Chapter 43
Freddie
Mattias makes me the best pancakes I’ve ever had in my life—although they don’t look like pancakes. They look like crêpes, especially when he throws some fresh berries on top.
“These are proper Swedish pancakes, unlike those syrup delivery vehicles you’re used to eating,” he says.
When he tells me that he makes them with a carton of expired milk that he keeps in his fridge, I almost throw them back up.
According to Mattias, it makes them taste better. Somehow, I manage to keep them down.
“I should probably get home,” I say when I feel I’m starting to overstay my welcome. I’m dreading whatever confrontation lies between me and my father, but like the climax of The Thing, this is now a fight for survival. I can’t keep on like this if I want to salvage my humanity.
“I’ll take you to your car,” he replies.
“Do you think we’re going to make it to the playoffs?” I ask as the coast flies by. With the windows down, the sun shining on my face, and Mattias’s soft cotton clothes hanging off my body, I almost feel like a new person. Like I could have a fresh start, if I tried.
He gives me a sidelong glance. “I think we might.”
“Seriously?”
He shrugs, one hand on the wheel. “H?kk?nen’s giving everyone the fight of their lives this season.
If he can keep it up, I think it’s possible.
The offense is there now. I hope so, at least.” He says the second part with a strain in his voice.
I’ve spent enough time with him to know something’s bothering him. I suspect I know what it is.
“No matter what happens, I think your dad would be proud of you.”
His face falls ever so briefly, and I watch his throat bob as he swallows. “He played professionally, but he never made it to the NHL.” He swallows again, and when he speaks his voice is thick. “I wish that he could have seen me play.”
My heart hurts for him.
“Sometimes people ask me why I like horror so much,” I say, glancing out the window again.
“Real life is so much scarier—so much more unfair. In horror movies, the assholes usually get what they deserve, and the people who do the right thing are the ones left standing. In real life, too many heroes leave before the story ends.”
I look back at him, and he’s watching the road with a frown, his grip tight on the wheel. “They really do.”
“That, and no genre does a better job of exploring grief and trauma. It’s cathartic when you can examine your darker feelings through metaphorical monsters. Not as triggering. You should let me show you my favorites sometime,” I say with a devious smile. “Unless you’re a weenie.”
“What’s a weenie?” he says, and I burst out laughing, earning a scowl from him.
“A baby. A bitch.”
“I see. Do you really think a weenie could have put up with you all season?”
“Fair enough,” I say. Then, hesitantly, I add, “Has your mom ever come over to watch one of your games?”
“She has not.” His reply is curt.
“I hope that one day she will,” I say softly.
He doesn’t say anything else about it, but for the first time in a while, the silence between us is easy. Peaceful.
“If I can handle you, I think I can handle a horror movie. I’d like to see your favorites,” he says after a long moment, dragging a smile from me.
I sigh and lean my head back against the headrest, breathing in the scent of his air freshener mixed with the salty sea air.
It feels too right and it makes me too happy to just be with him like this.
A fist clenches around my heart, because I know this peace between us can’t last.
“Where in god’s name have you been, Frederica?” My mother is white as a ghost when I walk in the front door, wearing a man’s clothes. I’m a little stunned—taking god’s name in vain is a rarity for Elise Hearst. She wraps me in a tight hug. “I’ve been worried sick.”
“A friend’s,” I reply, guilt at making her worry rushing in through the door behind me.
“Your phone is dead. How was I supposed to know if something happened to you? You didn’t bother to call?” The knife twists deeper.
“I’m sorry. I was drunk. A friend took me home so I wouldn’t drive. I should have called.” My cheeks burn.
She steps closer to look me in the eye, and I see how bloodshot her corneas are. “Your friends had no idea where you were. Your father is not happy,” she whispers.
“I know,” I reply, wondering what tirades she’s been subjected to on my behalf.
It almost inspires a new horror script, one where someone’s guilt and cowardice takes the shape of a demon that ultimately consumes every person in their life. As if summoned, a door clicks upstairs.
“Is that Freddie?” My father appears on the catwalk. His face is red, like his blood pressure’s surging. He doesn’t wait for me to answer him, he just crooks a finger in my direction. My mother’s reassuring look does little to assuage my nerves. I set my bag down, grit my teeth, and follow him.
“Close the door,” he says when I reach his office. I do.
“Hi,” I say delicately.
“Very unprofessional behavior last night on your part.”
I swallow, tired of giving this Boogeyman power over me. Finding my voice, I say, “I didn’t think anyone noticed.”
“You got too intoxicated and left without saying goodbye to our investors.”
I choose my words carefully. I can’t let this blow up until I’ve figured out how to properly diffuse it all. “I thought it would be better if I left quietly, rather than let them see me like that.”
It’s disturbing, how easily the lie leaves my mouth. How well he’s trained me to lie to him.
“Neither your mother nor I knew where you were.” He looks over my clothes, his upper lip curling ever-so-slightly.
“I slept over with a friend who was kind enough to take me home.”
He looks skeptical but opts not to pursue that thread further. “You realize the private equity firm has factored your personal payout into the deal transaction, correct?”
I barely mask my grimace as I nod, crawling in my skin at the notion of receiving a paycheck from a private equity firm. I saw the clause in the emails.
When I took this job, I assumed my paycheck would come from a transfer of ownership. Not the fire sale of an entire community.
The emails. My pulse jumps as I vaguely recall spilling my bag last night. I haven’t checked to make sure the flash drive’s still in there.
“I’m not going to embarrass myself by asking that they remove your commission, but believe me, I’d like to. This is your last chance.”
My future as a filmmaker—just another one of his dangling carrots. It sends my vision tunnelling, all the rage that’s built up in my neurons over the years threatening to short circuit.
I can’t do this anymore.
The money would be the lifeline I’ve been seeking my whole life, but I couldn’t live with myself, knowing where it’s coming from. I think of Coach Marshall, Ines, Poirier, Mattias, and all the rest. How hurt they would be, knowing how easily I threw away their livelihoods to bolster my own.
I’m not going to take the payout. I can’t.
“Understood, Dad,” I reply as dutifully as I can.
Whatever I can say to get me the hell out of here.
When he allows me to leave, I rush downstairs to my rifle through my bag, ignoring my mother’s confusion.
When I don’t find the flash drive, I dump the contents out on the tile.
My pulse kicks into my throat as I turn over all of my things.
It’s not there.
My eyes fly to the door. It must have fallen out. Oh my god. There’s so much sensitive information on there and I didn’t even have time to encrypt it!
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
“What’s the matter with you?” my mother demands.
“I think I left something important at my friend’s house.” The word friend feels misshapen coming out of my mouth, but hopefully she doesn’t notice.
How am I supposed to know what gas station we visited last night when I was too busy vomiting onto the pavement to notice where we were? Does Mattias even remember where we stopped? I shoot him a text.
Freddie
Hey, do you remember what gas station we stopped at last night?
His reply is almost immediate.
Mattias
The QuickZone off highway 110 past downtown. Is everything alright?
Freddie
I think a flash drive fell out of my purse. It’s got some important stuff related to the documentary on there. I’m freaking out.
Mattias
I’ll look for it.
I’m not going to let him beat me to it. My mother gives me a look of disapproval as I run right back out the door.