“I don’t want to talk about it.” I walk to the front of the truck and turn toward my building. “I appreciate your attempt to help me, but from now on, if you don’t talk to me directly, please don’t just show up.”
“Okay, but you’re my son, and if I think you need help, you won’t be able to keep me away,” he says and starts walking toward me. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” My tone is hard as nails, but inside I’m dying to tell him. To have someone to share this with. To be raw and honest about myself and this fucking insane situation. But I have no one, except Harlow, who has her own drama right now with her brother. My isolation is my own doing.
I get to the stairs, and I guess the guy who was hired to clean them hasn’t yet because they’re coated in ice and snow. I swear. Behind me, I hear Dad say, “I have a shovel. Hold on.”
He walks past me a minute later with a big metal shovel that must have been in the back of his truck, and he starts on the first step. I snap out of my spiral, let go of my luggage, and take the shovel from him. “I’ve got it. Thanks.”
“I’m not an invalid.”
“No, but you have rods in your back. I don’t,” I remind him. Dad’s hockey career ended when two vertebrae were destroyed by a vicious hit in a college game that sent him headfirst into the boards. Mom told us he’s lucky he’s walking, and that has never left me and never will. “Plus, I’m younger and it’s my shitty apartment.”
“It’s actually a pretty nice place, G,” he says quietly. “I’ll go get some salt.”
He walks back to his truck, and I start on the next step. It’s actually cathartic to pour all my energy into this. Dad doesn’t say a word as I shovel stair after stair, hurling the snow off the stairs like it personally assaulted me. He just follows behind me with a bag of salt cradled on his hip like a toddler, reaching into it and sprinkling some on the icy layer left on each rung.
When we get to the top, I’m sweating, and my coat has been discarded halfway down the stairs. Dad has used almost the whole bag of salt. “You go inside and see if your power is back. I’ll return the shovel to the truck and get your suitcase.”
I nod. He walks down halfway, grabs my jacket, and hurls it up to me. I dig my key out of my pocket and unlock my front door. As soon as I step inside, it’s like I left all the windows open for a week, that’s how cold it is. I huff out a breath, which I can see, and storm over to the fireplace in the living room. It’s gas, so it’ll work no matter what. Technically, I could have slept on the floor in this room last night. It would have been uncomfortable, but I could have done it. But I wanted Landon, and not because his place was more comfortable, but because he is my comfort, even when I’m too stupid to admit it. After I flip it on and it roars to life, I try the light switch in the hall for the chandelier. Nothing.
Dad appears in the open front door, my suitcase trailing behind him as I pound the wall with my fist in frustration. My fist smarts, but luckily I don’t dent the wall. “Come home with me. You can stay warm. Mom will feed you. You can decompress.”
“No thanks.”
“I’ll drive you back later tonight.”
I shake my head and storm into my kitchen. I yank open the door to the fridge. It’s not entirely warm inside, but I should still throw out some of the stuff, like the milk. I grab the carton and walk over to the sink, opening the carton and begin pouring it out. “Dad, thanks, seriously, for trying to help, but I just need time to myself.”
“Something is wrong.”
Our eyes meet. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t understand.”
He nods slowly and shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. His eyes move around the space. “Do you want to talk to one of your uncles? They understand professional hockey stress. They’ve been there. Jordan is home right now. Call him. Or Devin. He’s traveling. I think he’s in New York covering their game tonight for his network job, but he’ll make time to chat.”
I watch the last of the warm milk swirl its way around the sink and down the drain, and it occurs to me, my dad thinks I won’t open up to him because it’s about hockey. And he doesn’t have that frame of reference because he never made it. He doesn’t look sad or offended. He just looks resigned. Like he knows he’s inferior and he’s accepted it. I am such a complete and utter asshole.
“You deserve a better son, Dad,” I blurt out.
His eyes widen, and I can see his breath catch before my stupid eyes blur with tears. I blink and fight them. “I don’t need my uncles. You’re enough. Even if this… even if my problems were just about my shitty record so far this year, you’d still be the person I would go to. The fact that you think I don’t… see that. Well, fuck I’m sorry if I made you feel that way. I’m a fucking asshole. You deserve better. A son you won’t have to defend.”
“Whoa.” He walks right over and takes the now-empty milk carton from my hand and puts it on the counter, then he grabs me by my shoulders and gives me the tiniest shake. “Grady, I don’t care how big you think this is, whatever it is, tell me right now. I am not going anywhere, no matter what you say.”
I blink and swallow down a sob. Why am I falling apart? “I’m fine.”
“The fuck you are.”
I try to step out of his grip, but he won’t let me. That makes the tears unstoppable, and now I hate myself. “Dad. Just go. I’ll be fine.”
He doesn’t move. “Grady, talk to me. You’re scaring me.”
“I may have…” I shake my head. “I didn’t. So this is irrelevant. I don’t know why I’m so fucked up. It’s not… I didn’t.”
His pale red brows pull together, and the deep grooves that have developed between his eyes over the years get deeper. “You’re not making any sense.”
“Landon’s ex-girlfriend…” I whisper, and he grows still. “She… is pregnant.”
He stares at me. Blinks once. Opens his mouth. Closes it. “Okay. Why does this have you so upset?”
