Page 75 of My Wife
As captain, I should know the answer to that question.
Instead, my mind plays on a loop, like a record’s needle stuck in the groove.
Pivot,pivot, pivot.
Records make me think of Jessica mentioning she left her record collection behind when she left California, was it?
I suddenly need to know. What kinds of records did she listen to? Jazz? Classical? Vintage rock? Joni Mitchell?
I only know that name because my sister went through a brief phase in high school and listened to “Both Sides Now” on repeat.
When I enter the loft, the scent of baked goods wraps me in a hug. It’s almost, but not quite, like coming home to Jessica’s embrace.
I scrub my hand down my face. What has gotten into me?
Pivot,pivot, pivot.
My entire career, I’ve been heading in one trajectory: domination. Hall of Fame. Ultimate success with Stanley Cup wins. Yes. Plural. I’ve wanted to break every record.
Not vinyl records, but hockey stats, figures, and top achievements. I want to see my father beam with pride rather than that look he gave me the night that changed my life—multiple lives. I’ll never forget it as long as I live … because I know he’ll never forgive me for taking away someone’s opportunity to go big.
Now, here I am, blundering along as captain and generally failing as a father.
I spot a swirly Bundt cake on the counter and am about to help myself to a slice when the door flies open.
The kid toddles in behind Jessica who still holds the cake she’d intended for Mrs. Kirby. They both look rather forlorn. I am too, when it comes to dealing with my downstairs neighbor.
“She wasn’t there?” I ask.
Jessica lets out a sigh. “She didn’t want it. Said she’s allergic.”
“To what?”
Jessica shrugs. “Nuts? Kindness?”
“You don’t put nuts in your spiced Bundt, do you?”
“I told her that.” Jessica sets down the cake and leans against the counter.
Grannie Bell and Aunt Goldie would love her. That’s a good thing. No, a great thing. But not for me. I can’t let myself travel farther down this road because it’ll only take me away from my goal of being a hockey giant.
The kid takes off his shoes and plops down to play with his blocks. Looks like he’s building a reproduction of Cobbiton if the town’s founders had consumed too much corn cider.
Jessica lifts her gaze to mine, big brown eyes shining. “I meant it as an act of goodwill. Being neighborly.”
“Even though she accused you of being a harlot.”
Jessica gasps, then tilts her head. “Well, yeah.”
“Better than a witch bride.”
Her lips crinkle. “Is it?”
I nudge Jessica with my elbow. “Hey, don’t let Mrs. Kirby get you down. Who cares what she thinks.”
Eyes plaintive, she says, “The rejection stings.”
“Mrs. Kirby doesn’t trust us after the whole incident with Elizabeth.”
