Chapter 23 #2
"Your preseason is shit," Dad says, by way of easing us into conversation. "Don't know what Cross is thinking, putting you and Kuznetsov on the same line."
I slip my hand under the table and find Mollie's thigh. "I have no idea. Kuznetsov isn't winning any personality awards in the locker room, either."
"Son of a bitch was all but kicked off his last team. Either your coach knows something we don't, or he's a fucking idiot."
The waiter brings wine and I grip my glass, thankful for the distraction. "He hasn't given me bad advice until this season, so I'm assuming that he's got something up his sleeve."
Mollie shifts beside me and I feel her hand cover mine under the table, just briefly, a small steadying pressure. I exhale.
"Kuznetsov's numbers are insane," she says, easy and conversational. "Forty-seven goals last season. That's not a guy you bench because he's difficult. That's a guy you figure out how to use."
My dad looks at her with something that might be surprise. "You follow hockey?"
"I work for the Havoc," she says. "And I grew up watching Beck play, so yes. I've been watching hockey my whole life."
"She makes our TikToks," I add.
"The viral ones?" Naomi leans forward, suddenly interested. "I saw that video of Alex skating toward the camera. I sent it to like ten people."
Mollie smiles at her, politely warm, not quite friendly. "That's the one."
"You're talented," Naomi says.
"Thank you."
My mom watches this exchange with focused attention and a small frown. She picks up her wine and asks my dad, "How long are you in Seattle?"
"Through the weekend." He glances at Naomi. "We're looking at venues."
"Venues," my mom repeats.
"For the wedding," Naomi says, touching her ring. “We’re getting married soon. Spring, I’m hoping.”
She gives my dad a look that’s so packed with longing and love that I don’t quite know how to respond. I know Naomi; she might be a gold-digger, but an actress she is not.
The table goes quiet for approximately three seconds. My mom takes a sip of wine. "How lovely," she says, in a tone that means nothing of the sort.
Mollie turns to my dad. "Where are you thinking? Seattle has some beautiful options. The waterfront is obviously gorgeous, but there are some incredible vineyard venues about an hour outside the city if you want something more private."
My dad blinks, surprised, I think, by her support. "We haven't gotten that far yet."
"Fair enough." She grabs her wine glass. "This is a Bordeaux, right? I don’t know much about wine.”
My mom leans in, engaged. “No? I’m something of a connoisseur myself.”
And just like that, the moment passes. I stare at the side of Mollie’s face. She doesn't look at me, just nods at what my mom says. Naomi seems content to nurse her wine and listen.
Then my dad asks about the preseason, starting a conversation with me for a bit.
My mom asks Naomi how she and my dad met, which is either genuine curiosity or an act of psychological warfare.
Naomi answers with the cheerful obliviousness of someone who has never once considered that this dinner might be complicated.
My dad fills in the parts she leaves out; the weather the day that they met that caused her to be without a jacket in the cold, details about the dive bar they went to in order to ride out the storm.
If it was anyone else, I’d find their story charming.
Dad corrects her gently, looking at her while he talks about her rather than at the rest of us. Like she's actually the point of the story.
I look at my wineglass because it’s pretty uncomfortable.
Mollie asks my dad about the foundation banquet, what the scholarship criteria are, whether there's an application process or a nomination process. And he tells her.
He tells her more than I've heard him say about anything in years, actually, warming to the subject the way he warms to anything that involves his legacy.
Mollie is smart; she asks the right questions, keeps him talking.
He ends up dithering about a kid from Tacoma who got a scholarship three years ago and just got drafted.
And he smiles. He fucking smiles. He looks proud. Not of himself, but of this kid from Tacoma. Where the fuck was this pride when I was growing up?
To keep myself from blurting out that question, I pick up my wine and drink. The food comes and it’s perfect, the bouillabaisse excellent, the crusty French bread served on the side fresh out of the oven.
We leave on a good note, which is not something I had anywhere in my expectations for this evening.
My dad claps my shoulder outside the restaurant, genuine rather than performative.
Naomi hugs my mom, which my mom accepts with admirable composure.
Then they get in their car and we get in mine and I pull out of the lot in silence.
My mom holds it together for approximately four blocks. “Well,” she huffs. “I think aliens might have abducted your father and left this… this pod person in his place.”
