I turn and march out of the kitchen. Grabbing Dylan I gently plop him on my hip and grab the baby Bjorn from the fancy hook on the hall stand by the door. “Where are you going?”
I shove my feet into my slip-on Sketchers and grab the extra set of keys he gave me off the console table. “Out. So you can have your privacy.”
“You don’t have to leave,” Tate argues. “I just meant?—”
The door closes behind me, cutting off whatever else he was going to say. I walk out of the complex with Dylan strapped to my chest, wandering down Abbott Kinney toward the beach a few blocks away. Tate is not the man I thought he was. I think eventually he will be the father Dylan deserves. Hopefully, before the kid is old enough to know the difference.
When I get back to the house, Tate is gone. What’s left of my Roscoe’s meal and the remaining donuts are wrapped up on a plate on the counter. There’s a post-it on the cling wrap that saysDr. Carter. 11. And I’m sorry it has to be this way.
“And that’s why I’m annoyed, Tate. It doesn’t have to be this way,” I mutter. Dylan is already nodding off so I take him upstairs, make sure he doesn’t need a diaper change, and put him down for a nap.
There's a knock on the door not long after I finish my chicken and waffles. With trepidation, I answer it to see a middle-aged man with a gentle smile. Dr. Carter is actually great. He does a quick, relatively painless exam and determines I seem to be healing well. I don't even need X-rays, he can feel the ribs are in place. But he tells me not to rush things, especially with the concussion and if my headaches persist for another week or two, he wants to see me again.
When he leaves I decide it’s a good time to deal with my dad. I look around Tate’s place to find an innocuous backdrop for the video call I have to make. Our family are video people. If I simply call him on the phone, he’ll know I’m hiding something.
There’s one wall in the kitchen without a painting or picture. So I go stand with my back against it and video chat my dad. He answers quickly and his face is awash with concern when it fills my screen. “Where are you?”
“I’m in the US,” I say simply.
“Where?”
“The United States.”
“Mallory Lisa Echolls, stop being obstinate and answer your father!” The phone shifts and now my mother’s face is filling it. She looks pissed off.
“Hannah give me the fucking phone,” Dad snaps in the background. “She called me, not you.”
“Where are you, Mallory?” Mom snaps.
“I’m in Oregon,” I lie because at this point, what’s one more?
“Why the hell are you in Oregon?” Dad barks. “Hannah, give me the phone!”
More jostling, I get a quick glimpse of the ceiling in my dad's study at their apartment in New York and then the fabric of my mom's lavender sweater, and then my dad's face fills the screen again. His crow's feet look deeper than ever. His silver hair is whiter. "What, or who is in Oregon?"
“A yoga retreat.” More lies. “I needed to decompress. I’ve been through a lot.”
“Which is why you should be with us,” he argues.
“Dad New York isn’t my home,” I remind him. “And I don’t need to be dodging a billion strangers on every sidewalk with broken ribs.”
"How are you feeling?" Mom's voice floats through the phone and I think I see her chin just behind Dad's left shoulder as she tries to get in on the call again.
The two of them have never been a team. Not one day of my life. At least, not the type of team you think of when you picture the perfect marriage. I have wondered more than once why they got together and why they stay together. Everything about them seems difficult. “I’m fine. I just… I wasn’t ready to see anyone.”
“You’ll be at Beckett’s wedding, though, right?” Mom asks. All I can see is her chin and the blunt edges of her wavy silver-blonde bob. “You’re in the wedding party, you know. Now that you’re not in London there’s no reason not to attend.”
She's right. I didn't want to attend because I didn't like his fiancée, who is his old high school sweetheart. They rekindled their romance while he was dating, and living with, someone else, which I also didn't like. But Beckett said the same thing my mom is saying. I'm a bridesmaid. His fiancée insisted and now that I don't have to leave a job or fly across the ocean, I can't say no. "It's not until the end of June, Mom. I don't know what I'm doing next week let alone three months from now."
“You can’t bail on your brother’s wedding,” Dad barks. “The local paper is covering it and if the Barons win the Cup, which is a distinct possibility, I’m going to have ESPN and Sports Center cover it too. Because I’ll make sure my day with the Cup is the same day.”
“The General Manager gets a day with the Cup?” It’s a tradition where each player gets twenty-four hours in the off-season at home with the trophy after they win, but I’ve never heard of the management getting the same honor.
“It’s not called that. I mean, we don’t get it specifically,” Dad backtracks. “But if I win the team the Cup, I’m having it at your brother’s wedding.”
My brother who doesn’t play hockey. Who is a doctor who was made to feel like that was a subpar accomplishment because it wasn’t hockey. That brother is going to have the Cup at his wedding. Beckett will be thrilled.Not.
“I’ll be at the wedding.” I sigh in defeat. “I’ll likely be home well before that anyway.”
