Page 166 of Ice Dance Hockey

“Rhett and I aren’t broken up. When he hears about this, what do you think a guy who’s super possessive of his things is gonna do about you?” I laugh. “Money, fame, power … Rhett could ruin you in his sleep.”

His eyes widen and the rise and fall of his chest picks up speed, probably remembering that time Rhett punched him in the face we don’t talk about. “He’s with Jack now, someone has more power than Rhett.”

Yeah, but it’s not Jack, it’s Maxwell. He’s one hundred percent the puppeteer behind this fresh batch of hell. Metal scrapes against the floor as I push away from the table. At least this conversation was good for something, it’s fueled me with rage, and that’s a lot better than being a mopey sad boy.

“You’d better do a fucking arm workout at the gym today—I’m going to eat a whole tub of ice cream.”

* * *

There’s now a tub of ice cream melting on my desk. I ate two whole spoonfuls without puking and I took a shower—progress. I just wish I knew what the fuck was going on. I need a change of pace and I want to see if I can still get into Rhett’s apartment, so I hop the subway to our building in the city. I have to stop by the apartment I share with Jack first, to get the key.

I grab the tongs and a set of gloves to fish the key out of Jack’s sex drawer. Good, it’s still here. I had visions of someone breaking in and stealing it. Racing up the stairs rather than taking the elevator, I bound into Rhett’s apartment. The smell of him hits me first—at least I can count on the smell of Tom Ford Oud Wood to stick like craft glitter—but next it’s the dark empty of nothingness. Nothing. The place is spotless and devoid of any furniture or belongings. I race around the apartment thinking there’s got to be something that was left, something that was missed.

But whoever took his things was thorough.

The sofa where I did my homework until I couldn’t keep my eyes open, gone. His bed where sometimes he was the little spoon, and other times he was my warm cave of safety, gone. Even his stupid Vita-Mix … every stitch of us like we were never here.

It wasn’t just his things they took; they erased us from the place. Maxwell wanted me to see this, or I bet he’d have someone living here by now.

Hardwood flooring meets my knees first and then my palms. My chest heaves and a guttural sob escapes my lungs. I’ve been telling myself none of this is real, but this makes it feel pretty fucking real. It’s hard not to doubt every moment we’ve ever had. It’s a lot easier to believe that this is just like every other time I’ve put my faith into something or someone. Where they disappear from my life and then haunt it with my favorite memories.

If you don’t make the memories in the first place, they can hurt you for the rest of your life.

My sniffles echo against the walls of the empty apartment until the sun goes down and finally dehydration kicks my brain into gear, forcing my limbs to move toward a source of water.

I slink my way downstairs to my and Jack’s apartment and pour myself a glass of water, mixing some of Jack’s electrolytes supplement into it. I mentally note the drink down so I can report it to Merc so that he doesn’t worry more than he already is.

He didn’t want to leave but did so extremely fucking hesitantly with a lot of stipulations. Text often. Call in the morning and at night—mandatory—but also anytime I want. Answer immediately if he calls. Eat at least three meals a day.

The only one I’ve struggled with is the eat part. The rest are necessary for me. I’ve also called Ari once, and Bea a few times. The kids text me often.

I don’t wanna leave yet, so I remove my jacket, slumping onto the couch. Something hits my ass. A hat brim. Ew! I know what it is and I touched it. Itouchedit. Jack’s disgusting “lucky” hat. He’s gonna be in so much shit for losing it again. An unexpected boost of joy sizzles through me—I get to rat the fucker out for this.

I freeze.

Jack would never leave without this thing. If I know anything about Jack and I like to think I do, he went on a mad hunt for this before he left for the game in Calgary, never found it, and his plan was to look for it when he got home so that Merc didn’t find out he lost it again.

Jack loses it often and when he does, he gets snappy and mean—maybe the only thing he gets mean about. Merc’s warned him about having a place for it and what would happen to it every time he loses it. But if Jack was running away with Rhett, he’d miss his plane before he’d run off into the sunset without this damn hat.

I knew it. Knew it. And this proves it. Proves they were taken.

Slipping the hat on my head—I hope to fuck Jack washes this thing—I video call Merc. My brother’s red eyes force a weak smile from me. Mercy Meyer, always trying to be there for everyone else, even when his chips are down.

For once, I’m able to step up.

“Y’know, I still haven’t figured out if you smiling is a good thing or bad thing,” he says.

“Dammit, Merc. Don’t you see what I’m wearing?”

“J-Jack’s hat. That’s Jack’s hat! Woo! Guys, Lo found Jack’s hat,” he says to the rest of the gang in the background. They all know what that means. “The captain was going on about some Friends episode Jack referenced during their call. Apparently, they have some kinda family code? He said it means safe for now, but needs help…? I didn’t really understand it, but this is something we can work with.”

Coded Friends episodes? I guess it is what a paranoid retired Navy captain would do. Jack’s family’s a tad odd, but us Meyers can’t talk. We’re not the sanest carrots in the bunch.

“You didn’t believe Jack would run off with Rhett, did you?”

“No, but … no,” he says with hard emphasis on his second no.

I know what that tiny “but” is, though. Mom. And it sucks. Neither of us wants to doubt our men, but there’s something that breaks on the inside when you couldn’t depend on a parent as a child. I don’t know that it ever gets fixed. It’s a voice that lurks, that you tell to shut the fuck up, but it doesn’t listen. I hate that voice so much and I’m gonna drown it out as best I can.

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