“Me too,” I laugh. Then, more seriously, “She’s… she’s going through hell right now. And I don’t know if I’m drawn to her because I feel obligated to be her friend through all of the shit she’s dealing with, or if I’m drawn to her because it’s more than that.”
George’s face sombers; it doesn’t take but a second for him to understand my meaning. “She’s going through a divorce.”
I nod. “She’s right in the thick of it, and he’s a fucking asshole.”
“You’ve met him?” George seems stunned by this revelation—as was I the day that prick barged into our office.
“Not on purpose, but, yeah. That’s a whole other story that I don’t want to get into.” He nods and I’m thankful that he doesn’t press for more.
“Even if I could sort out whatever the hell I’m feeling about her, she doesn’t need me trying to push anything on her. Not anytime soon.”
“So be her friend,” George says simply.
I scoff. “What the hell do you think I’ve been trying to do for the last few months? Exactly that. Turns out, I’m pretty good at it—I think—until I’m not.”
His brow lifts. “And why’s that?”
I rub the back of my neck, half embarrassed and half hopingGeorge has the magical words of wisdom to help me keep my foot out of my mouth—permanently. “Probably because as soon as she relaxes around me I say something stupid and come onto her like a douchebag.”
George lets out a bark of laughter, coughs, then pats my leg. “Well, son, when every bit of female interaction you’ve had in the last three years has been with Linda, students, or hookups, it makes sense you wouldn’t have a clue how to bejust friendswith a woman.”
“I’m friends with Skye,” I protest.
His laughter continues, stronger than before. “Oh, Lord.”Cough. “Now that,”cough. “That right there, is the funniest damn thing you’ve said in a long time.”
I furrow my brow, perplexed. George shakes his head, his laughter finally calming down to a chuckle, a knowing smirk in his eyes. “Leo, that girl is just as foul-mouthed and horny as you are. The two of you are twins separated at birth. She absolutely doesNOTcount.”
Ah. Good point. I shrug. “Okay. That’s fair.”
“Does this Tori still come around,” George asks, “even after you say something stupid?”
I think about it. “Yeah. She does.”
He nods, satisfied. “Then you’re doing fine, son. You’re doing just fine.”
I grin, but it fades quickly as the quiet settles again. The game drones on, crowd noise muffled by the four walls, but I’m not really watching. My gaze keeps drifting back to him. To this man who never once had to claim me but did anyway. Who showed up to my graduate school commencement ceremony when my own parents couldn’t be bothered to return from their Mediterranean cruise. Who bought me my first real suit when I landed my first teaching job, and celebrated the fact that it was at my alma mater and not some fancy ivy league. Who, when Stephanie left, let merage and break down in the same breath without making me feel pathetic for it.
And it’s now that I realize I’ve measured everything in my life against him. What would George think? Would he be proud? Would he tell me I’m being an idiot? Most of the time, both.
He notices, again, of course. He always does. “Don’t get that wet-eyed look, son,” he rasps, eyes still on the screen. “I told you, I’m not gone yet. And if you cry, I’ll have to hold your hand, and then Linda will come in and start crying, and before you know it, we’ll need a canoe to get out of here. If I can’t even laugh without coughing, what the hell makes you think I have the energy to row a goddamn boat?”
I snort. “Yeah, well, you’re the one who started getting all deep and philosophical.”
“That’s because I don’t have time to waste on bullshit,” he says flatly, though there’s no heat. “Not anymore.”
We fall back into the game. The Avs score and George perks up enough to raise a fist. “That’s how it’s done,” he crows, voice cracking but proud. “None of that weak-sauce slap shot crap.”
“Fluke goal,” I mutter, hiding my grin. “Bounced off his skate. Even I could’ve scored that one.”
“Boy, I’ve seen you skate. Your stick handling looks like you’re churning butter,” he fires back. “Fucking dairy maid,” he says under his breath. “Don’t talk to me about flukes.”
It’s dumb, juvenile, perfect. Exactly us.
The third period winds down and Linda peeks in, a tray in her hands—two mugs of tea, a bowl of broth, crackers on the side. Her eyes soften when she sees me on the bed, shoes kicked off, settled in like I belong there. Which, I guess, I do.
“Thought you boys might be hungry,” she says.
George waves her off. “I’m fine. Leo’ll eat it.”
