By the timeI pulled into my driveway, my hands were numb from gripping the steering wheel too hard, and my chest felt like it was caving in on itself.
I walked inside, dropped my keys on the counter, and stood in the middle of my kitchen staring at nothing. The house was still too quiet.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out to see my mom's name lighting up the screen with an incoming FaceTime call. I almost didn't answer. I wasn't in the right headspace to talk to anyone, let alone my mother, who had a sixth sense for when I was spiraling and an irritating habit of not letting me get away with lying about it.
But I answered anyway, because ignoring her would just make her worry more, and the last thing I needed was my parents showing up at my door unannounced to check on me.
Her face filled the screen, bright and warm and worried in that way only mothers could pull off. “Rowan, sweetheart, are you okay? You look exhausted.”
“I'm fine, Mom.” I leaned against the counter and tried to arrange my face into an expression that wouldn't make her panic. “Just tired. Playoff delay's got everyone on edge.”
“Mm-hmm.” She didn't look convinced, but before she could press further, my dad's face appeared next to hers, grinning like he'd just heard the best joke of his life.
“Rook! My boy!” He was wearing a sweater that was two sizes too big and holding what looked like a martini even though it was barely noon. “How's my favorite captain? You keeping those boys in line?”
I couldn't help the smile that tugged at my mouth despite everything. My dad was ridiculous. A six-foot-three former college hockey player who'd gone into finance and somehow turned into the most aggressively wholesome human being I'd ever met. He threw charity galas, hosted dinner parties, and had never met a stranger he couldn't befriend within five minutes. My mom called him a golden retriever in human form, and she wasn't wrong.
“Yeah, Dad, I'm keeping them in line.”
“That's my boy! You know, your mother and I were just talking about coming up to visit once the playoffs start. We wantto be there to cheer you on. Maybe we'll bring the Hendersons, they've been dying to see you play again.”
“Martin, don't overwhelm him,” my mom said, swatting at my dad's arm. “We just wanted to check in and see how you're doing. You've been quiet this week.”
“I've been busy,” I said, which wasn't a lie, but it also wasn't the truth she was looking for.
“Busy,” my dad repeated, in the tone of a man who found the word deeply suspicious. “Busy doing what? The playoffs got pushed. You told me yourself you're just waiting around. That's not busy, Ro, that's marinating.”
“Martin.”
“I'm just saying. There's a difference between busy and marinating, and our son is marinating.” He leaned closer to the camera, which meant I got a detailed view of his left ear and part of his collar. “Are you eating? You look like you haven't eaten.”
“I ate today.”
“What did you eat?”
“Martin, he's thirty-one years old?—”
“Coffee is not a food group, Rowan.”
“I ate actual food,” I said, which was mostly true. I'd had toast at some point. “Back up, I can only see your ear.”
He adjusted, overcorrected, and for a moment the camera was aimed at the ceiling. My mom made a sound of profound exasperation that she'd clearly been refining for thirty-five years of marriage. “Give me the phone. Give me — Martin, just hand it over?—”
“I have it, I have it.” His face reappeared, slightly flushed, grinning like a man who'd never once in his life successfully operated a camera angle. “There. See? I'm a natural.”
“You were pointing it at the ceiling fan.”
“I was showing Rowan our new ceiling fan. It's Italian.”
“It's from Home Depot.”
“The design is Italian.”
My mom appeared at his shoulder, leaning in to get into frame, and I felt the tension in my jaw ease in a way I hadn't been expecting.
“Ignore the fan,” my mom said. “Tell me how you really are.”
“I'm fine, Mom.”
