Page 12 of Breaking Away

The rest of the week,my pillow is traumatized by the number of times I rage-cry into it. As for my phone, it’s getting a heavy workout with the number of calls I’m getting. Most are from Tyler. Some are from unknown numbers, which I suspect are also Tyler.

Thankfully the Blades are traveling to other cities for away games, so I know there’s no chance of him showing up at my doorstep… yet. My dad doesn’t give any of his players time away from their games.

Unfortunately, not answering Tyler’s calls means Julia rings me up instead. So do the other hockey girlfriends and wives, as if they are competing to see who will get through first and secretly talking about it in a separate group chat at the same time. I ignore them all, too afraid to learn whether they knew Tyler was cheating on me this whole time or not.

Eventually, my apartment gets deliveries of flowers, chocolate, and jewelry. A man shows up outside my window singingYou’re Beautiful Just The Way You Are,a country pop song that’s recently popular on the radio. Before the second verse starts, I shut the window and go back to my pillow.

My plan is to abandon humanity and exist in the sloppiest, most comfortable of clothes until I rot on the floor, but unfortunately my mother’s birthday is next week, and she’s flying to Vancouver to support my dad as the Blades play the Wings again.

(Support is from afar since she’s not actually going to the game but waiting on standby for it to end.)

Weeks ago, I’d promised I would come along so she wouldn’t spend the trip alone by herself on her birthday. And that’s why I find myself sitting on a café patio in Vancouver with a donut on my plate, instead of being miserable and wailing alone in Seattle.

“Are you sure about canceling the wedding?” my mother asks.

I stab a fork into my donut, because if I use my hands to eat it, there will be a jelly massacre as I imagine this doughy ball of loveliness to be the less firm, doughy balls of my ex-fiancé.

“I’m not saying don’t do it,” she says. “But wait for your emotions to cool before making a final decision, Kavleen.”

What will change? He claimed we were in an open relationship! Does she really think I should take him back after that?

Maybe.

Over the years, my parents have basically adopted Tyler. They’ve called him their son as much as their future-son-in-law. He’s been around my family since high school, training with my dad in the garage after eating my mom’s pasta dinners. We were his cheerleaders as he transformed from gangly blonde marionette to hockey superstar with a six-pack. The day he and I officially started dating, my parents cried.

I’m so glad someone like you is dating Kavleen, Tyler. You’re already part of our family.

My lungs cramp as consequences cram into the already crowded space of my brain.

Is my mom more worried about losing him than him betraying me?

My donut is pummeled until jelly puddles on the plate.

Click. Clack

That’s the sound of my mother’s needles. She’s stress-knitting across from me. The gray hair near her face bounces and defies gravity, moving as a wave around her ears. Every so often, a strand sticks to her brown lipstick, and when it does, my mom drops everything and tries to pull all her loose strands back into a soft, cute little bun, fully knowing they’ll come back out right away because of her layered cut.

“Kavleen—” She sighs.

“Do you everhatehockey?” I blurt out.

She gasps.

“Sorry. Blasphemy.” Glancing around, I check to see if we’ve been caught, but no one has turned around. That’s because they don’t know who we are. Of course, my mother is my dad’s invisible extension just as much as I am Tyler’s invisible extension. Or, I was.Am not anymore.

My mother puts her needles down. “Without hockey, we wouldn’thaveeverything we do.”

The house. The cars. The vacation home.

“And your dad?—”

“Loves it,” I finish. “More than anything.”

“It’s his life’s work.”

My mother goes back to knitting, grimacing. Her knuckles are showing. Noticing them, a fresh surge of guilt fills me.

“We shouldn’t talk about this,” I decide. “It’s your birthday. This day is all about you, not me. What should we do after lunch?”

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