Page 88 of Breaking Away

“I’m sorry,” I say to Sonya. “That you have to hang out with me.”Someone must have told her to.

“Sorry? I’m not being forced. Quinn said you were coming tonight.”

“But you hate hockey games.”

We pass through some turnstiles. “Yes, hockey sucks.” Sonya’s lip curls. “It’s a bunch of neanderthals wanting to concuss each other. And I’m including my brother in that group.”

She knows the stadium better, leading us.

“Was it Quinn who thought I could use some company?” I wonder softly.

A recommendation from Tyler is how it started with the Seattle Blades. I got added to the hockey girlfriend’s group chat when he became captain. The invite had me grinning and hoping. Finally, I’d have a group of close friends, and we would go over to each other’s places for dinners, drink on patios, watch movies, send memes, and plan trips together. I could message someone, asking how they weregenuinelydoing, and they would reply back, wondering the same thing about me.

That didn’t happen. The Seattle Blades girlfriends were nice, and we did ask about each other, but it never felt like I could answer anything other thanI’m great. How are you?

You always had to be generically great, even when you weren’t.

More recently, I’ve been getting these messages:

What’s happening between you and Tyler?

Or long-winded defenses about him.

Tyler is so loyal. Don’t believe any stories anyone is telling you! You don’t know how great you have it. I don’t want this to be your biggest regret, sweetie. Come over and we can all talk about it!

People say that friends split up when partners separate, picking sides. In my case, it can’t be more clear. Everyone around me—maybe even both my parents—are a part of Tyler’s group.

Sonya touches my shoulder. “Hey. You went somewhere for a bit. You good?”

Oh. “Yeah.” I fiddle with my top. “I’m—yeah. Sorry.”

“Are you sure you weren’t born in Canada?” Sonya levels a stare at me as we head to our seats. “We’re the ones who are supposed to say sorry a lot.”

“Sorr—I’m working on it.”

“Good. Now you were asking if Quinn set this hang-out up, maybe because number twelve asked him to.” Sonya snorts. “Well, my brotherisa soft pile of mush, contrary to what people think. But he knows better than to influence me.”

I believe her about the mush part. You could tell Quinn was devastatingly handsome before his scar. Now, people must view him as scary. Hopefully not after they get to know him, though.

Sonya rubs her elbow. “I hate people. And you people please.”

“Is that why we should hang out?” I ask, wringing my hands.Is this some sort of experiment?

“No.” Her weight shifts between her feet, almost as if she’s nervous. But that can’t be. Sonya is the epitome of cranky confidence.

“Before you left the club, you asked Quinn about me.” Her hand slashes the air. “It was—considerate. I don’t know. Whatever. Most people don’t like me. Not that I care.”

It strikes me. I straighten. Have I somehow met another person who also finds this life awkward sometimes and struggles with making bonds? I almost want to ask her if she has no friends, but that’s so invasive and shouldn’t matter, anyway.

My shoulder lifts. “Most people don’t have anything to say about me. I’m not sure what is worse.”

We stare at each other… and then start randomly nodding.

Around us, the stadium is mostly empty. We are allowed in early because of our team access. Sonya takes a seat. I lower myself down beside her. There’s no book with her this time, I notice.

The pair of us stand out. Me, with a camera slung around my neck, and Sonya, a ballerina with a resting sour face.

Strangely, the image makes me want to smile.

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