Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“That’s… wow.” But no pressure. “It’s nice to see her so energetic.”
“Isn’t it? You know how she gets in the summer.”
“Yeah. I do.”
My father sighs. “The lead-up to the wedding has been so hard on her.”
“Oh, I know it.” We just need to get her through the next four days without a total breakdown.
“You probably don’t remember, but before Danny died, she and Maribel had started a scrapbook of wedding ideas. You know—pictures of flowers and dresses. Your mother kept it.”
“Oh, hell.”
“She offered it to Maribel when she announced her engagement.” My father sighs. “Maribel wasn’t all that interested in having it, and your mother cried.”
Jesus Christ. “Dad, Maribel isn’t super interested in wedding planning. She told me that herself.”
He shrugs. “Anyway, it’s good of you to visit at this difficult time. Your new girlfriend seems really nice.”
“She’s the best,” I agree without hesitation. “I’d better rescue her before Mom starts another wedding binder.”
My father laughs. It’s funny because it’s true.
We go inside, where I find Darcy and Mom in the dining room looking at the decades of family photos on the wall.
“Eric,” Darcy says, scandalized, in front of a row of portraits. “You lied to me.”
“Did I?”
“You were a hottie in middle school, and I feel robbed. There is not a single mullet on this wall. Or even a bad case of acne.”
“I’m so sorry to let you down.”
My father guffaws.
“On the other hand…” Darcy steps closer to one of the frames. “Your high school fashion sense was a little shaky. Particularly this one.”
I move closer so I can see what she’s looking at, even as she holds up her phone and captures a shot of me in a terrible striped shirt. “Hey! That was Halloween. My friend and I were Bert and Ernie.”
“Your teammates won’t know that,” she says, tucking her phone away. “I’m using it for your team birthday poster this year.”
“Oh God! Nobody tell her when my birthday is.”
“It’s September seventeenth,” she says smugly. “Who do you think processes the player IDs?”
My mother hoots.
“Besides—you’re such a Virgo. Meticulous. Reliable. Perfectionist.”
“It’s true!” my mother agrees fondly. “Eric always had his homework done. Now Danny, on the other hand…”
Both my parents laugh.
“Look, Darcy,” my mother says. “This is our Danny.” She beckons Darcy toward another photograph on the wall—a hockey picture. My brother—darker hair, but with the same cocky Tremaine smile as I have—hoists a shiny tournament cup over his head, laughing. “The coach called him a generational talent. But he loved to have fun, too. Always a kind word for everyone.”
I’ve heard this speech so many times. It’s mostly true, though. Danny was a fantastic hockey player. And Danny usually did have a kind word for everyone—even his annoying little brother. That’s why I struggle with what to say to my mother sometimes. We all lost someone amazing. But she buried a child. And I don’t know how you get over that.
Maybe you just don’t.
After my mother’s rich cooking and a glass of wine, I feel about five pounds heavier. But then there’s pie, and I dutifully eat a slice of that, too.
“It’s soooo good,” says Darcy appreciatively. “And you can’t usually find strawberry rhubarb pie.”
“I grow my own rhubarb,” my mother says proudly. “But the strawberries were from the store.”
I keep sneaking looks at Darcy while she and my mom chat about fruit pies. What’s weird about this moment is how it doesn’t feel that weird. It should be a shock to sit in my childhood kitchen with Darcy and my parents, but somehow it isn’t.
If you think about it, though, we’ve already traveled the continent together. All those trips on the team jet. Bleary mornings and early practices. We’ve shared cramped charter buses and delayed flights and the weird intimacy of two a.m. take-out food after overtime losses.
We already know so many things about each other. I know she prefers herbal tea in the evenings. I know she brings a backup phone charger on every road trip because someone always forgets theirs, and I know which snacks she packs in her carry-on.
I know she reads romance novels on long flights but hides the covers. I know she has a tiny scar above her left eyebrow.
And, sure, maybe it’s weird that I have her favorite pie memorized. But when my mother asked me her preferences, I didn’t even hesitate.
Darcy pushes her empty plate away. “I couldn’t eat another bite. Let me help with the dishes.”
“You don’t have to do that,” my father says.
“I insist.”
I rise and put a hand on Darcy’s shoulder. “You can help for a few minutes, but then I’m stealing you away somewhere.”
“Where?” she demands, gathering the pie plates from the table.
“You’ll see. Give me ten minutes.”
I pop out to the garage for a moment, opening the extra refrigerator to look for… there it is. I pull out a frozen Ziplock and carry it into the kitchen. Then I grab a bowl and fill it with hot water, popping the baggie inside. “Brought you something,” I say to Darcy, who’s loading the dishwasher while my mother beams.