22. Riley
CHAPTER 22
RILEY
Griffin and Camry leave together that morning, and I turn Parker away when he knocks on the door. Mom hounds me about breakfast, but I play the sick card and she lets it go. We can be a solitary bunch sometimes, and especially after big holiday events, we tend to keep to ourselves for a few days.
But by the time the weekend comes around, it’s time to bustle for New Years plans, and I’m forced out of my room and into the planning den. Mom says as long as she’s got a couple bottles of that sparkling non-alcoholic juice, she’s set. Dad always watches one of the TV countdowns.
There’s a neighborhood New Year Skate that the local hockey team hosts. Some years I stop in to lend a hand, but this year I’m not feeling it.
Parker is going to some late night bowling fest with lots of cheesy decorations and apparel, and much to both of our dismay, Mom thinks I should go keep an eye on him.
“Mom, I’m a thirty year old man. I don’t want to babysit a bunch of teenagers pretending to get drunk on juice.”
“We don’t do that,” Parker deadpans. “But I’m with him. There’s an entire bowling staff running the thing.”
“Sweeties.” Mom steps away from the counter where she’s been writing away while we plead our case. “Did you ever think maybe your Dad and I could use a little alone time? Riley, honey, you haven’t left the house of your own volition in days. A little bit of privacy would be nice.”
Parker makes a gagging noise, and I roll my lip to keep from smiling. Not that lack of privacy stopped me and Griff from getting up to things, but since it’s my parents … Yeah, I appreciate the thoughtfulness.
“I’ll drop him off and make myself sparse, alright? You get me out of your hair, and Parker gets to save himself the embarrassment.”
“There’s my smartass, son.” Mom makes her way back to her laptop, Parker scuffing his shoes on the tile once she looks away.
“Can we go now?”
I grab my keys off the wrack and nod. “Sure thing, bud.”
I drop Parker off at nine, then drive to a nearby park to explore the lights. There’s some food stands set up, and small crowds of people chatting and laughing. It reminds me of that day in Nashville with Griff.
The first time I felt a need to announce him to the public. Even if it was to a pair of strangers.
It felt good.
It felt right.
That’s where the guilt first set in.
It was a seed.
One I either needed to bury or rip out of the ground. My instinct was the former, Griff requested the latter.
I chose Griff.
And then the regret consumed me.
A new layer of guilt because I don’t regret loving Griffin Foster.
I don’t regret wanting him.
But so much else, woven around and before our relationship, that I regret.
Being unable to untangle those threads, that’s what’s killing us.
I could pick up my phone and wish him a happy new year, but I don’t know if he’d answer. It sure would be nice to hear his voice.
The indigo sky speckled with twinkling lights and flurries of translucent snow is a welcome break from staring at beige walls and stained sheets in need of washing but that smell like the two of us together.
One more night becomes two. Then three.
Mom will probably have thrown them in the wash by the time midnight rolls around, and it’s better if I don’t have an emotional breakdown over something as silly as that.
Men don’t cry, some still say, but then what stained my cheeks for days on end gazing at the ceiling fan swirl?
Is heartbreak supposed to affect me differently because I have a dick and like to roughhouse on—what did Parker call them?—knifeshoes?
What is it about men that I can’t seem to keep hold of?
Why do I let them fall through the cracks despite what I desperately want?
My phone vibrates in the pocket of my jeans, and while the name on the screen is familiar, disappointment rises to the forefront.
“Hello?”
“This party is boring without your cum shots!”
“Hi, Rory. Did you slip away from Mashburn again?”
“Um, no? He’s shaking his head disapprovingly. Want to talk to him?”
I stifle a laugh. “Will he say more than two words to me?”
“Fuck you,” comes Mashburn’s deep, gravelly voice.
“I think that’s Foster’s job!” Rory shouts.
There’s a short round of laughter, and I even let myself smile for a moment.
“Is he with you?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager or inquisitive in case Griff has kept our situation to himself. “Griffin?”
“Hm? Yeah. He’s playing table hockey with Hawks. We had a game tonight. Foster got in a fight. We won, though.”
“Another one?”
Rory’s laughter sounds like he’s teetering on the edge of tipsy. “Thirteen is going after the penalty record again!”
Griff was known for his fights when he joined the team, and for a while they were still fairly frequent. Some brawls are healthy, encouraged, but Griff has a habit of overstepping the invisible boundaries and getting himself in serious trouble.
He toned it down after a while with the Hornets because we wanted to fly under the radar. I guess without that in the equation, he’s back to throwing fists with reckless abandon.
“Hey, Rory. Think you could do me a favor?”
“Right now?”
“No, short stack. When you’re sober.”
Rory giggles and lets out a tiny ‘oomph’, which means Mashburn is anchoring him down for his own safety. “Shoot.”
