“No. What?” I lie because of course I know.
“His team won last night,” Logan tells me about my high school best friend. “The Stanley freaking Cup! A local boy —ourlocal boy — won the Cup. He’s coming home!”
“Cool,” I manage to sputter out and turn towards my car. I really am happy for him. “He’ll be thrilled. See you later.”
“Look up the highlights,” Logan advises. “I know you’re not a sports guy, but you’ll wanna see him lift the Cup. He’s your friend.”
“I’ll do that later, Logan, sure.” I nod.
He drives away with a wave.
I get to my car and drop into the driver’s seat. And even though I watched the game live, alone in my apartment last night, I pull up Abbott’s Instagram and look at the new photos he posted late last night. There’s a picture of him glowing with happiness as he skates across the ice with the big hunk of tin high above his head.
I can see the kid I grew up with in the tears of joy in his eyes. This is all he’s ever wanted, and I really am happy for him. His career, which has been a little rocky since he was drafted, will even out now. He’ll get a bigger contract, better endorsement deals, and his name is etched on that Cup forever. Just like it’s etched on my heart forever.
1
DECLAN
Oh fucking great.The first thing I see as I wander into the center of town at dusk is two women from my mom’s church. They’re standing outside Patti’s Parlor, which is directly across the street from the town square — also known as the hub of the Founder’s Day festivities. Ellie is holding a sugar cone with what looks like mint chocolate chip ice cream coated in chocolate Jimmies. The other lady, with white hair whose name I can’t remember, is holding a cup of possibly vanilla ice cream with what looks like caramel sauce on top.
They both look right at me and then pretend they don’t see me. I should care, but honestly, it’s a relief. The last thing I want to do is pretend I give a shit about either of them. I stalk on by and cross the street to the square, which has quite a crowd gathering between the gazebo and library. The local kazoo band is going to play in the gazebo. Yeah, Ocean Pines has a kazoo band. My father, Charlie Hawkins, is in it. I see him standing at the center of the gazebo in his red and white striped jacket like the rest of them. He is literally the only reason I agreed to come here at all tonight. Terra and Jake tried to sway me with fireworks, but I reminded them they were being held on the beach, so I could see them from the apartment above Hawkins Lobster Shack, which is where I live.
Logan and Chloe tried to use River as a reason I had to come to this annual tradition. Logan’s son needed my shoulders to sit on because I was the tallest in the family and he would get the best view. I had to remind them that my nephew would be just fine on his or Finn’s shoulders, since they were only an inch shorter than me, and that his soon-to-be official Uncle Jake was actually the tallest. They had all the excuses and I had all the answers to shut them down. But in the end, here I am because I was sick of seeing disappointment on their faces.
Logan and Chloe wave at me from a red and white checkered picnic blanket they’re sitting on just left of the gazebo. I make my way over, keeping my eyes focused on just them. I know it’s probably paranoia but I feel like people in this town are staring at me a lot ever since I got back from Upstate New York. I don’t blame the people of Ocean Pines. It would probably be the same in a town of this same size anywhere. It isn’t every day that a dude runs away, divorces his wife, and comes back to town only to announce he’s gay — but makes the announcement after he punches one of his brothers in the middle of a party for dating his now ex-wife. Yeah, I kind of have no one to blame for the stares and whispers but me. Doesn’t mean I like it, though.
“I’m so glad you came.” Chloe jumps up and wraps me in a hug. A genuine smile hits my lips. Chloe is great. I still can’t believe Logan found her and how well matched they are for each other despite all the very twisted emotional shit they had to deal with. If I wasn’t such a pessimist, I would take solace in the fact that they worked through such heavy baggage together. But I don’t take comfort in anything these days.
Chewie whines and nudges my thigh for attention. Stevie and Boss growl at me. I pet Chewie and roll my eyes at the geriatric Chihuahuas. “You two need to get over it. I’m family. I ain’t going anywhere.”
Logan smiles. “Ignore them.”
“Are you going to sit with us?” Chloe asks. “We’re here for the concert and then we’re going over to the beach for the fireworks. We have room on our blanket.”
“I’ll meet you at the beach,” I say. “I want to wander around and check out the booths and stuff. Maybe grab a corn dog.”
“You’re going for the cotton candy and you know it,” Logan replies and his big blue eyes, only slightly darker than my own, are calling my bluff. “After you check on the Hawkins booth.”
I shrug. “Yeah. Okay. Maybe you’re right. So what?”
I have always had a huge weakness for cotton candy. And I also can’t turn off my business brain. Our family’s lobster shack has a small booth set up here, like a lot of other local restaurants. And we’re serving small cups of lobster salad and mini-lobster rolls. Finn, my ex-wife Nova, and her brother Javi are running it tonight, but I want to make sure they’re not short on anything. I’d have no problem sacrificing my night off to run back to the restaurant and get more buns or lettuce or whatever they need.
“See you both at the beach,” I promise, and they nod and wave as I weave my way through the crowd.
The mayor is stepping onto the gazebo now. He’s about to give his annual Founder’s Day speech which is equal parts boring and cheesy. I can see the plastic lobster lights through the heads of the crowd, but I’m also trying to look down to make sure I don’t step on any of the people sitting, or their dogs. And then there’s Mrs. Cofax who likes to bring her cat to town events, on a leash of course. And her daughter, who I swear is more feral than the cat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Ocean Pines Founder’s Day festivities!” The mayor’s voice booms through the small speakers that are attached to the gazebo and the trees near the edge of the grounds.
People started whistling and clapping, but I keep moving through the crowds toward the booth. I’ve heard the mayor’s speeches before, at more town events than I can count, and none of them are worth standing still and actually listening to. During Founder’s Day he tends to talk about how lucky we all are to call such a quaint and friendly place home, then he will mention what an honor it is to serve the town, thank everyone who’s part of whatever committee was in charge of the event and then tell people not to litter. It’s the same old, same old, every damn time. But then, as I get within a few feet of the Hawkins Lobster Shack booth, suddenly it isn’t the same old speech.
“As you all know, Portland is getting a professional hockey team,” Mayor Humphries says, which causes my eyes to jump to the gazebo. I didn’t know that. I mean, I’d heard they might, but I honestly hear Charlie Brown’s teacher in my head when people around me talk sports. “But what you all might not know, and I’m excited to tell you about, is one of our very own will be wearing a Portland Riptide jersey this fall.”
My feet are no longer moving. My entire torso is twisted toward the stage. All I can see, though, is the mayor and the band because most of the eight kazoo players are big, hefty old guys who could block the front end of a Mac truck from view. But my heart doesn’t need to see anything. My heart knows who the mayor is talking about before my eyes see anything. Before the mayor even says his name. There’s only one guy in Ocean Pines who has ever been good enough to make the National Hockey League.
“Abbott Barlowe, newest member of the Portland Riptide, is going to introduce the events tonight,” Mayor Humphries declares and then the sea of middle-aged to geriatric kazoo players — including my dear old dad — part and the tall, muscled, blond man that I’ve known my whole life is standing there smiling.
I turn my eyes away and wince. I actuallywince. Because seeing Abbott is still too much. His rugged face and confident grin are like salt being poured directly into the gaping, bloody pulp of a wound that is my life at the moment. The wound that I love to fool myself into thinking is healed. Maybe it is, and seeing Abbott just ripped it open again. Either way, I’m not joining the rousing applause erupting around me. I’m just standing there, wallowing in the ache in my chest.
