Chapter 38
CHAPTER 38
NATALIE
“At least come and watch a bit of it,” Aunt Lou calls as I pass the door of the living room, where she’s settled on the couch with a tall glass of cider and a large bowl of popcorn, the national anthem blaring from the TV.
“Seriously, how many times?” I ask as I continue toward my bedroom.
“I know,” she says. “But if you won’t watch for Gabe, come watch for Wyatt.”
“I’ve never watched a single hockey game in my life,” I shout back. “Not even Wyatt’s. And I’m not about to start.”
Technically, Aunt Lou knows nothing about what went on with Gabe and me. But her psychiatrist’s ability to see deep below the surface, combined with knowing me better than I know myself, seem to have told her everything. She can see right through me. Read me like an open book—one with extra large print and drawings illustrating every word .
I shut the door and flop onto my back on the bed.
One side of the room is stacked with boxes, all ready to be shipped to my new life down south next week. The other side looks exactly as it always has since I moved in here last Christmas.
There’s Aunt Lou’s old wooden dresser, set out with my skin care, makeup, and hair stuff, and its matching stool with the pink cushion. A set of shelves that hold my life story in book form—from The Very Hungry Caterpillar to The Wind in the Willows to Little Women , some angsty teenage stuff, my college textbooks, dog-eared folders containing scripts from performances I was in, to Viola Davis’s memoir that I got the day before Gabe arrived in town. I haven’t had time to start that yet, what with…everything.
There’s the wingback chair in the corner with its peacock fabric that I remember sitting in at Aunt Lou’s old house when my feet didn’t even touch the floor. It has a pile of clothes on it that I really need to launder and pack. Top of the pile is Gabe’s Apollos shirt, which I somehow wore home from his house that first morning.
Why didn’t I change out of it and give it back? Why did I just throw my sweatshirt over it and wear it home? Sure I loved that spicy orange smell, but that’s not a good enough reason. Did I know something? Have a sense of something? A hope of something?
Or was I already being so sucked in by Gabe’s annoying grumpy banter and his ridiculously handsome face and fire body that I just totally forgot to take it off?
I roll onto my side and curl up with my back to it. Looking at it just brings a knot to my stomach. Which is ridiculous. And possibly a tad pathetic.
I mean, on the surface, we just had a roll in the hay for a few days, then he left town and pulled the dickish move of leaving me a note.
If anyone told me a guy had done that to them, I would tell them to give themselves a shake, because someone who would behave like that is an obvious tool you shouldn’t touch with a hundred-foot pole.
But this doesn’t feel like that. This feels like a misguided soul thinking he was doing it for the best but getting it wrong.
Anyway, whichever the case, the end result is the same—I’ll never see him again.
Unless, of course, I go watch the TV that is currently making Aunt Lou alternately groan then shout, “Come on!”
The inside of my head was already mush with all the Gabe stuff, but after that debacle in Victor’s office, my brain is as divided as this room: One half is packed up and ready to head off to a new adventure, and the other is fully rooted in Warm Springs with a hint of added Gabe.
The committee wants me to stay. With a raise. And the responsibility of starting a new theater program for seniors.
But for the last two months, I’ve been planning this move to New Orleans. It’s all in the works. They’re expecting me. It would inconvenience so many people if I pulled out now. Not to mention how badly they’d think of me if I did.
In spite of that, yesterday, when I spewed all my thoughts at the council members about exactly how I felt about Divina and got it all off my chest without giving a rat’s ass what they thought about me, it felt good. So fucking good. Adrenaline-spiked blood thundered through my veins, firing me up, filling me with confidence and the belief I was doing exactly the right thing.
Usually I would have truly believed I had no power to change anything and just stored all those thoughts inside.
But Gabe was right. Of course he was, damn him. He’s had a whole lifetime of standing up for himself no matter what—on and off the rink. In a sport like that, if you show a single sign you might cave, a single chink in your armor, you’re dead meat.
I’ve spent my whole life displaying my chinks for all to see, even pointing them out when people miss them. He’s spent his whole life doing the opposite.
And right now he’s on the screen in the living room, doing what he does best. Belting the hell out of a puck and his opponents.
But I need to stop thinking about him, because no one needs to think about an assface man who gives them several screaming orgasms then vanishes and says goodbye in a letter.
Another good reason to go to New Orleans. No danger of bumping into him when he’s in town.
“It’s a great game,” Aunt Lou calls. “You really should come watch.”
Pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to tell a good game from one of Divina’s operas.
“Gabe looks great. So handsome,” she says, her last word muffled by the sound of popcorn being shoved into her mouth.
I roll over onto my back and stare at a cobweb hanging from the Tiffany-style light fixture. I should get up there and dust it off before I go.
So I’m going then? Am I?
Fuck, this is hard .
I continue the rollover until I’m on my stomach.
