I can’t fathom spending my entire life with someone, and then one day, they start fading away right in front of you. It’s a blessing and a curse. Blessing because how lucky are you to have so many years together? But a curse to lose the person you love while they’re still with you. It’s like you are forced to mourn them twice, once long and drawn out and once in the blink of an eye, both pain lasting an eternity.
My dad leans away, reaching for something.
“Wait, honey. I’ll get it for you,” my mom says a second before her eyes slam shut and a glass smashes to the ground, the sound of liquid splattering about.
A moment of clarity, more than I’ve seen tonight at least, finds him. “God, I’m sorry! Ugh. I’msorry!”
“It’s okay, dear. I’ll help.” She smiles at him, a deep sadness in her eyes.
Embarrassment paints his cheeks, and my heart aches. This has to be horrifying for him, too, and so confusing. It’s not fair. He’s spent his entire life putting his health first, making the right choices, just to lose himself at the age of sixty-nine.
My parents weren’t going to have any kids. After years of fertility treatments and throwing the book at the wall, they gave up, but they got pregnant a year later, and here I am. They’ve always called me their miracle baby.
Best goddamn parents in the world.
“I’ll call you tomorrow, Matty. I’m going to get him all settled in.” My mom stands up, leaving the camera view. “I love you.”
I can hear it in her voice—a vibration of emotion she doesn’t want anyone to notice. But I always do, and I feel it too.
“I love you guys so much,” I tell them, smiling at the camera with watery eyes.
“Love you, buddy.” He grins big at the screen, like there’s nothing else in the world to see.
I end the call, and a tear runs down my cheek.
The nickname is sweet, but it cuts like a thousand knives because he hasn’t called me buddy since I was in middle school. My mom says he’s doing okay and remembering things well enough, but I can't shake the horrifying itch in the pit of my stomach that either she’s not being honest or she’s wrong.
I swipe out of the FaceTime app and open Instagram, immediately checking my notifications and finding tags frommy team, the organization, and a few hockey podcast groups discussing the game tonight.
All of them are praising me, and even though I still feel the weight of the goal I let in pushing down on my chest, I feel a spike of serotonin hit my system. But not as much as I do when I see the next notification come through.
Shay Rooneyliked your photo.
No way.
What photo? How old is the post? Was she stalking my page?
Going back to the home page in the app and opening notifications, I’m left dumbfounded. There’s no notification from Shay. It’s vanished.
Am I crazy?
No, no, no. I know I saw that notification. One hundred percent.
She must’ve unliked it. That has to be it.
A laugh bubbles up inside me, and I bite down on my lip. It must have been a ways back for her to unlike it so quickly. Little stalker. She was creeping on my page.
Rolling over onto my stomach, I prop myself up on my elbows and search her name, tapping on her account.
Two can play at this game.
Scrolling hard and down a couple times, I find a picture of her in her Mavericks gear on the ice and double tap. But unlike her, I don’t remove it. Instead, I scroll back up to the top of her page and tap into the messages.
I could say something playful … even though it’s inappropriate for me to do so since she could become my coach. I could say something sweet and flirty, really pushing the boundaries.
Wait … what is that?
I’ve sent her messages before? I don’t remember that at all. What the hell?