Her voice wobbles, a sure sign of an impending crash out.
“He’s mellowed with age,” I say. Instantly, I hate that I just defended him. He was a real piece of shit to Mom when I was a kid.
"This Naomi is very young," she says from the back seat. “She makes him look like a fossil.”
"Mom." I grind my teeth. “Don’t do that thing where you expect me to answer for Dad. If I knew what was going on in his head, my life would have turned out better.”
"I know. I know. I'm not going to say anything else about it." A pause. "She seems to make him happy."
"Yeah."
Another pause, longer. Then, very quietly, "He never looked at me like that."
Mollie turns in the passenger seat and reaches back to touch my mom's hand. "Amanda. You don't have to be okay with it tonight."
My mom makes a small sound that she covers quickly. Then she unravels, crying that turns into sobbing.
I knew it. I knew I was going to have to deal with this.
I stare at the road and run through the mental checklist I've been running since I was twelve. What she needs, practically, right now. Does she want to talk? Maybe Mom wants quiet. Will more wine be the answer? Or maybe she just wants to sleep.
"I can take you back to the house," I say. "Or I can find you a hotel closer to the pier if you'd rather not be—"
"Alex." Mollie's voice is quiet.
"She might not want to be at the house, it's fine, I can—"
"Alex." Her hand finds my arm. I keep my eyes on the road. "It’s going to be fine."
My mom has gone very still in the back seat. Mollie turns and touches her gently. “Are you okay, Amanda? Is there anything we can do to make you feel better?”
My mom sniffs and wipes her eyes. “No. You can’t fix any of this.”
“Are you sure? Just say the word.”
“Aren’t you sweet.” Mom shakes her head. “Just ignore me. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay. You just let us know if that changes.”
We drive home in silence. My mom has her head against the window. Turning on soft jazz, I don't try to fill the quiet. I just let it fill the car.
Mollie puts her hand on my knee and that seems like enough.
When we get back to the house, my mom squeezes both our hands in the entryway and says goodnight in a voice that's mostly held together. Then she disappears down the hall to the guest room. I hear the door click shut.
I stand in the kitchen and stare out at the lake. The water is dark and still, the dock lights playing on the surface. Gordie wanders over and leans against my leg. I put my hand on his head.
“Good boy.” He licks my hand.
Mollie doesn't say anything, just leans into my side the way she does, her shoulder against my arm, her head tipping toward my shoulder.
We stand like that for a while.
"Your mom’s going to be okay," Mollie says eventually.
"I know." I do know. My mom is resilient in ways that took me years to understand. "It's just hard to watch."
"Yeah." She's quiet for a moment. "You went straight into fix-it mode in the car."
"I always do."
"I noticed." She peeks up at me. "Who does that for you when you need it?"
I look down at her. She's watching the lake, her profile soft in the low light, and she's not asking to make a point. She's genuinely asking.
"Nobody, usually.”
She nods slowly. "That's what I figured."
I put my arm around her. She tucks herself against me and I hold on a little tighter than I need to. Gordie sighs heavily and lies down on my feet.
"Mollie." Her name comes out rougher than I intend.
She tilts her face up. "Yeah?"
There are about six things I want to say, bubbling up inside my chest, pressing to spill out of my mouth. The thing is, I don't know how to say any of them. Mostly, I think I might be in love with her.
The thought terrifies me in a way that has nothing to do with Beck or the team or any of the reasons I gave myself for keeping her at arm's length.
"Tonight meant a lot," I say instead. "Having you there."
Her expression does something complicated and gentle. "I know it did."
"I'm not good at this." I gesture vaguely at the space between us. "At letting people in."
"You're getting better at it," she says. “I can tell.”
"Because of you."
She holds my gaze. Something moves across her face, quiet and certain, like she's deciding something. Then she reaches up and touches my jaw.
"I'm not going anywhere," she says. "You know that, right?"
My chest tightens so hard it almost hurts. "Mollie."
She drops her hand and tucks herself against me again, her cheek against my chest. "I just wanted you to know."
I press my lips to the top of her head and hold her there.
Like a coward, I say nothing, because what I want to say isn't something I'm ready to get wrong. When I'm ready to say it, I want to say it right. I want her to know I mean it.