Page 37 of Cross Checking

“Bye, Erik. See you.”

Fuck, why did he have to say that last part? My fingers white-knuckle the cart as I contemplate missing my flight.

Instead, I give Luke a sad, pathetically weak wave before spinning around and running into the terminal.

I join the check-in line for the Paris flight and hold back tears, doing square breathing to calm myself down, and I manage not to freak anyone out with a sad outburst the entire way to Stockholm.

But appearances can be deceiving because Luke crosses my mind whenever the tiniest thing reminds me of him.

At the gate where I see someone wearing the same color sweater that he always wears.

On the flight to Paris because his name is French.

During my layover, where it seems like every other traveler is Canadian.

And even when I land in Stockholm, the baggage claim area is plastered wall-to-wall in “Visit Toronto” ads because the national airline is launching a direct flight next month. If I wasn’t so numb inside, I’d take it as a sign.

Instead, I send Luke a sad text because I promised I’d update him.

Just landed

Right as I’m debating adding on a “miss you already,” my well-worn hockey bag flops out onto the carousel, and I amble over to collect it. The rest of my bags follow soon after, and I walk out to meet my parents, guilty at not feeling more excited to see them.

“Welcome back, Erik,” Mom says as she pulls me into a hug.

“Thanks, it’s good to be home,” I lie, my words falling flat even to me. Dad claps a hand on my shoulder as we head for their car, chatting about the flight and if I want to move closer to Alvik.

The drive to the house in Lidingö is quiet, and when we pull into the driveway, I’m not relieved. Instead, there’s a tangled knot in my stomach, and Luke isn’t here to help me make it go away like last time.

Mom puts on a pot of coffee when we get inside, and Dad disappears into his office for a while, leaving the two of us alone in the kitchen.

“You’re not yourself, Erik,” she says. “What’s bothering you?”

“I’m tired.” I try to brush it off. “Couldn’t sleep on the plane.”

She isn’t buying it, and I don’t blame her.

“This is different. Last summer, you came back after two layovers and a five-hour delay, and you were still overjoyed when you landed. What’s going on?”

Before I can respond, Dad returns to the kitchen and sits down across from me, his expression serious. They’re both waiting for me to speak, but I don’t know how to start.

After a long silence, I find my voice. “I met someone in Toronto.”

Mom’s eyebrows raise slightly. “And you care about him.”

I nod. “He’s a great guy. Loved every second I spent with him.”

Dad exhales slowly, rubbing his chin. “How long were you together?”

I nod again, unable to think of any words. When I do, it comes out in a rush. “We met in September, and I was going to make things official with him the same day I got the damn call that brought me back here.”

Both of my parents glance at each other, surprised. There’s a pause, and then Dad speaks up. “That’s… really tough. I’m sorry. It might not feel like it now, but it’ll pass.”

“I liked him so much,” I murmur.

Mom jumps in, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder that doesn’t do anything to dissolve the churning in my core. “I wish I could say something to make this better,” she says. “But what you need is time.”

I manage a weak nod and then sip my coffee. Hopefully, time will be enough to set me right.

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