Chapter 24 Adrian #2
"I don't know yet."
"You've got options. Streaming doc about esports. Political profile. Both good exposure."
"I'm going to finish this one if Pickle wants it finished. I'm not chasing the next thing."
Silence.
"I'm not quitting. I just don't want the prestige circuit anymore."
Lenny's voice was calm. "What do you want?"
"I don't know yet, but it's not that."
A pause. "Sounds like you're not quitting. You're choosing scale."
I tested his comment—rolled it around in my head.
"Yeah. That's it."
"For what it's worth? I think that's smart. You're allowed to want something different. Keep me posted. If Pickle greenlights the counter-doc, we'll make it work."
He hung up.
You're choosing scale.
I returned to the arena parking lot at 5:20 p.m. It was the end of an optional skate. Most of the Storm were likely to be there.
I parked near the far edge where asphalt gave way to gravel. Close enough to be visible. Far enough to not be in the way.
The side door opened ten minutes later.
Hog and Rhett emerged. Rhett spotted me, said something to Hog. They looked.
Jake and Evan came out next. Jake elbowed Evan, who glanced over and kept moving.
Pickle came out alone after five more minutes. Damp hair curled at his temples. He had his equipment bag over one shoulder and his phone in his other hand. Orange Crocs.
He looked up, saw me, and stopped.
He walked across the parking lot at a steady pace and stopped six feet away.
Close enough for me to want to close the distance, but I didn't.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey. I'm staying in Thunder Bay. Rhett offered me product photography work. It's not glamorous, but it's steady, and I'll be able to afford to stay here."
Pickle shifted his bag. The movement exposed a strip of skin at his hip.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"I wanted you to know. I'm not staying because I think it'll fix things. I'm staying because I don't want to be the person who only knows how to leave."
He looked at me for a long moment. "You're staying for you then?"
"Yeah."
"Good. That's—good."
A wind began to blow off Lake Superior.
"I'm not asking you to forgive me or decide anything right now. I just—" I exhaled. "If I stayed, would you want me here?"
He looked down at his phone. Locked it. Shoved it in his pocket.
"I don't know," he said.
There was no malice. It was simply a true statement.
"Okay."
"I need to see what you do next. Not what you say. What you do."
"Understood."
He adjusted his bag. His fingers drummed the strap—one, two, three, pause, repeat.
"You hurt me, and you're trying to fix it. I see that, but I don't know if trying is enough yet."
"It might not be."
"Yeah. It might not be."
Another silence.
Pickle's expression changed. His careful neutrality cracked.
"You know what the worst part is? I want to forgive you. My stupid brain keeps trying to fast-forward to where we're okay again, but I can't. I—I can't have it happen again."
Pure honesty.
"I'm sorry."
"I know. You've said that. I believe you're sorry, but that doesn't undo watching me get turned into a joke. Sorry doesn't make me trust you again."
"No. It doesn't."
"So what does?"
"Time. And me doing what I said I'd do. Consistently."
He studied me. "You get it now."
"I think so."
"You think?"
"I know I hurt you and broke your trust, and I don't know if I've earned the right to say I understand the scope of what I did. That's something you'll have to tell me."
Pickle sounded a little surprised. "Huh. That was a good answer."
"It's the truth."
"Yeah, but usually when people fuck up, they want to decide when they've paid the price. You're letting me decide that."
"It's your decision."
I saw a hint of a smile. "The team threatened you, didn't they?"
"Multiple times."
"Hog?"
"Extensively."
"Jake?"
"Asked if I liked having all my teeth."
The smile widened a bit. "He's protective."
"They all are."
"Yeah."
We stood there as the wind picked up.
"I saw you at practice this morning," Pickle said.
"I know."
"No camera."
"No."
"That's new."
"I'm trying to be different."
A pause. "Can I ask you something?"
"Yeah."
"Do you miss it? The camera?"
"Yes and no. I miss the work. I don't miss using it as a shield."
"A shield from what?"
"From being seen."
His eyes widened. "Oh."
"Yeah."
"That's pretty honest."
"I'm trying that too."
Another silence. Then Pickle took two steps closer.
Now we were three feet apart. Close enough to feel a pull.
"I'm not ready," he said quietly.
"I know."
"I'm not saying never. I'm saying not yet. Does that make sense?"
"Perfect sense."
"Good, because I don't want to fuck this up worse by rushing."
"We won't. I'm not pushing. I'll wait as long as you need."
"What if I need a long time?"
"Then I'll wait a long time."
He stared at me. "You're really staying? In fucking Thunder Bay? You know there's like one good coffee shop, and it closes at 4:00 p.m., right? And the grungy diner is the only restaurant open past nine? And winter lasts approximately seventy-four years?"
"I've been here two weeks. I'm aware."
"And you still want to stay?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
The real answer finally surfaced.
"Because you're here. Leaving would be easier, but I'm tired of doing the easy thing."
His breath caught for a moment.
"That's—fuck. That's not fair."
"What's not fair?"
"Saying things like that when I'm trying to stay mad at you."
"I'm not trying to manipulate—"
"I know. That's what makes it worse. You're being honest, and it's really hard to maintain emotional boundaries when you're standing here being all forthcoming and vulnerable like some kind of—I don't know—emotional maturity poster child."
Despite everything, I almost smiled. "Should I be less honest?"
"No. Absolutely not." He pointed at me. "You be honest. I also need you to know it's annoying."
"Noted."
We stood there. The parking lot was nearly empty. Rhett's truck waited across the lot.
Pickle glanced over. Back to me.
"I should go."
"Yeah."
"Adrian?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't hate you."
The words landed.
"Thank you."
"I'm mad, and I'm hurt. I don't know how long it'll take me to not be those things, but I don't hate you."
"I was worried about that," I admitted.
"Well, don't be. Hate would be easier, but it's not what I feel."
"What do you feel?"
"Confused. Scared. Kind of hopeful in a way that pisses me off."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. We'll see how it goes."
I heard the possibility.
"Okay."
He started to turn and then turned back.
"Hey, Adrian? The pad see ew thing? That was Jake's idea. He was there when I was talking to you. He made me tell you to eat our vegetables."
A grin started again. "He made you?"
"He whispered in my ear—and I quote—'if documentary man dies of malnutrition before he fixes his shit, I'm blaming you.'"
I laughed.
Pickle smiled.
"Don't get used to people taking care of you. This is probationary caretaking."
"Understood."
"Good."
This time, when he turned, he actually went.
I watched him walk toward Rhett's truck—bag bouncing, Crocs bright against the asphalt, shoulders squared.
He didn't look back.