“Yeah, well, keep me the hell out of it,” I say. “If I never hear the ‘M’ word again, it’ll be too soon.”
If I had to guess right now, I’d say they’ll be married by the end of next season, but I let it drop. The last thing I want is to spend nine hours sat next to the happiest couple in the world talking about their goddamn wedding plans.
We make our way to the gate and join the queue. I hang back behind Ryan and Jen, feeling like a third-wheel, which only pulls thoughts of Vicky into my head.
I pull my phone out again and do the usual sweep of her socials; some part of me hoping that she’s posted something within the past few minutes, but she hasn’t. I quickly abandon the scrolling and shove my phone away again, waiting for the line to move.
“Sorry, everyone. Please can you take a seat? We’ll be with you as quickly as we can.” A woman dressed in the get-up for Air Transat waves everyone away, causing the line to disperse with a load of groans.
I slump down into the nearest seat and drop my head into my hands. This only prolongs the inevitable for Vicky and me. Figuring out how to be friends might be difficult for us, as our relationship has never been purely platonic.
I’d spent a few years trying not to look at Vicky. Johnny had done the classic thing of warning everyone off even looking at his sister when she first started hanging around at the barn. He wasn’t the only one on the team with a sister, and he wasn’t the only one to stipulate that his sister was off limits. But then she kept coming over to my house after practices; not that she really wanted to, but my mom always offered for her to come along with Johnny. It’s only recently that I realised it was likely for Vicky’s benefit since her dad was always keen to get away. Tuesday evening practices were ‘hand-over’ days. Vicky’s mom would pick her and Johnny up after practice, but she wasn’t always on time. My momwould always invite both of them back with us for dinner or whatever.
It took my mom a year to find out about my crush on Vicky. I made the mistake of asking for a haircut, much to Ryan’s disgust, and my mom immediately knew there was a girl involved.
“Who is it?” Ryan had asked from the front seat of our mom’s truck.
“No one,” I’d lied.
But he didn’t drop it. “Is it Candice Knowles?” He’d thrown out random names of girls from school, but every single time I said no. I half debated throwing him a false lead, terrified that he’d finally say Vicky’s name and my face would betray me, but I figured that’d make things worse. It was only when my brother had jumped out of the truck to get us some water from a service station that mom turned in her seat and came out with it.
“I won’t tell him. I don’t want to embarrass you.”
I tried to deny it at first. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mom.”
She gave me a knowing look. “Vicky’s very special, sweetie. But she’s fragile. She needs someone to look out for her and I sure as heck know that could be you.”
I remember feeling the blood rush to my face, turning my cheeks hot with embarrassment. “Please don’t tell Ryan or Johnny,” I squeaked.
She said nothing after that, just winked at me via the rear-view mirror. We drove off in silence after Ryan got back in.
“Are you okay, Lee?” Jen’s soft voice is quiet, but it’s enough to rouse me and bring my focus back.
“Yes,” I lie, but Jen clearly knows this. My eyes sweep over Ryan who’s pacing with his phone pressed up against his ear.
“How’s your dad? Did the visit go okay?” Jen asks, and I fill her in. It was uneventful but it was good to see him.
“Did you see Vicky when you were in Abbotsford? Did she reach out to meet up?”
“What? She’s been in Canada?”
“Yeah. I think she went to Abbotsford for a bit.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“No,” Jen says. “She went to spend some time with her mum, but she said it wasn’t all that successful.”
I don’t know how much Jen knows about Vicky’s parents, so I don’t offer any further information.
I pull out my phone and bring up my text window with Vicky, I want to message her and ask her about her trip back home. I type out three different messages before deleting them all. Instead, I message my buds from the Marlies before pocketing my phone, feeling completely deflated. I wonder why she didn’t tell me she was going home. I guess it’s none of my damn business, really.
The ‘ding-dong’ sounds again, and we line up to board. Anxiety sits heavy in my chest because I want to ask Vicky all the questions. What did she do in Abby? Did she get to spend any time with her mom? Is she looking to move back to Canada? I’m not sure why I want to ask her these questions, but I know that I’ll be spending the next nine hours worrying about her.
Vicky
If someone had told me last Christmas that I’d be standing here taking photos of my ex-boyfriend’s—no, ex-fiancé’s—jersey, I wouldn’t have believed them. The last person I want to see every day is Liam Preston, so, of course, I have to see him every fucking day.
I reach out and touch the lettering on his sweater: L. Preston, 46. It’s the first time I’ve had to photograph it in this way, and it feels surreal. It’s like I need to pinch myself to check I’m not dreaming. The way the fabric feels in my hands reminds me it’s all so very real, because my nipples harden, and memories of all the jerseys he’s worn over the years—that I’ve worn over the years—come flooding back. I drop my hand as if the material is too hot to touch.