Page 17 of Taking It To Overtime
There was Jack Spaeglin, and while he was adorable, and very non-threatening, I had still hoped to get all the way to Shady Brook without being recognized, or having any interactions other than thanking my driver. I’d just accepted that Jack was harmless when who strolls up but my goddamn ex. And yes, I could have turned down the ride, and avoided bailing in Leavenworth, but that felt even more awkward and taxing andwho knew Jack would morph from a floppy-eared pup to a pit bull the moment the car doors slammed shut?
Shopping was uneventful, thanks to Tandy’s proper prior planning, but this day is still leeching the mental strength out of me, ounce by ounce. Yes, I’m dramatic. I’m aware, but I think most people—those with good parental relationships—would expect to have their parents roll out the welcome wagon. Especially after not seeing their child in close to six months. Just a thought.
This…. This is not the welcome wagon. I might as well have just walked in the door after a regular day at the Schuyler Regional Highschool, carrying a backpack stuffed with textbooks instead of my rolling carryon. Where’s my hug? Where are happy tears? The offers to make my special cocoa? God, I’m whiny. I’ll add my bad mood to the list of things I’m blaming on Robbie Oakes. Fair or not.
Maybe coming here was a bad idea. I’ll give Dad his gift, take my parents to dinner, and head back tomorrow. I can change my flight home. I’ve done longer flights back to back in the past. I can handle the bounce to NYC and then the seven hours home to LAX. No big deal. Tandy would come get me, no questions asked. She’d show up with a lavender matcha latte and a bouquet and have us at the spa and booked for a facial before I could tell her I’d overreacted.
“Mom.” Maybe I can get this back on track. We can go grab a coffee, or take a walk. I can at least get a hug. ”It’s fine. I didn’t plan on staying here, anyway. I know space is limited. I just wanted to come say hi.” And see with my own two eyes that Daddy is okay.
And maybe grapple with what I want next for my career. I am over thirty now.
I shush my inner voice. She’s a goddamn ray of sunshine today.
Mom seems to have brightened a bit at my words. Her hands stop twisting together and she smiles as she pushes hair behind her ears. I just surprised her, that’s all. She got thrown by the past, just like I did.
“Right, right, you’ll stay with Robbie.”
Did anyone else hear the record scratch in the deafening silence? Hold on.
“Mom,” I say again, exasperation leaking into my tone. It’s harsher than I intend it to be, and my mother flinches. Shames churns in my gut and I feel like an asshole. I take a deep breath. “Robbie and I are not together. I haven’t seen him since high school.”
“You haven’t?”
I shake my head, frowning. And wince because technically it’s a lie, but the spirit of the statement is true. I am not seeing Robbie. Again. I shouldn’t have to explain this to my mom. She’s the one who held my hair back when I cried after he left. The one who rubbed my back in soothing circles. Who brought me a pint of ice cream, my favorite spoon, and wrapped me in my favorite throw blanket, and told me it was going to be okay as she pressed a kiss to my temple.
She should—
Oh.
Oh no.
She should know better unless she found out about the airport and jumped to incorrect conclusions. The handwringing is back, Mom’s brows tipped together in a frown that matches mine.
We must have been photographed.
By more than just Jack.
I knew it was a possibility, even as the blond player lifted his phone in our direction. Even as he teased about preserving memories. I knew there was a better than zero chance that otherpeople were doing the same thing. It’s not conceited, it’s reality. I’m used to being photographed, especially back in Los Angeles. Robbie is too. Of course a dual celeb spotting in the tiny Genoa Airport would be big news for anyone who recognized us. I guess I hadn’t thought about how quickly those images might find their way to my mother. I wonder if she has a Google alert for my name.
Or maybe I just didn’t care when I was settling into the warm strength of Robbie Oakes’ arms. No wonder we aren’t on the same page. No wonder our talking points are slipping past each other like ships in the wind. I thought she was talking about high school. About decades ago. She’s talking about just this morning. I was at the airport. Robbie was at the airport. Of course, he offered me a ride. I knew he was going to before he even opened his mouth.
I’d thought I was avoiding drama by not saying anything about him, instead I waltzed myself right into a disaster.
Mom saw a picture of my ex—the one she loves like her own kid—kissing the side of my face, his arms wrapped around my waist, and made the assumption I bet a lot of the internet is going to make.
That there’s something there to talk about.
I don’t haveVera’s number anymore, because of course I don’t. It’s been sixteen years. I have her old number saved, but she just doesn’t answer the text I send. That could be for any number of reasons. She could’ve changed her number after leaving this town. I almost did when I signed with the NHL after a particularly unsettling invasion of privacy, and I can only imagine she’d have had it worse than I did. It could have been when she lived abroad. Unlike Vic, I never played for a Canadian team, but I imagine she’d have needed a local number in Tokyo. And Berlin. And I wasn’t stalking, I swear. She could have deleted or blocked mine, although I’m trying not to think about this one too hard, or she is in the thick of it right now and doesn’t have time to respond. That last option feels like the worst of all.
I’m pretty sure I need to head this information off at the pass, give her a warning that we were spotted. Something. Right? Or I could let it die.
Vera’s probably used to the paparazzi. I know she gets spotted frequently, and while posing for the camera on a coffee run isn’t in her job description, she is used to being in front of a photographer. Maybe this is no big deal. I could be making something out of nothing and she doesn’t even care. I’m probably bothering a random person texting from a random number and they’re hitting block while she’s sitting down withher parents to catch up. I know she hasn’t been back to Kimmelwick since she left. I also know she gave an interview in Elle a year ago that said her parents often meet her when she’s traveling. It’s not them she left behind, it’s this place. Me.
“Call her.” Spags is vibrating next to me. “She deserves a warning.”
“I tried.” I shrug my shoulders and push my phone into my pocket. I don’t need to stare at the picture anymore. The curl of my fingers around her waist is burned into my retinas the same way the feel of her, warm and solid under my touch, is branded into my brain. She’ll respond when, or if, she responds.
“You need to try harder.”
