Page 2 of Winter Longing
Cole and Aunt Rosie sipped their coffee and talked about the impending snow, they dissected the Buffalo Bills’ game from last Sunday, and Cole updated Rosie on Jenna Volkosh, the wife of a firefighter who’d been struck by a vehicle several weeks ago and was still recovering, all before their breakfasts were served.
Rosie then launched into a predictable recitation of her schedule for the week, which had her going morning, noon, and night, mostly with church activities, lunch dates, and her regular volunteer duties at different churches, two libraries, one school, and the Friends of the Night soup kitchen. Retirement hadn’t slowed her down. She had a sweatshirt that said,Stop Me Before I Volunteer Again. It basically summed up her life: service to others.
She’d never had children, and her husband was gone now more than twenty years. Marty Patronik had one day been painting their house when he stepped off the ladder, called into the house he was running out for cigarettes, and drove off, never to return. While Rosie had been devastated at first, numbed by pain and confusion, when six months later she’d received divorce papers from an attorney’s office in Nevada, she’d gotten over it. “Took him long enough,” she’d begun to joke then. “I don’t know how many maps and glossy brochures of resorts on the other side of the country I’d left in his car before he got the hint.”
All in all, she was exceptional. And honest to God, though Cole sometimes thought the hand he’d drawn in life sucked, that he lost his mom so young and then his dad when he’djust turned eighteen, that he had no siblings, and yeah, that he sometimes even at almost thirty years old felt like an orphan, he was grateful all the time to have Rosie in his life. If he was only to have this one person, she was perfect, filling every role admirably, generously, and most of all, happily.
“And what ever happened with that date with...ah—what was her name?” she asked when they were nearly done with their breakfasts. “The dental hygienist?”
“Sarah,” Cole supplied and grimaced.
“I assume since I haven’t heard anything,” Rosie said as she pushed her plate off to the side, “that she didn’t light your fire.” She winked at him.
Cole smirked. “No, she did not. No fire at all to speak of.” Ah, and there had been such promise. Sarah was gorgeous, smart, and initially seemed really fun. But about fifteen minutes into dinner, she’d pulled out her phone and barely put it down the rest of the night. By the end of dinner Cole had felt like he’d spent the evening with the top of her head.
“I had better conversations with the waiter,” Cole said, half-amused, still half-pissed about her rudeness.
“Idiot,” Rosie concluded with a roll of her eyes. “No worries. And no rush. You’ll find her. She’s out there, the perfect girl for you. You’ll know it when you meet her.”
Cole shrugged dismissively at his aunt's words. He wasn’t desperate for a wife, not like some of his friends who had gotten married young and were already raising kids and navigating marriage, family, and jobs. But he knew, in a quiet corner of his mind, that he wanted a family someday.
The thing was, with his lacrosse career, timing had never felt right. The last few years with the Bandits had been a whirlwind—championship seasons, his MVP award, and the high of playing at his best—but lacrosse wasn’t like football or baseball. It didn’t come with a massive salary or great prospectsof career longevity. He wasn’t delusional. He knew the younger guys coming up behind him were faster, hungrier, and ready to take his spot when he started to slow down. And thirty was creeping up on him fast. He’d always told himself he’d focus on a relationship after the season ended, after the next big game, or when his contract was up. He liked the idea of a wife, a partner, kids, even. But he knew there was no urgency at the moment—or at least he didn’t feel that way. And yet, while he didn’t want to rush into anything just because his friends were settling down, he also didn’t want to wake up one day and find out he was too late.
But then, the bottom line, to which Rosie had just alluded: he simply hadn’t found anyone that he wanted to make a priority in his life right now.
Just as Cole took another sip of coffee, the diner’s door swung open with a gust of cold wind, and a familiar voice boomed through the small space.
