“That is not good advice.” Jody shakes her head. “Maybe you should stay home and study.”
Dad rolls his eyes. He seems like he might be drunk or maybe just buzzed. He’s probably been somewhere watching Sunday football with Larry Jones and those guys.
“Tate,” Roger says, meeting my gaze. “I thought you were taking Olivia to that birthday party? At the movie theater?” He looks at Dad and Jody, dead serious. “I’ve got a rabid squirrel I have to deal with over at the Gleason farmhouse. Those jobs can take hours.”
“Right, the party,” I say, following Roger’s lead. “Can’t wait to spend the evening supervising six-year-olds.”
Dad looks like he wants to protest, his gaze flitting to Roger, but then he must decide it’s not worth it because he waves a hand and leaves with Jody. I release a breath the second I hear the truck back out of the driveway.
Roger keeps his eyes on the car parts in front of him but says, “Everything is fine there, huh?”
Fear sinks into me. It’s not fine. It’s so far from fine, but I’m barely treading water and I’d rather not have someone else pressing my head under.
He seems to realize this and returns to being less invasive. “There really is a birthday party. No rabid squirrel, but if you did take Olivia, I could bring your mom some dinner at work…”
I look at him, like, Are you serious? He is. If it weren’t for him being so cool about the keys and getting me out of dinner with Dad, I’d probably tell him no way. Instead I sigh and prepare myself for lots of singing. And whining.
Chapter 42
–Claire–
I make it to the game by the beginning of the second period. I would have been here sooner, but with this being the last game before Sections, the one that can seal our spot as number-one seed, lots of prep is needed over at the bar. It’ll be a busy night.
Of course, to add to the tension, the score is 2–2. From what Tate’s told me, this team is supposed to be an easy win for us. If he let two goals in during the first period, he’s not playing his best. I scan the bleachers, looking for signs of Mr. Tanley, but my attention is brought back to the ice where Tate has just lost his stick. I suck in a breath as the opposition prepares to take a shot. Cole Clooney sweeps in and steals the puck out of thin air and takes off for the other end of the ice. Jamie grabs Tate’s stick and tosses it at him, and I can finally release the air I’ve held in for way too many seconds.
“Come on, Tanley, wake up,” I hear someone mumble from behind me.
I spin around and squint into the shadowed corner of the rink near my special side entrance. Mike Steller is standing there—dressed in all black, a baseball cap pulled way down low, concealing part of his face—like a celebrity hiding from the paparazzi. “What are you doing in my secret spot?” I say to Mike.
He smiles and puts a finger to his lips. Then he reaches for my arm and pulls me into the shadow with him. “How are you? How’s the baby?” I ask because I haven’t seen Mike since New Year’s Day. Though I have sent plenty of soup and casseroles his way.
“Good,” he says, then he grips my shoulders and slides me halfway in front of him. Probably as another hiding method. “Bakowski will have a fit if he sees me in here.”
I want to ask him why he’s here if it’s such a risk—we do have Otter radio—but Mike seems to read my mind.
“Leo and Jamie were worried about Tate. I guess he had a shitty pregame practice. I had to come see for myself. In case I can help.”
Definitely not the attitude of a selfish, stubborn former hockey player that nearly everyone in town has made him out to be. Not that I ever agreed.
“He’s not doing well, is he?” I can’t hide the worry from my voice. I turn my head to see Mike’s reaction.
He shrugs. “He’s rattled right now. Playoffs are stressful as hell for everyone, but especially for goalies. Honestly, he’s better than I was this time last year.”
That can’t be true. Mike Steller had NHL scouts watching him play in the state tournament last year. And he was only a junior. I turn back to the game, and we both watch in silence—well, not silence with this crowd and noise level. Tate pulls off a couple of good saves, and Jake Hammond makes a killer pass to Leo, who scores another goal. While the home crowd is on their feet cheering, the pep band playing, Mike steps to the side of me and nods.
“They got this,” he says, completely confident. “Claire?”
