Page 38 of Center Ice
When I make it to my car, where it’s wedged into the tiny lot with too-small spaces, I collapse into the seat. If Lauren wasn’t at my house, waiting for me to return so she could go home to her own family, I’d probably lock the doors, close my eyes, and sleep. But I can’t. Instead, I back out of the space, using all my strength to turn the steering wheel, and then head out onto the street.
I have my car call Lauren’s cell, and when she answers, I tell her I’m on my way home. “Is Graham in bed yet?”
“No. Should he be?”
I glance at the clock on the dash, realizing that I’m thrown off because I’ve left dance early. There’s still half an hour before his bedtime. “No.” The word sounds like defeat rolling off my lips.
“What’s wrong?” Lauren asks, and I can picture the look of concern on her face.
“I’m sick.”
“Oh no. Think you have strep?”
“No idea.”
“Want me to take Graham back to our house? Jameson can bring him to school in the morning. It’s right by his office.”
Tears leak out of the corner of my eyes. I’m so thankful for the offer that I almost can’t respond. I don’t get sick. I haven’t felt this bad since I had the flu in college, and so I’d forgotten how much it sucks.
“Yes, please. His antibiotics are on the counter in the kitchen. Will you bring one for him to take in the morning? I don’t want him to miss a dose.”
“Okay,” she says, then I hear her call out to Graham, “Hey, Bud, your mom isn’t feeling good. How about I bring you back to my house for a sleepover? You can wake Iris and Ivy up in the morning with donuts!”
The tears roll down my face, and I don’t bother wiping them away. I have the best freaking family.
“Thank you.” The words are a whisper, but she must hear them because she tells me that’s what friends are for.
And when I get home, she’s already left with Graham. I force myself to go up the back stairs and into my house, where I collapse on the couch and give in to the exhaustion.
Chapter Eighteen
DREW
“Iwasn’t expecting to see you here tonight,” Jameson says as he comes to a quick stop in front of me. His words are casual, but his tone is laced with suspicion.
“Didn’t we decide I was going to volunteer with the team when I wasn’t traveling?”
“You know Audrey’s not going to be here tonight, right?” he asks.
This feels a bit like a trap. “Why would I know that?”
“I thought you two talked.”
“Not often enough that I know her whereabouts,” I say right as Graham skates up, grabbing onto Jameson’s leg with both arms.
“I had strep throat,” he tells me.
I almost say,I know, but catch myself. Jameson doesn’t need to know that Audrey texted me Sunday to thank me for the children’s ibuprofen I’d left on her back steps that morning, and again as they left the doctor’s office to tell me the diagnosis.
“Oh yeah? Are you feeling better now?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’m not con-tay-jus anymore.” He struggles over the word. “But now Mom is sick. I’m staying with Uncle Jameson and Aunt Lauren again tonight so she can rest.”
“Oh no. Does she have strep too?”
Graham shrugs right as Jameson mutters something about her being too stubborn to go to the doctor. I’m about to ask more questions, but Jameson picks that time to start practice. So instead, I spend the next hour working with six- and seven-year-olds on some basic shooting skills while worrying about Audrey and why she hasn’t gone to the doctor if she’s sick.
And when it’s time to leave, I drive straight to her place. I call her when I’m a couple of blocks away, but she doesn’t answer. So I send her a text instead.
