Page 51 of Puck Me Back to Life

The realization is inconvenient.

“Text me tonight.” The words leave before I can stop them.

Hayes blinks. For a second he only looks at me. Then something soft appears in his expression, a small smile that doesn't look practiced or defensive.

“Okay.”

He takes a few steps backward, then turns toward his car. I watch him go, which is becoming another habit I should probably break. Halfway there, he glances back once and lifts a hand in farewell before climbing into the driver's seat.

A minute later his car disappears from the parking lot.

I look down at the cigarette in my hand, then toward the road where Hayes vanished. The thing burns out between my fingers before I realize I haven't taken another drag.

The condo is exactly how I left it.

Quiet.

Clean.

Empty.

Usually I like that. Quiet means control. Clean means there is nothing unexpected waiting for me. Empty means nobody is yelling, nobody is breaking things, and nobody is looking at me like my existence ruined their life.

Tonight, it feels a little different.

I drop my duffel bag by the front door and kick off my shoes. The sound echoes faintly through the entryway. The road trip wasn't particularly long, but hotel rooms always make me appreciate being home, even when home is mostly expensive furniture, black-and-white photographs, and a silence I chose on purpose.

I walk into the kitchen and open the refrigerator.

A bottle of hot sauce.

Half a carton of eggs.

Energy drinks.

Three different condiments.

A lemon that may or may not be older than some NHL rookies.

I close the door, then open it again, as if the contents might have improved through shame. They have not.

“Fantastic.”

The fridge remains unsympathetic.

I pull out my phone and open a delivery app. Chinese. Pizza. Thai. Burgers. The usual rotation.

At thirty years old, my cooking skills remain embarrassingly limited. I can make ramen. I can make grilled cheese. I can cook eggs without accidentally poisoning myself. Anything beyond that requires instructions and a level of commitment I generally don't possess.

Most people learn somewhere along the way. Parents teach them. They help in the kitchen. They grow up watching meals come together from ingredients that seemed useless on their own. They learn which pan to use, how high to set the heat, how to season without thinking about it, how to feed themselves in a way that feels less like maintenance and more like care.

That never happened for me. It was always just me and Dad. At least as far back as I can remember.

My mother died the day I was born.

Complications during delivery. The story changed depending on who was telling it, but the basic facts stayed the same. She went into labor, delivered a healthy baby, and then began bleeding too heavily afterward. Postpartum hemorrhage, my grandfather eventually called it, though Dad never used words that clinical. The doctors tried medication. They tried transfusions. They took her back for emergency surgery when the bleeding wouldn't stop. By the time they controlled it, her body had already lost too much.

She died in a hospital bed before she ever got to hold me properly.