I look away from Tate and glance at Mike again. “Yeah?”
He moves to the door, and I automatically shift to block anyone’s view of Mike. “It’s cool you guys are together,” he adds.
Before I can tell him thanks, he slips out the door, quiet as a burglar. I wonder how many games he’s watched like that. I wonder when people around here will get over the fact that Mike chose responsibility and family over pursuing his hockey dreams. I didn’t realize until this moment how much he and I had in common. And the thing is, unlike Mike, I did get to leave. I experienced an entire year of college in a new city, three different student-run stage productions, band ensemble concerts, final exams. I’ve earned college credits. I should be grateful to have gotten even this much. I am grateful.
“Isaacs and Rose are as good as signed.”
I jump when I hear Keith Tanley’s familiar voice. From the corner of my eye, concealed by the back side of the rink, I spot Tate’s dad pacing, his cell pressed to his ear. I tuck myself into the hidden space Mike just abandoned.
“Clearly you underestimate my ability.” Keith laughs. “Just send them a few small gifts from the pros, ask them about it innocently, then offer to keep the violation quiet as long as they agree to sign with us in April.”
My heart bangs against my chest. I sink farther into the shadows, pressing my back against a wall.
“These are not typical hockey parents. They’re pretty clueless. It’s almost too easy.”
Oh my God.
The conversation shifts to other names I’ve never heard of, probably from different towns. I hold perfectly still, keeping myself hidden, my heart racing, my chest constricted from the attempt to breathe quietly. Finally Keith Tanley leaves to go back to sit with his buddies. My hands are shaking now, but I do the only thing I can think to do. I pull out my phone and send Tate a text he won’t get until after the game.
ME: come find me when u get done. It’s really important.
Chapter 43
–Tate–
After the game, I head over to Claire’s house. I figured she’d be at the bar, so I was surprised and worried when she messaged me, saying she had to run home. Her dad sent her a text.
Through the kitchen window, I can see Claire and Davin talking at the table. I decide to let myself in the kitchen door so neither of them has to get up.
The second I enter the house, Claire’s mom rushes in from the other room, holding a stack of photo albums.
Claire jumps out of her seat, her voice immediately escalating. “I told you, I don’t want to look at photo albums!”
Davin taps his marker hard against the notebook in front of him and looks at his wife, who speaks for him. “We’ve already got Uncle Barry drawing up the paperwork for a second mortgage. We’ll be able to get a check to Northwestern in time for the spring quarter deadline.”
Shit. What did I walk into? I glance over my shoulder at the door and debate backing away before anyone sees me. I should have knocked. I always knock.
Davin spots me and lifts his chin like he’s glad I’m here. Uh-oh. The last thing I want to do is get involved in the Claire’s going back to college chat.
Claire drops her face into her hands and groans. “Why would you do that? We’ll never recover from that hit. I bet the interest rates were—”
Davin lifts a hand, and Claire stops talking. Her mom and Davin exchange looks, and then Mrs. O’Connor nods before turning to Claire. “You dad—both of us—we’re worried about you.”
“You’re worried about me? What does that mean?
Like my health? I’m fine.” Claire stands and begins gathering her stuff, lifting her coat off the back of the chair. She tosses a glance in my direction, pleading for me to whisk her away again, I think.
My thoughts drift back to last weekend, in the cabin. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I’m ready to get Claire alone again. Tension rolls over her in big waves, and all I want to do is make her feel good. Whatever that takes.
“…you aren’t happy,” Claire’s mom says, forcing me back to the room. “You aren’t enjoying yourself.”
I’ll volunteer to help with this task.
Claire laughs. “Seriously? You guys are insane. Stop worrying about me. I’m a big girl now.”
Mrs. O’Connor shakes her head. “This is my fault. I should have never let you come home in the first place.”
“Are you kidding me?” Claire snaps. I move toward the door, but she grips my coat sleeve, holding me in place, before turning back to her mom. “What did you expect me to do? Keep going to class and play rehearsals while Dad was having his inoperable brain tumor removed?”
