“I don’t know if he knows where he’s going right now.”
“I walk to the rink every day, mind if I catch up with him? I’ll see he gets home.”
I nod. If Jamie wants to talk to anyone right now, it’s probably Monroe.
“I can’t—” I start and then stop, unsure what to say. “With hockey, I can’t . . . I’m not who he wants to talk to about that.”
Monroe gives me a long look, the same one that always seems to say he sees things I don’t share. He reaches over and lays a warm hand on my shoulder.
“Alright, then. Mind if I try to talk to him?”
As I stand there, a little stunned at having someone else help carry this parenting load, even for just a moment, Monroe takes out his phone and waves it at me expectantly.
“I need your number, Thatch. Just in case.”
I rattle off the numbers as I see Jamie round the bend on the sidewalk, fading from my view.
“I’ll text you,” Monroe says. “Jamie will be safe with me.”
All I can do is reach out and grab the bag of gear, or whatever it is Roe has slung over his shoulder, and then he’s off to catch up with Jamie, leaving me with the ping of a message that just says “Roe.”
I sling his bag into the back beside Jamie’s and take the long way home, careful not to turn my truck in the same direction they were walking. I can tell by the numerous refreshes I do to the location app Jamie and I both have on our phones that they’re taking a route through town that will likely lead them to our doorstep.
Mindlessly, I unload hockey gear and start laundry, then scrub down the kitchen, although it doesn’t need it. The house is relentlessly tidy, and I do all I can to keep it from smelling like sour hockey gear and pre-teen boy, or having wood dust everywhere, which I carry in on my clothes.
Jamie is always pretty hungry after a game, and a few more refreshes of the app show that they’ve stopped at the city park. So I pull out lasagna ingredients from the pantry and fridge. It keeps me busy and it’s a favorite of Jamie’s.
It’s just dinner, but right now, it’s all I have to offer.
I make it extra spicy and cheesy, just how he likes it.
Within thirty minutes—bless you oven-ready lasagna noodles—dinner’s in the oven and the salad is waiting in the fridge, but the little purple dot on the app shows that they’re just now making their way toward home. So I wipe down the kitchen again, tidy up the first floor again, and light a candle against the hockey stench.
I’m in the living room when I hear the front door open, and before I can even cross into the kitchen to meet him, I have an armful of Jamie. I know he’s okay, but having him in myarms sends a cascade of relief through me. I’m not a fan of this growing-up nonsense where I can no longer fix all his problems. I breathe Jamie in from the top of his head that rests right under my chin. His arms hold me tight, the way he did when he was younger.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” he mumbles into my chest, and I clutch him tighter.
I have no idea how long we stand there like that, locked in an embrace that says much more than words. Or at least I hope it does.
Slowly, he starts to disentangle himself, but he doesn’t step out of my arms.
“You don’t have to say you’re sorry to me. You don’t have to apologize for having big emotions, Jamie. I don’t ever want that.”
“I just . . .” He sighs, one so much bigger than a kid his age should be making. “I worked so hard, Dad. And then—” Jamie chokes a little on the words, but he’s all cried out. Instead, he sets his jaw and shakes his head. “I just wanted to do better, and instead I got benched. When things weren’t working, I just couldn’t pull it back.” He looks at his feet. “I shouldn’t have thrown my stuff, or yelled, or walked off,” he says, softer.
“We don’t have to talk about all of that today,” I say, trying to assure him, but something passes over his face, and I feel a stab to my chest. Somehow that wasn’t the right thing to say. That shaky ground is still well underfoot.
“Okay.”
I ruffle his hair, needing the reassurance of the feel of his head in my hand. “And I’m guessing that you’re exhausted. Why don’t you jump in the shower and then there’s lasagna.”
I get a half smile for that. “Lasagna,” he repeats, like it means something more than dinner, and gives me another quick hugbefore trudging up the stairs. I watch him until he’s on the second floor.
I hear a noise from the front hall and Roe’s head appears around the corner. He holds up his hands like a surrender.
“I didn’t want to interrupt. I just wanted to let you know he’s fine—just frustrated with himself.” Roe digs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “And that I’m sorry.”
“Roe—” His name rolls off my tongue too easily, and I like the familiarity of it. It’s the first time I haven’t just called him Monroe, and for some reason that’s a thing I notice. “I appreciate you being there. More than I can say,” I admit. “He needed someone he could talk to about hockey, and I’m glad he had you.”
