I call him first, before calling Sebastian, but it goes straight to voice mail without ringing, so I assume he’s on the other line. I don’t want to talk to Sebastian. I don’t know why, but I don’t. I just want to talk to Avery. I need to talk to Avery. So I hang up every time his voice mail kicks in, count to twenty, and hit redial, but it goes to voice mail four more times. Then Maddie is parking in our garage.
I get out of the car and walk numbly into the house. Maddie follows, looking helpless and lost. When her eyes land on me, it’s with sympathy but also with confusion. I should have told her. Then maybe she wouldn’t be looking at me like I’m suddenly a stranger.
I drop my purse on the kitchen counter and walk over to the fridge. I want to reach for a beer. Hell, I want to reach for twelve, but numbing myself in a time of pain is what got me a past I’m not proud of to begin with, so instead I grab a pressed juice and twist off the lid. I take a small sip and realize I’m not thirsty, so I put it down on the counter.
“I’m sorry.” My voice is a broken whisper and a hot tear escapes before I can stop it. I brush it away with my fingertips.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Maddie says firmly. My God, I wish I could believe her. “You do not owe me an explanation or an apology. So you had a rocky childhood. You don’t owe anyone an apology for that. You’re here, you’re a great human being, an amazing roommate and the best girlfriend Avery Westwood could hope for. The end.”
I burst into tears. She makes a shocked sound, like a squeak of fear and a gasp of horror mixed into one, and rushes to me, but I turn away and a wave her off with a flailing hand. “It’s fine. I just…” I fight for control and gain it, tenuously. “I just I hope he feels the same way.”
“I’m sure he does,” Maddie says, but then she adds, “Or he will.”
I wipe at my damp cheeks as my phone shrills. It’s Sebastian’s number on the screen, not Avery’s, and my heart cracks a little like the vicious little lines a pebble makes in a windshield if it hits it hard enough. I shove my phone at Maddie. “Can you tell him I’m fine, but I need a minute to myself? Please.”
She nods reluctantly, but I hear her answer the phone as I walk out of the kitchen and head upstairs to my room. There, I peel off my business clothes and pull on a pair of running shorts and a tank top and curl up on top of my bed. I stare across the room at my laptop on top of my desk. I know the last thing that I should do is read the stories. The words people will be saying about me—in the stories and the comments—will likely take those hairline fractures veining out across my heart and turn them into fissures the size of the Grand Canyon. I need to keep it together. At least until I talk to Avery.
Maddie is in my open doorway a couple minutes later. She walks in and holds the phone out to me. “It’s Avery. He called while I was on the other line with Seb.”
I bolt up from my fetal position like I’ve been Tasered. With a trembling hand, I take the phone from her and swallow hard. Maddie leaves my room, pulling the door closed behind her.
“Avery?”
“Steph.” It’s him. But it doesn’t really sound like him. His voice is tight and thick with tension. “Are you okay?”
I exhale. He’s asking about me? “I’m okay. Are you okay? I’m so sorry.”
He doesn’t respond to that right away. It takes half a second and then he says, his voice sounding a little bit less tense, but now masked with confusion, “Is it true? What everyone is saying?”
“I don’t know what they’re saying, exactly. I refuse to look,” I explain, my voice trembling. “But if it’s about the fact that I ran away from home at sixteen and that I was addicted to prescription drugs, then yes. It’s true.”
“Holy shit.” He whispers it; it almost sounds like a sigh but I catch the words. Those hairline fissures in my heart start to grow.
“Yeah.”
Everything is quiet. I don’t even think he’s breathing. I don’t know what to do or what to say. I start to feel panicked. I bite my lip to keep myself from trying to explain or apologize for my past because I know that will just make me feel worse. And although I owe him an apology for not telling him sooner, because of this very thing that happened, I don’t owe him an apology for my past. He wasn’t there when I was living it. I didn’t hurt him. I hurt Sebastian and my mom and my dad, and I’ve apologized to them.
“I just wish you’d told me,” he finally says.
“I was going to. It’s why I asked you to Skype me tonight,” I say, and sigh. “I wanted to explain everything.”
Avery is quiet again, and an ache starts to develop in my chest; the longer the silence goes on, the harder it is for me to keep myself from asking the question that needs to be asked. The one I don’t want the answer to. I slip lower on my bed, my head pushed back in my pillows and, because the silence is deafening, I ask it. “Does it matter?”
He erupts. “Of course it matters! They asked me about it on camera and I looked like a goddamn idiot. I just sat there with my mouth hanging open, and when I did speak it was a clear evasion tactic. I gave non-answers because I was blindsided. That matters. And Don is losing his mind. I guess he saw the articles before I went into the interview and was trying to reach me. He knew before I did. Do you know how much I hate that?”
I make a sound. I don’t mean to, but it bubbles up from my chest anyway. A sob. Only because I’m trying to force it back down as it claws its way up my vocal cords, it comes out more like a weird hiccup. But at least the sound stops Avery’s rant.
“Jesus, Steph, why couldn’t you have just told me? Even in Seattle! I mean we’ve known each other forever and Seb never mentioned it. I’ve known him longer. You would think—”
“That he would blurt out painful, private family business to you?” I cut him off, my voice much more venomous than I expected. I just hate his reaction. “Because you’re so easy to talk to?”
“Wha…what?”
“Avery, you’re a machine. You eat, you sleep, you hockey, that’s it,” I blurt, wiping my wet cheeks on the back of the arm of my sweatshirt. “You say it’s just for the cameras, but you don’t give your so-called friends much more. Why would they open up to you about their secrets when you don’t share yours?”
He’s more than frustrated now—he’s angry. I am, too, which is actually a bit of a relief compared to the guilt and shame that filled my heart moments ago.
“He should have told me because it could have become a controversy back in Seattle, for him and the team. Even before it became my personal controversy,” he snaps. He may be right, but he’s still an asshole for saying it.
