Page 22 of Absolutely Not in Love
“You would know better than I would,” Summer says. “I’m just saying there are some crazy fans on Tiktok, and some of these videos look like they’re about Felixspecifically.” She looks up from her phone. “Is there a goalie fetish? Is that a thing?”
“If there is, I don’t know anything about it,” I say.
A beat of silence stretches between us while I wrestle with my inexplicable jealousy, broken only by the soft strains of Bach floating through the living room wall. The truth is, there probably are women throwing themselves at the plexiglass at Appies games. But I’m guessing that’s probably true for all professional sports. There’s something appealing about the energy and effort and dedication required for that level of elite athleticism.
And goalies do have their own brand of sexy. At least, I thought they did when I was a teenager, even if I was loath to admit it out loud. “When I was growing up, I was always impressed by the kids who were willing to play goalie,” I finally say. “Josh never wanted to. Said it was too much pressure—especially because the younger the team, the weaker their defensive skills are, so goalies are often the only thing between a win or a loss. But the goalies always seemed like they had this quiet confidence.”
“I mean, I’ve only been around him for a minute or two, but thatdefinitelysounds like your neighbor,” Summer says.
Based on tonight’s interaction, Summer’s observation rings true. Felix has seemed nervous a few times before, but tonight, when he leaned into my apartment and told me he hopes I change my mind about hockey players,thatwas the confidence I might expect to see in a goalie. And it wasdead sexy.
On the other side of the wall, the music shifts into the second of Bach’s six cello suites. It isn’t as well known as the first, but it’s still one of my favorites to play. I suddenly wonder if he’s ever heard me playing it, if maybe his music selection for this evening was intentional.
“I played this for my All-State Orchestra audition my junior year,” I say softly, pointing toward the wall.
“That was the year you met my mom, right?” Summer asks. “When she did the cello workshop?”
I nod. “It was also the year Josh’s hockey team went to the playoffs.”
Summer frowns. “Based on the tone of your voice, this story doesn’t have a happy ending.”
“Nope. You still want to hear it?”
She bites her lip, then nods. “Tell me. I think youneedto tell me, and that makes me want to listen.”
I take a deep breath. “So, All-State was up in Boone every year, and the district used an activity bus to get us all there on Friday afternoon. Between the two high schools, there were thirty of us who made it through auditions and were selected for the orchestra. Once there, we rehearsed all weekend, spent two nights in a hotel, then rehearsed Sunday morning until our concert that afternoon. Of course, our families were invited to the concert, so the understanding was that after our performance, we could ride home with our parents.”
Summer leans forward and tucks her arms around her knees, pulling them to her chest, her gaze trained on me. “Your family didn’t come, did they?”
“They were at Josh’s regional playoff game in Asheville. He was a senior, and if they’d lost, it would have been his last game on the team. That was the reason they gave me. I’d have lots of performances, but they couldn’t miss what might be Josh’slast game.Which I maybe understood, I guess. But…” I shake my head, hating that years later, I can still conjure up the loneliness that trailed me that weekend. “All I know is that I rode the activity bus back to Harvest Hollow alone,” I say. “Thirty kids from two high schools, and I was the only one with no one there. It was just me and two teachers. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so lonely.”
“Gracie, it’s not cool they did that to you,” Summer says. “It’s not. Your stuff was important, too.”
I let Summer’s words wash over me, and for once, I recognize the truth of them. For a long time, I thought maybe I was the problem. But Summer’s right. It wasn’t cool. All the times they made me feel less than, like my things weren’t as important simply because they didn’t understand them—that wasn’t good parenting.
But there isn’t anything I can do about it now. As far as I see it, I can let my frustration and bitterness completely ruin the relationship I have with my parents, or I can accept it for what it is, set healthy boundaries where I need them, and move on.
For the most part, it’s working. I’m even finding ways to focus on the positive and recognize that, in their own way, my parentsdidtry.
They paid for my lessons. They bought my first cello. They paid for half of my education when I got a music degree.
That’s not nothing.
But I will always be a mystery to my parents. No one else in my family likes classical music. No one else plays an instrument or listens to anything but Spotify’s curated list of recent hits. I was so different from my brother, it’s no wonder they had no idea what to make of me.
When they thought I wasn’t listening, my parents joked about how I must have been swapped at birth. Somewhere out there, two classical musicians were wondering how they wound up with a daughter who dreamed of hockey skates and slept in Appies jerseys every night.
Still, I can’t expect them to become different people any more than they can expect me to become the world’s greatest hockey fan.
I will always choose the symphony, and they will always choose wearing matching jerseys and watching the Stanley Cup over plates of pigs in a blanket and chips and queso.
But this life that I’m building for myself can be different. It can be whatImake it.
“It’s okay, right?” I ask, shifting my attention back to Summer. The earlier buzz of the wine has worn off, making me sleepy and a little melancholy. I sniff against an unexpected wave of emotion. “It’s okay if I just want to move on from that part of my life, right? I’m sure Felix is a nice guy. But there are so many reasons why it would be complicated. I don’t want complicated.”
Summer studies me for a long moment. “It’s totally okay,” she says. “A part of me wants to tell you that you shouldn’t let your past keep you from an incredibly hot guy who seems interested, especially because the guy in question seems like more than just a pretty face. But I also trust you. If you say he’s not the man for you, then he’s not the man for you. And I won’t mention him again.”
I push down a surprising pulse of sadness as I consider her words. But that’s dumb. I shouldn’t be sad because Felix Jamison is not the man for me.