“Nat,” Aunt Lou shouts.
I ignore it.
“Nat!” It’s louder the second time.
I put my hands over my ears.
“Naaat!”
“I’m not watching.” She probably can’t hear me though since my voice is deadened by the covers my face is buried in.
“Seriously,” Lou shouts back, “you have to. It’s Gabe.”
And suddenly I’m sitting bolt upright. There’s no sound of a cheering crowd or a goal horn, so he can’t have scored.
Plus Aunt Lou’s voice doesn’t sound even remotely celebratory. It sounds more worried, or maybe even shocked.
“I’ll come and drag you out of there if you don’t get in here right now,” she says.
“Why?” The pit of my stomach already knows the answer. It rolls and twists and sends a cold shiver up my spine.
“He’s hurt.” Her voice is deadpan, giving nothing away. It’s impossible to tell from her tone whether he’s just bruised an elbow or broken both legs.
My eyes land on the Apollos T-shirt again and despite knowing I shouldn’t give a shit about a man who’d run away after leaving only a note, a surge of worry carries me to the door.
Just as my fingers touch the handle, Aunt Lou yanks it open from the other side. “I know you’re crazy about him. And he’s likely crazy about you. And you’re probably both being idiots. So get your sweet ass in there and watch the replay.”
She follows me into the living room, herding me along from behind.
In an effort to kid myself that I’m not staying, that maybe I don’t care that much, I don’t sit down. I just stand in front of the sofa.
The sight of Gabe lying on the ice on his back, his hand on his left shoulder, almost buckles my knees.
“Oh my God.” My hands fly to my chest as if trying to clutch my surging heart. “What happened?” Then I peer closer at the screen and the player being pushed back by the ref. “Is that Wyatt?”
“Yup.” Aunt Lou takes a firm but gentle hold of my arm and pulls on it until my knees bend and I’m sitting next to her.
“While they get Woods up, let’s take another look at that,” the voice from the TV says.
“They’ve shown it three times already,” Aunt Lou says.
“Is it bad?” I can’t take my eyes off the screen.
She’s silent while the slow-motion replay rolls.
Gabe and Wyatt charge for the puck at the same time and smash into each other with such force that both Gabe’s feet leave the ice and he rolls across Wyatt’s back and slams down on the other side of him, his left shoulder hitting the ice first.
I cry out and grab my own left shoulder in sympathy as Gabe’s face contorts in obvious agony.
Aunt Lou sucks in air between her teeth and tops up her glass of cider from the can.
The TV cuts back to the live shot as a guy wearing all black helps Gabe up onto his knees, talking to him.
“Not sure anyone was at fault there,” the commentator says. “Looked like a fifty-fifty tackle to me.”
“Fifty-fifty?” I turn to Aunt Lou. “How could that be fifty-fifty when Gabe’s the one down and hurt and Wyatt’s standing there just fine?”
She shrugs. “Just the way it goes sometimes. Watching a loved one play the game can be tough.”
“I don’t love him. Why would you say I love him?”
She picks up the glass and gives me one of her looks over it. “I was talking about Wyatt.”
Okay, that’s embarrassing. My cheeks immediately feel like someone set light to them. “Right. Well, Wyatt looks fine. So that’s good.”
And Gabe is talking now, so that’s something.
The guy in black gets him to his feet, and a cheer rises with him.
“The home crowd here was so happy to see Woods back,” the commentator says. “But his return hasn’t lasted long.”
Gabe turns away from the camera now, the guy in black’s arm around his back as they head off. He manages a quick wave of thanks to the fans with his right hand as he steps off the ice, and the camera cuts back for the resumption of play.
“They could do without losing him for three weeks again,” the commentator says.
Three weeks? If he gets that much time off he might come back up here to rest again, right? If he could do the training and rehab exercises remotely before, surely they’d let him do it again.
“The Apollos have definitely suffered without the inspiring presence of his skill on the ice,” the commentator adds.
It’s not just Gabe’s hockey skill that’s inspiring. Would I have ever confronted the arts committee the way I did if I hadn’t met him? If I hadn’t had his words about fighting for what I believe in and standing up for myself ringing in my head?
“Should you text him to see how he is?” Aunt Lou asks before taking another sip of cider.
“Absolutely not.” Holding firm and not texting him after I found his letter was the best decision I could have made. The mouthful I would have unleashed right after I read it would have caused irreparable damage. And right now all I want to do is repair it.
But he doesn’t want me. And I’m not going to make a fool of myself by contacting him when his letter could not have been more clear. Especially since I don’t want him to know I’ve been watching him play when he knows I never watch hockey—not even when my own family member is playing.
The only thing I can do is live my life the way I want to live it. Without the need to prove anything to anyone else or even myself.
“There’s someone else I need to call, though,” I tell Aunt Lou.
And I head back to my room, grab my phone, and find Victor’s name.