps it and passes it to me.
In faint cursive, worn away by time, is the quote: It’s better to have loved and lost than never loved at all.
I don’t know if I wanted it to be something completely different or not, but my gut twists. I hand it back to her and kiss her cheek.
“Everything all right?” she asks, a line forming between her brows.
I nod and head to the table to greet my father. We’ll sit and talk, and my abuela will tell me all the ways Sydney isn’t right to join the family. Maybe it was stupid bringing her to Ruiz Rage, but she had a look in her eye. I get that look, too, when I’m so mad I can barely breathe.
I’m lucky, though. I have hockey. The sport is brutal even without the fighting.
Voicing any of that will get me nowhere. So I lie.
“Everything is perfect.”