“Of course not,” Claire’s mom says. “But that was months ago. It’s time for things to go back to normal.”
“This is normal!” Claire throws her hands up, obviously exasperated. Something inside me is coming undone or snapping into place, I’m not sure. Claire stuffs an arm into her coat. “I can’t do this now. The bar is jam-packed—”
Davin scribbles furiously on his notepad. All three of us freeze in place, watching the words form.
Not live.
Not live?
Claire says the words out loud, her forehead wrinkled.
“Not living,” Mrs. O’Connor corrects, earning a nod from Davin. “This isn’t normal. This is you not really living.” Her mom’s face changes, the words obviously becoming hers, too, not just Davin’s. “You’re eighteen. You can’t keep living the life of someone who’s more than twice your age. We won’t let you.”
Davin flips furiously through pages in a photo album, revealing dozens of images of Claire playing a giant guitar, Claire in brightly colored dance costumes. She reaches over and slams the album shut. “Enough.”
She gets her other arm in her coat and flings open the door. Before exiting, she calls over her shoulder. “Do not sign whatever Uncle Barry is drafting up for you.”
Like last time, I follow Claire outside, but it’s like my legs are made of lead. And the house is a giant magnet pulling me back inside. She’s all the way down the walkway before she realizes I’m no longer right behind her. She spins around and looks at me. “Tate?”
I come to a complete stop, my boots now buried in snow that hasn’t been cleared from the sidewalk. My tongue is tied up and twisted.
“Sorry I made you come here,” she says. “But I really do need to hurry, and we have to talk about something—”
I glance back at the house, and this seems to stop her. “Maybe you should go back in there.”
Suspicion fills her face. “Don’t tell me you agree with any of the crap they just said?”
I open my mouth to protest, but I can’t say the words that would reassure her.
“Fine.” She turns and walks quickly away. Instead of getting into her mom’s car, she strides down the block like she’s preparing to walk to the bar.
This gets my lead legs working, and I jog to catch up with her.
“I can’t believe you, Tate. You’re supposed to be on my side. Is that so much to ask?” The anger is a cover-up. When she glances sideways at me, there’s a look of desperation on her face. She’s begging me to let her have this. But why?
“Just stop for a second, Claire.” I reach out to grip her arm gently, halting her forward movement. We’ve made it four houses away from hers. “I’m on your side. Always.”
She meets my gaze and exhales. “Thank you.”
“But…” I hesitate only a moment, but it’s long enough for her to groan. “What if your parents are right? What if you’re not letting yourself really live?”
“Why are you doing this to me?” she pleads, and I’m hit hard with a punch of guilt.
“Why are you so dead set against listening to what they have to say? Maybe they’ve got it worked out better than you think…” I have no idea what I’m saying, but I have to say something.
“And what if they do?” Claire shakes her head. “So what if they find the money, everything is great on the financial front…my dad can barely speak, he can’t get himself places, his tumor could come back.”
I lay both hands on her arms and start to slide them around her. “He’s getting better. Every time I see him, he looks stronger. Why don’t you at least think about it, maybe even for next fall—”
She jerks out of my grip. “Why don’t I? Because it’s not fair!”
Tears trickle down her cheeks. She backing away. I’ve made her cry, and now she’s about to run off. Well done, Tate. “What’s not fair? Your dad’s tumor? The money stuff?”
Claire squeezes her eyes shut. “It’s not fair for me to be doing something that…that…”
“That you love,” I finish when she doesn’t. Her parents were right. She’s sentencing herself to some kind of purgatory. Out of guilt. And what does that make me?
Silence falls between us, the cold night wind swooping right through the space between us. Instinctively, I reach for her, and for a second, she lets me. “What if you regret not going back to school?”
My arms were around her, but the moment pops like soap bubbles, and Claire’s entire body stiffens. She moves away from me.
