Chapter Two Skye #2
No, fuck that argument. If she wants to show up to the Olympics hungover, that’s on her. I’m too concerned about how to remedy the fact that my clothes are sitting in dirty water.
Yes, it’s my own dirty water, but that doesn’t mean I want my laundry marinating in it.
Tucking my phone into my pocket, I dig my clothes out of the washer and ring them out as best I can. I’ve learned from experience that leaving my clothes in the machine for too long means that even if I dry them over and over, they’ll smell like something died.
Smelling good is something I pride myself on.
The Abercrombie 8 perfume I’ve been wearing for years has never done me wrong, but I doubt I’d want to pair it with Eau de Old Laundry.
I can’t afford to waste a drop. The jerks discontinued it, like every company does when someone finally finds something they like.
Aunt Keisha doesn’t wear anything from Abercrombie, but she has made many empty threats toward Bath & Body Works.
I set the clothes down on the floor, and they make a sound comparable to a wet mop giving up on life.
Out of all the things this building has, a designated laundry room isn’t one of them.
The laundromat is always open, but I don’t want to chance running into Alisha. I don’t have the energy for that right now.
Why is this my day?
Paige: Do you need me to head home now?
Shit, I’m horrible with texting.
A small pang of guilt hits me at the thought of Paige canceling on her family to come and save me. There’s no way I could ever let her do that.
Skye: Nah. I’ve got it figured out. Enjoy the fam. Tell Grandma Birdie hi for me.
Reaching out to people for help isn’t something I usually do.
Moments like this remind me why. Stepping out of my comfort zone only to find the person I’m turning to is already occupied, or worse, willing to drop everything to help me.
I don’t want to burden anyone with my problems. They’re mine to carry.
The urge to crawl under a rock is almost unbearable.
Making a snap decision, I grab the one shirt from the pile of sopping wet clothes that I want to save and toss it over a chair in hopes it’ll eventually dry. The rest of the pile earns a glare from me as I kick it to the side, ignoring the squishing sound I hear when my house shoes make contact.
I attach my magnetic wallet to the back of my phone and grab my keys from the hockey puck bowl I made in pottery class my senior year of high school. That was the extent of my creativity back then. And still is.
My day is now ten times worse since I’ve concluded that my only option is something I hate more than an open net shot.
I’m going shopping.
Boston Center Mall was much livelier back in the day, when kids roamed the stores for something to do.
It was the place to be, even if you showed up without spending money.
You could simply wander around with a soft pretzel in one hand, an Orange Julius in the other, and your best friends beside you, people-watching for hours.
Those were the days.
But unfortunately, I’m living in a time where people avoid malls because they can buy everything online.
Four hours and two protein-packed coffees later, I’m dropping six bags of jeans and black button-up shirts onto the floor of my condo. Oh, and one bag of shoes.
Did I need clothes? Yes.
Did I need shoes? Yes, but only because I was already suffering from having to buy the clothes.
I flop down onto my couch, and my eyes gaze directly through my floor-to-ceiling windows with a glowing view of Boston. The harbor reflects the golds and blues of the city, and from up here, everything looks quieter. Like nothing urgent is happening in the world.
My condo is too clean. Not staged-clean but controlled.
The open kitchen still smells faintly of coffee.
The quartz countertops are bare, except for the few bananas that I know will go bad while I’m in Milan.
The living room is all sharp lines and neutral colors, a glass coffee table, and a couch that looks like it belongs in a magazine spread.
I sit and take it all in. As much as I hate to admit it, sometimes I wonder how much I’d despise it if someone sat here and enjoyed this life with me.
It could be nice. Sharing meals and talking about our days.
Being in each other’s personal space.
I shift in my seat.
Touching my things and moving them to places they don’t belong.
I scratch my neck.
And oh, my dresser. They’d put their clothes in my dresser.
All the while, they only get the watered-down version of me because the rest is tucked away inside a locked box. I’ll never know what it feels like to truly let myself free from the cage Alisha and her attorney crammed me into.
