“What?”
“That you’re so cool,” his voice wavers and certainly he regrets saying it, but it’s done and out there. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Not like that. You just seemed so tense and rigid when we met—”
“I was having an off day that afternoon.” I wince, the humiliation lingering.
“Yes, you were.” He laughs louder. “What luck, eh? That second time in the bathroom—it had to be so uncomfortable for you.” He’s full belly laughing but I can’t. I’m dying.
“It was the ladies’,” I defend myself but it’s weak.
“Oh I agree.” He holds a hand up. “It was totally my fault. I never locked the doors.” He shakes his head, chuckling. “At least it was just you. Imagine if it was Matt’s mom or worse, his sister-in-law?” He jokes and I relax a bit and convince myself his joking around means he sees me as one of the guys. A safe spot my whole life when it came to other hockey players.
“What’s the deal with Matt’s mom and sister-in-law?” I keep the conversation flowing in that direction. “Are the sticks permanently lodged or do they have new ones put up there every morning?”
“New ones every morning, I imagine. They probably have different kinds of sticks for different moods.”
“Why bother having moods if the Botox prevents you from expressing them?” I say cruelly and we grin at each other. “That was mean, wasn’t it?”
“It was.” And our eyes stay locked for a second too long. “So you’re funny, a great dancer, an all-star hockey player, and an assassin.” He beams back. “You should have led with that the first day.”
Was that flirting?
“Oh my God, I want to pretend it didn’t happen.” Am I flirting?
“Me too.” He sneers. “Shouting at you on the docks like you were some paparazzi who snuck in to sneak photos. What a dick.”
“No, you were protecting your friend, an admirable quality,” I defend him which visibly surprises us both when we stare at each other again.
Somehow conversing and being nice to one another isn’t making the awkwardness go away. It’s intensifying, securing my expectation we’re totally going to kiss.
Our hollow footsteps fill the uncomfortable silence until we reach the end of the dock, and as luck would have it, no one else is here yet. He flings out his blanket and I do the same. I fold mine in half to make it extra comfy.
“Good call.” He does the same then offers me a beer.
“I’m good, thanks. Taking a bank holiday from drinking for liver health.” I place my water next to me and lie back, adjusting to the firmness of the dock despite my blanket.
There are no lights out here and the restaurants and houses are far enough away that they don’t interfere with the sky.
The lake laps with the gentle breeze, and we lie next to each other like embarrassed summer camp kids who are far enough apart we feel the extra distance we added so as not to make it weird, but now it is.
“The last time I saw the sky this clear I was in Tofino,” I offer, filling the silence.
“I love it there.”
“When I was there, it was my first time doing mushrooms.” I laugh. “I was sixteen and we had a game in Port Alberni. Our coach took us to Tofino to stay at his friend’s resort. One of the guys on my team had a friend who lived there, and he got us some drugs to do on the beach. We snuck out and got high and listened to the waves. It was trippy.”
“If you don’t do mushrooms in Tofino as a teenager, are you even Canadian?”
“No.” I sigh. “Do you miss the West Coast now that you’re in New York?”
“I don’t miss life there. You know? Like New York is such a center and it feels like the world revolves around it. I do miss the ocean back home and how it seems colder and fresher. And how the rain clears the air there, whereas on the East Coast, it makes it heavier and you’re never free of it.” He turns to face me. I don’t look, but I hear the wrinkle of the blanket and see movement in my peripheral. “Apparently, I only miss the weather. How about you?”
“I don’t miss the weather, but I miss the island. I never go back.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a long story.” I don’t want to talk about it, but when I turn my head, he’s staring as if waiting patiently for his entertainment. “Fine.” I laugh. “I grew up in Port McNeill and my brother left when I was starting grade twelve. He and his band began touring once they found a permanent drummer.” I pause wishing I hadn’t said that.
“Was that a problem?”
“Good drummers are tough to find.” I glance back at the stars. “Anyway, my dad was retiring from the RCMP that year. So right before my graduation, he went home to Nova Scotia for a high school reunion and met up with Judith, his old classmate. I guess he and Judith were high school sweethearts and had wondered about each other over the years. As soon as I left for college, he sold the house on the island and moved to Halifax to be with her. They got married a few months later. Their wedding was precisely two years after my mom died, to the day.” I wish I’d left the last part out. It’s too real to share.
“Two years after she died?” He’s outraged for me.
“Yup.”
“Wow.” He whistles and maybe wants to add his thoughts but doesn’t. “How’d she die? Your mom?”
“Cancer. It was a long fight, five years. In the end, she made us promise we would do all the things we wanted. We would live to the fullest.” Tears threaten my eyes so I focus on the sky, not daring to look