“I’m never going to regret that,” she says firmly. “But you know what I regret?”
I shake my head.
“Being hours away when my dad thought he may only have weeks to live, or when he had an eighty percent chance of dying on the operating table,” she says. “And then he almost died again, and you know where I was?”
My stomach knots, not just from seeing more tears fall from her eyes but because I know where this is going.
“I was drunk and making out with you in the storeroom!” And the look she gives me is one of pure regret. It hits harder than I expect.
I try to keep my voice steady when I speak. “Claire, don’t do this. Don’t push me away again.”
We are so past this. I know we are.
“I just think we should talk about this,” I add as gently as possible. She’s too far away. Too ready to flee.
“Like when I wanted to talk about your dad?” Claire points out, one eyebrow shooting up.
“This isn’t the same.”
“You asked me to back off, and I did,” she says. “So I’m asking you to do the same.”
I’m about to concede and just go along with it for the present, but my hesitation speaks loud enough for Claire to hear. And a minute later, when her uncle drives past us in the tow truck and stops to check on Claire, she asks for a ride to the bar and then hops in the truck, not even giving me another glance.
I stare at the taillights of the tow trunk until they’re out of sight. I think I’m beginning to understand that guilt thing Claire’s feeling. And I’m always going to wonder if she’d be better off not here. What happens next year when I’m deciding about colleges? Will I feel guilty every time I think about the possibility of leaving just because Claire is still here?
My mom’s van is now a whole block away, and while I’m walking back to it, I get a text from Claire.
CLAIRE: I’m not pushing u away. Not if u let this go, ok? Just let it go and we’ll be fine
My thumbs hovers over the keypad on my phone, preparing to give her the reply she wants, but again, I hesitate.
And standing right there in the middle of the icy road, I can see her. Climbing behind the wheel, the tiny trunk and backseat loaded with boxes. Claire driving away. Out of Juniper Falls. My gut twists just at the idea of her leaving, of us not being…us. But still, it doesn’t feel wrong. Quite the opposite. Maybe if she’s stron
g enough to leave again, if I’m strong enough to let her go, we’ll be okay. It’s not the craziest plan ever. People do it.
I stare at my phone again. I’m gonna have to be the strong one first. I swallow the lump in my throat and tuck the phone back into my pocket without replying.
Chapter 44
–Tate–
Claire has stubbornly kept her word and not talked to me for days. I’m trying to do the same, be as firm as she is, but I’m close to caving. I would do anything she wanted me to if we could just talk about all of this. Maybe her parents have succeeded in getting through to her and she hasn’t had a chance to tell me yet. But I doubt this is true.
Maybe avoiding me is yet another method of Claire punishing herself. But I still don’t understand it. Why is she punishing herself? Because she’s healthy and her dad isn’t? Or maybe it’s like a temptation…she’s afraid if she gets a tiny dose of happiness, she’ll want more and more and eventually decide her responsibility to her family isn’t as important. Jody spit out a bunch of psychobabble to me on the phone last night that was way over my head. The only phrase I caught was “survivor’s guilt.” But I thought that only happened when someone died. I don’t know.
All I do know is a week apart and I’m trying not to go crazy from missing her. And trying to study everything I can relating to Sections coming up. Mike has been helping me this last week. He told me to watch the game tapes from last year’s Sections.
I pause the tape and then get my notebook and pencil ready to keep count.
After only a couple of minutes of watching on my laptop in the school library, something catches my attention. I back up forty-five seconds and watch the play again.
“What are you doing, Steller?” I mutter to myself. He’s left a hole wide open. This can’t be what Mike wanted me to see.
The opposition takes a shot, and it isn’t Steller who makes the save, it’s Hammond. His stick pushes forward, protecting our goal at the very last possible second.
I hit play again. Engrossed, I watch the entire first period of the game, rewinding several times. I’ve got a tally sheet, counting any goalie errors. Knowing very well what Bakowski considers a goalie error, I’ve calculated thirteen in the first period alone.