"Yeah," I said. "He would've."
"Good." She spoke with certainty. "I want to see you two together. Not in a funeral home with everyone walking on eggshells."
"Okay."
"You sound different when you talk about him. Happy, Rhett. You sound happy."
I took a long, deep breath.
"I am," I said finally. "Happy. It's—yeah."
"Don't fuss when you come," she said. "Just drive safe. And Rhett?"
"Yeah?"
"You sound good, honey. Steady."
"Thanks, Mom."
"I'll see you in two weeks. Both of you."
After we hung up, I continued to stare at the lake. Mom was learning mah-jongg and leaving dishes in the sink. Relieved that Dad wasn't there to criticize the neighbor's snow removal technique. And she wanted to see us together.
I sat there until the condensation on the window blurred the shoreline into abstraction. Then I drove into town with no particular destination in mind—just the need to be somewhere that wasn't my own head.
Frost fogged the coffee shop windows, every table occupied by people in wool hats and heavy coats that didn't come off even inside. I'd just stepped inside when a blue wave of hair and an oversized blazer caught my eye in the corner. Juno Park had her laptop open and a recorder sitting on a napkin next to a half-eaten blueberry scone.
She looked up, recognized me, and beckoned. "Hey, Rhett. I hear things are good with the enforcer boyfriend."
I laughed self-consciously. "Seems solid."
"Are we using names yet or only archetypes? I enjoy a good archetype." Her grin was sharp and kind at the same time. "I'm doing a piece on the Storm's playoff run forOff the Ice. Do you want to give me the civilian boyfriend's perspective? In exchange, I promise not to refer to your partner as Thunder Bay's cuddliest bruiser unless absolutely necessary."
"You already decided you're using that," I said.
"I already decided I'm using that," she agreed. "But I can also quote you saying you hate it."
I ordered coffee and sat for a minute, the room's warmth bleeding the cold out of my hands. Juno asked questions that were statements in disguise. How the town felt this year. Whether something had shifted. If it was true that the arena's pipes had stopped groaning during home games and started singing instead.
"You look more relaxed than the players I've interviewed," she said at one point, head tipped as if lining up the angle of a shot.
"I'm not worried about getting traded."
She threw me a salute with her pen. "Excellent answer." Then, softer, "How's your mom?"
"Better. Different. In a good way."
She nodded, typed something, and moved on. When she closed her laptop, she told me she'd be at the Fort William Gardens for practice with her recorder and her best behavior. "Tell your man to pretend I'm not there."
"He can't pretend anything. He's a billboard that walks."
"Love a walking billboard," she said. "See you."
I left with caffeine in my veins. Being seen didn't agitate anymore. It was more like wind at my back.
When I knocked and let myself in, Hog's apartment smelled like eucalyptus and laundry soap. The lamp by the couch cast a soft pool of light over the room, catching the metal stubs of his gear rack near the radiator. He sprawled across the cushions like a man who'd been poured there. A towel slid off his shoulder when he twisted to look at me.
"Just maintenance on the ol' machinery," he said.
