30 - Nathan
Nathan
I stand on the front porch longer than I need to.
The house looks exactly the same as it always has, though the white siding is in desperate need of a power wash.
A wreath is on the door. The same one that mom insists on hanging every year, its pinecones and bows have faded to dull, pastel greens and reds.
Warm light spills through the front windows, silhouettes moving inside.
It took me twenty-seven minutes to get here. After circling the block for fifteen minutes, I was officially late. I raise my hand to knock, hesitate, then consider the very real option of turning around and walking back to my car.
No one is physically stopping me.
Before I can go through with it, the door swings open.
“Nathan,” Delaney says brightly, already grinning. “You made it. Congratulations. You’re officially trapped.”
She grabs my arm and drags me inside before I can protest, the door closing behind me with a loud bang.
“Delaney,” I mumble, laughing despite myself. “I still had a chance to make a break for it.”
She gasps dramatically. “You wouldn’t dare leave your little sister on a holiday.” She yanks my coat off my body as if stealing it will make me stay. “Welcome home.”
The house smells like rosemary, like it did growing up. The only addition is the dessert baking in the oven. It smells like a memory, the scent settling onto my skin like a permanent reminder of how I’ve never quite fit here.
I follow Delaney toward the kitchen, every step feeling heavier than the last.
Mom is at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, and her hair is pulled back the way she always does when she cooks. Dad stands at the counter chopping vegetables with quiet precision, his sleeves rolled up.
They both look up when we enter, but neither one stops what they’re doing. It’s been six months since we’ve seen each other. Sure, we’ve had phone conversations, but considering we live in the same city, six months should seem too long. Instead, it’s already starting to feel like not long enough.
“There he is,” my mom says. “You found the place after all.”
Let the passive-aggressive bullshit begin.
“I did grow up here.” I force my voice to remain neutral. “Luckily, it’s been warm this week. Getting up your driveway would’ve been tough if the snow had stuck.”
Dad nods once. “Traffic wasn’t bad?”
“Pretty clear actually.”
That is the extent of my welcome home. No hugs or smiles, just small talk. The weather. The drive. Safe neutral ground.
My mom turns back to the stove, then glances over her shoulder. “We were hoping you’d bring your girlfriend.”
She stirs the soup as if we haven’t already had this conversation. Which we have, when I repeatedly told them that Wesley would not be coming. Yet again, they only hear what they want to hear.
“I told you she wouldn’t be.” I smile to hide my annoyance. “She’s with her family.”
She hums, clicking her tongue. “That’s a shame.”
I picture Wesley standing here with her hand brushing mine. The room would feel less suffocating just by virtue of her being in it. I always feel steadier when she’s close, like my edges smooth out without effort.
It hits me hard enough that I have to swallow.
That is not a casual thought. That is not a fling thought. That is a boyfriend’s thought.
I run my hand along my jaw. Ever since training on Tuesday, I’ve been thinking about her nonstop, no longer trying to stop myself from wanting her.
Our kiss replays on a constant loop in my head, thinking about what we could’ve done if it hadn’t been broad daylight in a public parking lot.
My mind flashes with images of her on her knees or me on mine.
The possibilities would’ve been endless.
Shit. I can’t get hard in the kitchen with my parents. What is wrong with me?
I clear my throat and turn to Delaney. “How are classes going?”
Her face lights up immediately. “Oh my god. Do you want the short version or the one where you get trapped into listening to me talk for ten minutes?”
“Hit me with the long one.” Maybe her ramblings will make this day go faster.
She launches into a story about her sophomore year and a professor who refuses to use email, sending out actual letters instead. She’s had a group project that nearly ruined a friendship. She is completely at ease as she discusses her late nights fueled by bad coffee and worse decisions.
Mom laughs, and Dad shakes his head with a smile.
I stand there, nodding along, laughing at the right moments, feeling like I’m watching through glass.
Delaney belongs here in a way I never quite have.
She finishes her story with a dramatic sigh. “Anyway. I survive. Barely.”
“You always do,” Dad says.
Delaney glances at me. “So, New York. I saw you score and know you won. How’s that adding to the season?”
“It’s good,” I say, looking between the three of them. “If we keep it up, we’ll be playoff-bound.”
Before I even finish my sentence, Mom turns back to the stove, and Dad resumes chopping, neither one saying a word. The moment closes as quickly as it opened.
“Oh,” Delaney says. “That’s great.”
I nod and let the topic drop. There is no point. I’ve learned the rhythm. When the conversation turns to hockey, it’s all veiled disappointment and silence.
Delaney shoots me an apologetic look. I shrug in return.
“I’m going to use the bathroom.” I push off the counter and hurry out of the room.
No one stops me.
I shut the door behind me and lean against it for a second, breathing out slowly. The house is quiet in a way that presses in, every sound amplified by the overwhelming unwelcomeness of it all.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, fingers flying across the screen.
Me: Merry Christmas.
I hesitate for a second, then hit send before I can overthink it.
Wesley: Merry Christmas, Wilder. I hope you’re surviving.
The tension in my chest eases a fraction as I laugh softly.
Me: How’s it going with your family?