“Cole!” Was shouted across the diner, in the same drawn-out manner the fans did at the Bandits’ game when Cole scored or made a great play. “Knew I’d find you here, dude,” said Hank “Tank” Morrison as he strode toward the table, his grin easy, natural. Without hesitation, he plopped down onto the end of the booth seat next to Cole’s aunt, uninvited, and helped himself to a few leftover home fries from Rosie’s plate. “Morning, Rosie,” Hank said with a wink, unabashedly popping the home fries into his mouth. “As beautiful as ever.” He flashed a charming grin, the kind that made everyone forgive his brashness.
It wasn’t unusual for one or more of the guys from the firehouse to join them for breakfast. In fact, it was rare that Cole and his aunt were able to dine alone. Aunt Rosie knew and loved all the guys and they her. If Cole was forced to cover a shift and miss their breakfast date, Aunt Rosie would invariably stop by the house with a tray of cookies, packages of bagels and creamcheese, or sometimes an entire casserole, enough to feed the whole crew.
“Hank,” Rosie greeted her former pupil with a chuckle. “I swear you sniff out leftovers. Help yourself,” she said belatedly, though there was hardly any chastisement in her tone.
“Sharing is caring,” Hank replied as he did indeed help himself, picking up the fork Rosie had used and digging into the mound of fried potatoes with peppers and onions.
Hank was built like a tank—his nickname fit him well. Broad shoulders, thick arms that strained the fabric of his Buffalo Fire Department hoodie, and a beard that made him look like he could handle anything life threw at him, from raging fires to bar fights.
“Cole, I’m serious about the Scotland thing,” Hank said around the food in his mouth. “Come with me.”
Rosie frowned at her nephew. “What Scotland thing?”
Tank turned his head, facing Rosie, his beard scraping his shoulder. “Doreen’s gone. Kaput.Finito. But we had plans for a trip to Scotland—her idea, by the way—and I’m stuck with everything. It’s all paid for. Flights, hotels, tours—everything. Doreen bailed, and I’ve been bugging this knucklehead to go with me.” He turned his attention to Cole. “C’mon, man. I’m not doing Scotland by myself.”
Cole shook his head, deflecting with, “He only asked me because I’m the only guy he knows with a current passport.” More seriously, he refused Tank again. “I can’t, man. I told you; I’ve got the tile guy coming to redo the bathroom floor next week. We’ve got Steve’s stag this weekend and I’m back to work next Wednesday.” He also wasn’t a big fan of last minute, big plans.
Hank groaned dramatically and grabbed a napkin from the table to swipe at an imaginary tear. “Come on, dude. Don’t leave me hanging. We’ll hit the Highlands, drink some whisky, forgetabout snow and everything Buffalo for a whole week. Craig said he’d cover your shifts—you’ve got vacation days, I know. Jesus, if anyone needs a vacation, it’s you.” He shot Rosie a wink. “Am I right, or am I right?”
Rosie laughed softly and tilted her head at her nephew. “Hank is right, actually. You should take a break. I can be at your house when the tile guy comes.”
Cole glanced down at his coffee, trying to think of other reasons he couldn’t go. The idea of heading to Scotland had its appeal, sure, but he wasn’t exactly eager to jump on a plane and head halfway across the world at the drop of a hat. Then again, it wasn’t like he had anything really keeping him here, nothing that couldn’t be missed or rescheduled, or apparently, taken care of by his aunt.
Hank, clearly sensing the hesitation, leaned in closer. “Worst case, we hit some pubs, see some castles, and have ourselves a wee good time,” he said, employing at the end what turned out to be a terrible Scottish accent. “Back in time for Thanksgiving.”
Rosie aided and abetted Tank, adding her own encouragement. “When would you have an opportunity like this again? Do it. Go. And don’t whine to me if you don’t and then regret it.”
Reluctantly conceding, Cole nodded, hoping he wouldn’t regret it. Tank could be a lot to handle—he always ran on full throttle, was loud, brash, and assertive, and never did anything halfway. Whether it was fighting fires, hitting the gym, or tossing back beers, Tank operated like life was a competition, and Cole didn’t know if traveling with him would be an adventure or a headache.
“I guess I’m going to Scotland,” Cole said, the smile he forced being larger than what he felt.