“Be his friend,” I say, throat closing in tight. “Griffin’s. Make him smile, laugh. Tell him to play his ass off and watch his punches, because if he wants the Rippers to call him up again, he needs to be fierce but dependable.”
“Why don’t you tell him?”
My smile makes my face feel tight and holds anything but joy. “We need some time apart right now. Can you do that for me?”
He hums, but after a few moments pipes up with a quiet, somber, “I can.”
It’s rare to hear Rory’s voice be anything but loud and excitable.
“You should get back to your party.”
We exchange quick goodbyes, and I’m surprised to feel lighter after the conversation.
I miss Griff, but I forgot how much I also miss the team. Not playing has been a reality I’ve had months to accept and mourn, but my team? My friends?
Whatever it is I do with my life post-hockey, I wasn’t prepared for losing them, too.
Maybe when they come to Colorado in a few days for a game, I’ll plan something with them. If I can stomach seeing Griff without being able to touch him.
Figure your shit out, Riley.
You can wallow or you can fix things.
If only I knew how.
Midnight hits, and I think of Griff and I standing outside our apartment, leaning on the rail and watching fireworks go off in the distance.
I think of his hand on my collar, pulling me down for a New Year kiss that quickly transforms into us rushing back inside to take each other’s clothes off.
Instead, I’m sitting on a park bench staring up at a pitch black sky illuminated by colorfully decorated lamp posts, listening to the cheers of drunk teenagers as they welcome in another year of resolutions bound to slip down the drain.
I should make one, shouldn’t I?
I close my eyes and hold my breath, trying to think of anything other than “get your goddamn shit together”, because that’s a big task, and I need a more tangible goal.
My lungs burn, and my breath comes out in a slow, steady stream.
Fix what I broke … whatever that means.
It’s in the car on the drive home with Parker at almost two in the morning that I break down.
Not the car.
Me.
First, it’s a prickle in my eyes that I ignore.
A burning sensation that I try to blink and rub away.
Then, it’s my lungs.
Quivering and shaking my shoulders no matter how tightly I try to hold myself together.
When the tears fall, I don’t acknowledge them. Parker is staring out the window, yawning and rubbing at his eyes, so he doesn’t notice.
When we hit a red light that’s a little too long for how late it is, the weariness starts to kick in.
I scrub a hand over my eyes and take a shaky breath.
“Mom is worried about you,” Parker says in a small voice. “That’s why she sent you out.”
“I know.”
He twists in his seat as much as the seatbelt will allow.
“I’m worried about you, too.”
“I appreciate that, bud, but I’m fine.”
Parker snorts and rolls his eyes. “Liar. If you miss your boyfriend, you can always go home.”
“This is my home, Parker.”
He stares hard, but I keep my eyes forward, watching the empty street as it passes by.
“Is that why you broke up?”
I almost slam on the breaks to make the stop sign, heart pounding like an out of beat drummer.
“Who said we broke up?”
“Me.” He shrugs. “Your friend left all doom and gloom that morning. Then, you shut yourself in the room. It was easy to put two and two together.”
Parker is a smart kid, an observant one. Not all brawn like Dad and I.
“We’re taking a break. Getting our heads on straight. Without hockey, I’ve got a whole lot to figure out about life.”
“Isn’t that the kind of thing you’re supposed to do together?”
“There are some things you have to do alone … no matter how much you love someone.”
Parker goes quiet, and we sit in silence for the rest of the drive. When I park in the driveway and turn the car off, however, he doesn’t make a move to get out.
“A few years ago,” Parker says, slow and soft, like he’s puzzling through something. “You came home out of the blue. Stayed for a couple of days, and mentioned just before you left that Matty had moved to Boston. Every other time Mom brought him up, you avoided the subject.”
I remember that. Requesting leave from Coach for a few games. Coming home and purging all the little traces of Matty I could find. He was strewn all over my home from the one summer he spent here.
Recovering from a surgery he didn’t feel safe getting back in Tennessee.
My family welcomed him with open arms. The roommate who needed a helping hand, and the hockey player who was willing to lend one.
“You cared about him,” Parker says, matter-of-fact. “Just like you care about Griffin.”
That’s what does it.
What rips out the last stitch keeping me together.
I buried the pain of giving Matty up so deep, and when it came back out I used Griffin to stuff it back in. But I never dealt with it.
I never made my peace with breaking not only my own heart but someone else’s.
Now every little reminder makes me lash out, brings up all of the ugly feelings I push aside until I’m too numb to feel them.
A pair of small arms wrap around my shoulders, and Parker’s head knocks into mine. He’s sitting on the center console, sideways and awkward, but I still manage to wind an arm around him in return.
“I see you, Riley,” he says, squeezing me as strong and comforting as a twelve year old can. “I see you now.”
Yeah, kid, I think I see me, too.