9. Chapter Nine #2
Benson got me the job at the Camerie before he left for break.
He said they needed a busboy over the holidays.
He talked up the place because he worked there over breaks, and he said the manager is a cool guy who loves hockey.
He said they offered him the job, but he couldn’t take it, so he asked if I wanted it — like it was nothing, like teammates just do that.
I said yeah without hesitation. A job. A real job.
Josh told me I had the rest of my life to work, and he wanted me on the ice.
So the fact that my college teammate is the first guy to get me a job means the world.
I work every day of the break, because there’s nothing else to do and the money is nice.
I walk to work in the snow in Blue’s snow boots.
Some days, I bus tables for twelve hours if they’ll let me.
I learn the closing side-work — flipping the chairs, rolling the silver, mopping myself out the back door into the cold.
My feet ache in a way that follows me home.
I count my tips on the walk back and fold them into my pocket.
As a busboy, it’s never much, but it’s mine, and I earned it. It feels damn good to live this life.
Penelope starts to text me daily, and I always answer. It’s sporadic and never has a true ending, but I reply because it’d be rude not to. I never once text first. I don’t know if that’s a bad thing, but she doesn’t seem to care.
We hang out a few times. She comes to Hawthorne, or I go to Linden. It’s easy. She talks, and I listen. It’s not complicated. There hasn’t been another sleepover since Christmas Eve.
By New Year’s Eve, it feels like we’re in our own bubble. The town’s still pretty empty. The guys have a group chat going that blows up nonstop, but this keeps me updated on their whereabouts, and none of them are returning until the new year.
Tonight I’m at her place. Her phone lights up on the counter, and she glances at it. Her whole face goes flat and careful for a second, and she turns it over.
“My boss,” she says. “Oliver.” She gestures because she’s mentioned him before. I nod. “He thinks I’m coming out to celebrate New Year’s with him.” She shakes her head. “I’m not.”
I don’t understand enough about her life to know what’s going on with her boss. But every time she mentions him, I feel uncomfortable. But I let the discomfort go, same as I did with Theo. I look at her rosy cheeks. They’re not from the cold. She’s dressed up to celebrate the New Year.
Near midnight, she pulls out a clean sheet of paper and a pen.
She writes ‘New Year’s Resolutions’ at the top, and under it, she starts laying out what she wants.
Out loud, half to me and half to herself.
Where she wants to be by summer. What she wants finished.
Ideas she wants to pursue. She thinks about the whole year in front of her, like she does this all the time.
I watch her hand move, and I can’t look away.
“What do you want this year?” she asks, not looking up.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes. The future is not present in my head.
It’s always been one foot in front of the other.
I’ve spent my whole life unable to see past the end of the week, because the week was the farthest thing that was ever safe to look at.
And here she is writing twelve months down like they belong to her, and I don’t have the first idea how to want something that far off.
But something I do want comes up all at once, and my chest goes tight.
Because what I want is this. I don’t want to think about where I’ll be in a year because so much can fucking change.
And that’s the thing I don’t like coming back to –– I have no control over who’s still in my life and who’s not because people come and go, things change, and thinking about a year from now means I have to consider all that has changed.
“I don’t know,” I tell her, swallowing the lump in my throat.
She smiles down at the paper and lets me keep the lie.
“Well, what are you most proud of since last New Year’s Eve?” she asks simply, but it hits like a gut punch.
Last year, I was wide awake in my bedroom in Josh’s house, listening to one of the new foster kids cry.
This past year, I had no idea what to expect.
A lot had changed. I graduated high school, which felt like a joke at the time.
I focused on hockey, secured the scholarship, and made it to Camden University.
If someone told me I’d be standing in Penelope Ventura’s immaculate apartment on New Year’s Eve on the tiny chance that she’d be alone for the holidays too, I’d say there’s no fucking way. All of it is impossible, yet here I am.
“Coming to Camden,” I answer, and it’s the most honest one I’ve got.
She smiles. “Yeah, that’s a good one.”
“You?”
She thinks. “I loved Lake Como. Have you ever been?”
I open my mouth, and then I close it. Do I look like a guy who’s ever been to Lake Como? Where the fuck is that anyway? Is that in Michigan?
“No.”
“Oh, something that I’m proud of?” she says, standing tall and looking out of the window. “Saying no to my mom.”
I look at her.
“I’ve spent my whole life doing everything that she says.” She looks like she’s deep in thought.
“So,” I point at her paper. “Is that something on your list?”
She nods. “You’re right. I will write that one down.” She looks at it and slides a piece of paper. “For your resolutions.”
I look at it.
“Come on. You have to have one goal.” She hands me the pen.
I take the paper under me, sliding it over on the counter. I stare at the blank sheet.
I write in my chicken scratch handwriting: Have a good year.