Page 67 of Pucking the Grump

“Oh, is it that far? I didn’t realize.” His innocent expression wouldn’t fool a toddler, and his heavy sigh is ridiculously tragic. “Never mind, then. They don’t deliver or even let other delivery drivers pick up there, so…I guess I’ll just grab something from the fridge. Like an old yogurt or a crusty piece of cheese. I’m sure the cheddar isn’t too moldy yet…”

“Oh my God, you’re terrible,” I say, laughing as I slap his ass before heading for the door. “Fine, but I’ll have to leave right now. No time to fix Barb’s pup cup or do my makeup.”

His triumphant grin is equal parts adorable and eye-roll-inducing. What must it be like to be born a golden boy? I have no idea, but at least I’m not alone in having a hard time saying no to him. And it’s not like he doesn’t spoil me every chance he gets.

“Thank you,” he calls after me. “You’re the best girlfriend ever, and you don’t need makeup to be prettier than all the princesses. Right, Barb? Remy is prettier than Ariel and Merida. Sexier, too.”

Barb barks in agreement, a fact I acknowledge with a small bow before grabbing my coat from the closet. It’s getting chillier in Portland, with the fall foliage fading from its peak and winter just around the corner.

“Thank you, Barbara,” I say. “Make sure he stays out of trouble while I’m gone.” To Stone, I add, “If I don’t have time to bring the food up myself, I’ll have Bruce bring it, okay?”

Bruce, the doorman, is a huge Badgers fan and has offered at least a hundred times to do whatever it takes to get Stone back on the ice ASAP. He thinks Stone is the glue that holds the offense together, and I can’t disagree.

“Sounds good,” Stone says. “Thank you! Love you.”

“Love you, too,” I say, the words still new enough that they make me goofy grin in the elevator.

It’s sappy.

Even sappier? A part of me suspects that hearing him tell me that he loves me is never going to get old. Not even when we are. I actually think about growing old with him, a thing that’s never crossed my mind before, but with Tyler, it feels right.

Outside, it’s a crisp, clear morning in downtown Portland, and I actually find myself grateful for the chance to take a walk before jumping straight into my car. I’ve been so busy taking care of Stone, I haven’t had time to get out and enjoy the last fading gasp of autumn.

I indulge in an amble, at first, but at the end of the block, I speed my pace, hopefully making it clear that I’m in a hurry if Roger spots me out and about. Roger, a member of the local homeless community, talks my ear off every chance he gets. I usually don’t mind—he’s a smart and interesting guy—but I don’t have time to visit this morning. Thankfully, it looks like he’s still asleep in his doorway of choice.

Portland’s homelessness situation is depressingly widespread, but Roger refuses to go to a shelter or to one of the motels Stone offered to pay for until he gets back on his feet. Roger likes his freedom and hates capitalism too much to have any interest in “getting back on his feet” in a world like this one.

The evil of capitalism is his hyper-fixation of choice, and he’s a damned convincing speaker on the topic. By the third time he lectured me about how the exploitation of vulnerable people is baked inexorably into the system, like the world’s most violent and racist Ponzi scheme, I was sold. Apparently, our economic model is so deeply broken, there’s probably no hope of fixing it. The only real answer is to tear it all down and start fresh with something new.

But starting fresh is a lot harder than it sounds.

Human beings cling to our systems, our habits, so fearful of change, we have to be dragged out of our unproductive ruts, kicking and screaming. Sure, the ruts are often muddy and cold and smell like rotten garbage, but they’re familiar, dammit, and we like familiar.

And ruts aren’t always so bad…

The rut I was in with my dad made me feel stuck and unseen, but at least I had a father. Now, if we can’t find a way to evolve, I might as well be an orphan.

Though I imagine having a dad who is alive and well, but uninterested in a relationship, would be much worse than one who’s dead. After all, I’m never mad or upset with my mother. I know she would have given anything to be here for me. She just can’t be.

Cancer made that choice for her.

For all of us.

It hits me all of a sudden how sad it would make her…to know that Dad and I are struggling like this. She wouldn’t want us to give up on each other, not ever.

The thought is barely through my head when I push through The Grainhouse’s front door to see none other than my father sitting at a table by the window.

Across from him is Grammercy, who takes one look at my face and surges to his feet, nearly knocking his chair over in his haste to escape whatever emotional tsunami is about to hit.

“Sorry about the ambush,” he blurts out, already maneuvering around me and reaching for the door. “Stone made me do it. Well, he didn’t make me, exactly, but I owed him for saving my ass at the game, so I couldn’t very well say no.” His gaze darts between Dad and me. “Don’t be pissed, Coach. From what I heard, it sounds like this is for you own?—”

“You’re excused, Grammercy,” my father cuts in, his voice as calm and cool as ever.

Only someone who knows him well would be able to see the hint of worry in his gray eyes or the tension in his jaw.

But I do know him well, and I’d bet my annual bonus he’s as surprised to see me as I am to see him.

“Right. Thanks, Coach. Bye, Remy,” Grammercy says.

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