And I am. Because she’s here.
And because for the first time, I let myself lean on somebody else. On her.
I let myself breathe her in. Clean sweat and something sweet and warm, like toasted brown sugar.
She doesn’t move. Just lets me be. My racing thoughts quiet.
And for the first time since I picked up a hockey stick, I think maybe I don’t have to do this alone.
Chapter 25
Intrusive Thoughts
Luna
There’saveryspecifickind of cold that only exists in childhood bedrooms during winter. Not just temperature-wise, though that too, but like... a nostalgia chill. The ghost of high school stress, questionable crushes, and poor fashion choices. That kind of cold. The stress hasn’t gone away. If anything, it’s gotten worse under the increasing pressures of college life, but it’s not quite the same.
Yanking the covers over my head, I stare at the faded pattern of purple hockey pucks on the pillowcase Celeste must’ve found in a bin of backup linens. A physical representation of seventeen years of our family’s stubborn refusal to replace anything still technically functioning. Only difference now is, I kind of get it.
My phone buzzes with a muted text notification from somewhere in the bed. I grope under the blanket burrito for it and squint at the screen. 5:03 a.m.
Of course it's Beau.
Golden Boy: On schedule. See you soon.
I text back a thumbs-up emoji because I haven’t had caffeine and thus don’t have the emotional stamina to formulate full sentences yet. Then, I toss the phone aside and swing my legs out of bed, cringing as my feet hit the chilled hardwood floor.
The hallway is quiet except for the occasional creak of old pipes and the low rattle of the dryer downstairs. I pad past the bathroom, past Celeste’s door with the snarky letter board on it. Today it says, “Do Not Disturb. My Alone Time is For Your Safety.” Then, I’m pausing outside Mom’s door.
It’s cracked an inch. I peek through and, by the faint glow of her bedside lamp, see the curve of her body curled under a thick comforter. The heating pad cord is tangled at the foot of the bed. As I get closer, I see her face is drawn, jaw tight. She doesn’t stir, even when my shadow falls over her.
“Mom?”
No answer. It’s a relief to see her finally sleeping after the pain kept her up half the night. I know because her soft moans and restless tossing and turning kept me up with her, worrying. I let the door drift shut and head for the kitchen. Anytime I feel grateful that I live in my own place now, the guilt seeps in. I should be here for her and Dad. Celeste. They need me. But Dad told me he’d change the locks if I tried to move back home, and my sister snapped she didn’t need me cramping her style more than I already do. She always says stuff like that. But as soon as she needs a lift to a dance competition, or help choosing a costume, she pretends like she never sassed me in the first place.
I flip on the overhead light, comforted by the familiar hum of the fridge. It’s barely seven-thirty, but this kitchen has been up since five for most of its life. Shift work jobs, young kids, hockey practices, and dance recitals have all left their mark on it.
I find the frying pan. The one that’s scratched so badly it’s probably poisoning us slowly. And set it on the stove. The fridge is not as full as it used to be when I was a kid, but I find theingredients I need. Eggs, bacon and half a loaf of white bread. Maybe not the most nutritious choice, but you can’t beat the taste of nostalgia. I hum under my breath as I prep breakfast. Eggs, sunny-side up, a slice of bacon shaped like a smile and toast halves for ears. The same way my mom used to make them before every game when I was a kid.
Back when she could. Back when I was the one draped in athletic wear and teenage attitude, and she was the one obsessing over the game day checklist.
Now it’s me. Of course it’s me. Dad’s at work, and even if he weren’t, he’s useless at these things. He’ll show up every time, but his hair and makeup skills are subpar, and he’s terrified of the competition moms.
Celeste appears in the doorway, dramatically yawning like a cat who’s been asleep for three quarters of the day. Her sweats are half-tucked into fuzzy rainbow socks, and her hair is a tangled catastrophe of curls. Not the artful kind, either. We’ve got some work ahead of us to get that hot mess competition ready.
She surveys the table, lips pursed. “Smiley faces? Seriously?” She injects as much teenage disdain into the question as she can.
I drop the ketchup bottle with a flourish. “Don’t act like you don’t love it.”
She flops into a chair, shoving a forkful into her mouth. “This is peak elder-sibling energy. Are you gonna braid my hair and lecture me about tampons, too?”
“Do you want a lecture? I’ve got a fantastic one about the impact of sports on the lives of women. Spoiler alert, there are segments on mental health, and economic empowerment.”
“Pass.” She chews with her mouth hanging open, but I rein myself in before I can lecture her on that. Not my role here. “You’re lucky I’m even awake. Most seventeen-year-olds are asleep at this hour. I could be out getting mysterious piercings.”
I cross my arms. “Most seventeen-year-olds aren’t competing in a dance solo they’ve been rehearsing for two months. Didn’t you threaten to stab me over the wrong bobby pins last competition?”
“You used the wrong kind. We talked about this. Short pins, Sis. Not the baby ones.”