Thankfully, my legal team was able to clean up that mess.
That doesn’t mean they aren’t watching my every move, waiting for me to mess up again.
Coach Madsen knows I would never hurt anyone, and when her legal team brought up the charges with my application to join the team, she didn’t ask questions about the contract.
She saw my abilities on the ice, and that was all she needed.
Am I still curious about what it would be like to have someone sitting beside me and enjoying this view?
Nope. No more curiosity about unsolicited company. All fixed.
Looking around at all my hockey paraphernalia, I feel like my life has become a bit more sterile than I had ever imagined.
I don’t have friends over very often because my space is sacred.
Plus, when I’m ready to call it a night, it’s easier to leave someone else’s party than to ask people to leave my own.
If I have to choose between staying at home by myself or spending time with other people, my choice is a solid ‘see ya never’. It may be a toxic trait, but it’s a trait I’m alright having. Life lessons and all that.
I check the clock and see it’s almost eight in the evening. I had promised the nurse I’d stop by for an hour or so to visit my aunt. She knows my hours are crazy, and it’s not the first time the chaos of my life has had the nurses bending the rules for visitation hours.
My phone chimes again, reminding me I’ve ignored every notification since I left the mall, but texting and driving is not something you’ll ever catch me doing. Then again, answering texts in a timely fashion is also something you’ll never catch me doing.
Groaning, I rise from my couch to figure out which bag holds my phone. The constant chimes guide me to it, and the phone lights up as more texts come through.
Messages from Nora, the nurse at my aunt’s care facility, as well as a few texts from Paige.
I focus on my priorities first and open the text from Nora.
Nora: Keisha is doing really well tonight, and I wanted to see if you still planned to stop by. With the height of her energy, we’ll probably keep her up until around 9. Call if you’re stopping by so we can have her ready.
Thanking God I picked a condo that’s close to the care facility, I send a quick reply letting her know I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. I put a little effort into finding something close, but this place checked all the boxes on my must-haves, so it was a no-brainer all around.
Once I get the okay from Nora, I open the text from Paige.
Paige: We’re transferring the get-together over to my place if you can make it. Team bonding. Wasn’t sure if you got everything taken care of that you had going on earlier. Let me know.
First wine, now a party? The night before we head to Milan? Where is this woman’s energy coming from?
I should have known their gathering would escalate. It’s not like this is my first time dealing with Paige and her need to get her drink on. As team captain, I feel like I need to scold them, but with it being the Olympics, I doubt they’d do anything to hinder their reputation.
I trust my team, and I guess that’s all that matters. It also helps that we’re getting to Milan a day early. Coach Madsen really planned everything out perfectly. This is why we give her all the credit when it comes to our accomplishments.
Skye: All is good. I’m actually heading over to see my aunt and then going to get some sleep. I’ll catch you all at the airport in the morning.
Paige knows all about my relationship with Aunt Keisha and some things from my upbringing that she managed to get out of me after a few too many beers.
When she pushed for information once I sobered up, she realized real quick that I don’t talk about my personal life and that my inability to keep my life to myself wouldn’t be a repeat occurrence.
The text dots immediately pop up, which tells me she’s been watching her phone for a reply from me.
Paige: I’ll grab you a coffee and meet you at the gate. See you then, Cappy.
Skye: Don’t call me that
Paige got a bruise to her arm when the rest of the team started calling me ‘Cappy’ instead of ‘Team Captain’.
It started to stick, but thankfully, it fizzled out over the months that followed.
She finds that nickname the funniest after she’s been drinking.
Especially when she knows she’s out of swinging range.
Shit head.
I grab my coat and keys and head for the door to see Keisha.
My visits with her are usually all over the place and depend on how hard her mind is working to remember the life she once had.
Hopefully, this time she remembers my name and doesn’t call me Miranda because I have the same dark complexion and bright green eyes my mom had.
Or, more importantly, doesn’t ask about the only ex of mine she seems to remember, Alisha.