Time ticks more slowly as I stare at the screen, before tucking it back into my pocket without waiting for a response. I can’t hide here forever, and dinner will be ready soon. Delaney’s voice is drifting down the hall as she talks about dessert.
I wash my hands, look at myself in the mirror, and try to pull it together.
My breath comes a little easier as I head toward the dining room. It’s as if texting her bought me ten more minutes of patience.
We sit down at the table, plates already warm, and the spread is impressive in the way it always is here. Everything looks perfect, but tastes like an obligation.
“So,” I say, breaking the quiet. “How are things going for you guys?”
Mom launches into a safe answer about the neighborhood and a charity committee she joined. Dad mentions work in vague terms, something about numbers and end-of-year planning.
I ask a few follow-up questions even though we all know that I don’t care. I’ve given up the pettiness that used to be showing them the same kind of indifference that they show hockey. Now, I offer only enough to qualify as conversation.
My phone vibrates against my thigh.
I glance down without thinking, then immediately feel my mouth curve up.
Wesley: Really great. Nice having them in my space for once. Exactly what I needed. How's yours going?
The question lands at the exact wrong moment.
Dad clears his throat. “Have you thought any more about your contract? It ends this year.”
I look up. “Of course I have. I’m planning to renew it.”
The motion in the room stops as he sets his fork down carefully. He and Mom exchange some sort of silent conversation. Things are about to tip on their head, so I take a minute to respond to Wesley.
Me: It’s been thirty minutes, and we’re about to get to the part where they tell me to grow up and quit hockey.
My dad coughs, drawing my attention back to the argument that’s about to ensue. “We were hoping,” he says, choosing his words like chess pieces, “that having a serious girlfriend might mean you’re ready to grow up.”
There it is.
“I am grown up,” I say. “I’m twenty-eight. I live on my own. I pay my bills. I have a career.”
“A career,” my mom repeats. “Or a phase that’s gone on too long.”
I laugh once, sharp and humorless. “You can’t be serious.”
Dad leans back in his chair. “We want you to think about the future. Stability. A real plan.”
“This is my plan.”
“It won’t last forever,” my mom says. “At some point, you have to decide what actually matters.”
This is the problem. They think that because my career is a sport, something that is mostly for others’ entertainment, that it is somehow less than. Mom’s charity work and Dad’s insurance firm are apparently far more prestigious. They don’t get it. They don’t even try to.
Delaney opens her mouth. “Okay,” she says quickly. “Who wants more potatoes?”
No one glances her way.
“I like my life,” I say. “I’m good at what I do.”
“You could be doing more,” Dad says.
“With what? Something you approve of? Just because it’s not what you would do doesn’t mean it’s not a valid path.”
The silence stretches as everyone moves the food around on their plate, never actually taking a bite. It seems that the appetites left the building at the same time civility did.
My phone buzzes again.
Wesley: Ouch. How long do you have to endure it?
For the rest of my life, I think. But before I can type it, my mom cuts in, talking over Delaney’s bid for peace.
“We worry,” she says. “You chase this game like it’ll love you back. But one day it will end, and you’ll have nothing if you don’t start prioritizing what’s important.”
Something in me goes still. It’s been ten years of reasoning and explanations, and it still falls on deaf ears. They will never understand that this is what’s important to me. I don’t have it in me to keep trying to get them to.
My chair scrapes softly against the floor as I stand.
“I’m sorry.” I turn to Delaney. “I didn’t mean to ruin dinner.”
Her eyes widen. “Nathan, wait.”
“I can’t do this tonight.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “I hope you all have a good Christmas.”
Dad looks stunned, and Mom looks offended, but neither of them stops me. They don’t want me here any more than I want to be here.
I grab my coat off the hook by the door and walk out, the cold air hitting my face and dulling the frustration that’s been building since I stepped inside.
Delaney will give me hell for walking out, but I can’t find it in myself to regret it. At some point, doing something I love needs to be enough. I need to be enough.
Once I’m in the car, my body melts into the seat. I turn it on, blasting the heat and waiting for it to warm. Mostly, I’m trying to calm down before I drive home to an empty penthouse that doesn’t feel like mine. I should’ve taken Liam up on the invite to his parents’ house.
I decide to text him and see if it’s too late. They only live five minutes away. When I pull my phone out, Wesley’s text that I haven’t responded to sits on the screen.
Me: Don’t have to endure it at all anymore. I left.
The reply comes fast.
Wesley: Jesus. I’m sorry. You okay?
I stare at the screen, heart still pounding. Does she really care? Or is she being polite? I hate that all I ever seem to do is doubt myself at every turn.
Me: Will be after a take-out burger and a good night’s sleep.
There’s a pause. I’m about to text Liam when the bubbles appear that let me know she’s typing.
Wesley: You could come here. If you want. As friends.
My fingers tighten on the phone as my mind races through what this could mean.
I should say no.
I’m wound tight. I’m angry and one bad comment away from snapping.
But the image of Wesley in her element forms anyway. The opportunity to meet the people that she puts above herself. The people who love her without conditions.
The pull is too tempting to refuse.
I type before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: I’ll be there in twenty.