“Dad, wait.” My whole family looks at me. “I’m sorry, but I can’t go to law school. I know that’s disappointing to you, and I know it means I’ll have to pay my own way to finish school, but it just isn’t me. It’s a dress that is really pretty, but it doesn't fit. I’ve been trying to make it work, but it just doesn't fit. I want to keep my channel, because I love it and I’m good at it, and between that and some loans, I’m going to earn my marketing degree.”
There’s silence. Then everyone starts talking at once, but none of it registers as anything more than noise because my head is still ringing. There’s shuffling beside me, and I look over to see Jake standing up. Half the restaurant is probably staring at our train wreck of a table, but I can’t even bring myself to care.
“I’d like to make a toast,” my slightly-tipsy brother says, as though that’s remotely appropriate right now. I see Trev pulling on Jake’s arm, whisper-yelling something, but I can’t quite make it out.
Seemingly annoyed that no one is listening to him, Jake taps his tumbler of whiskey with his knife, the clanging sound grabbing everyone’s attention.
“Jacob,” my mother hisses, “now is not the time!”
“It is, though. It’s fucking past time.”
“We’ll talk about this at home,” my dad says the phrase I’ve been hearing from him since my early childhood. He says something to Nate that I can’t hear, but I figure he’s apologizing for the way I ruined the night, especially considering their happy news.
Megan gives me a thumbs up and mimes a hug, so I know we’re fine. The people who aren’t fine are my parents, who look like they’d give everything they own to disappear right now.
Undeterred by the fact that no one is really focused on him, Jake keeps going, lifting his champagne flute. Wait, that’s not his. He drank his. He must’ve stolen Trevor’s. “A toast to Paige, who’d make a fucking awful lawyer.”
Again, silence descends, except for Trevor’s mumbled, “Here we go…”
“Is she smarter than all the rest of us?” Jake asks no one or everyone. “Hell yes. Is she so persuasive and convincing that she could sell shampoo to bald men? Yes. Christ, she probably has. Could she successfully argue any case in court or negotiate any contracts? Fuck yes. But that’s not the point. She’d hate every second of it, and that’s the goddamn point.”
He turns to me, sets his glass down and smiles. “Live your life, baby sister. Be yourself. Be happy. Jesus.” Then he turns to Trevor, pulls him up to a standing position, and kisses the hell out of him. Sophie cheers, my mom smiles, my dad takes a long drink, and I know, in this moment, that we’ll all be okay.
24
Spencer
“It’s about time you got your head out of your goddamn ass.” My phone sits on my desk, set to speaker, so I can conveniently listen to my dad rip me a new one while simultaneously getting in a quick workout. Why did I never think of this before?
It’s late Saturday night after our loss against Dartmouth. We lost last night, 5-3, and again tonight with a score of 4—3. Coach didn’t spare me a glance during the game tonight, and I sat there for the first period, pissed at the world and silently begging him to let me go in. But JD was right: Coach wasn’t changing his mind. And, if I’m being honest, I deserved the punishment. Still, it sucked to watch my teammates play, knowing I was powerless to help them.
I met with my captains and coaches last night to explain and apologize. The coaching staff was not particularly happy with me, but I said my piece, they listened, and that’s all I can ask. And Buddha gave me a reddish brown crystal called Rhodium, I think. He said it will help me release my negative energy. I’ve never subscribed to his philosophies, but hell, it can’t hurt.
And my captains were pissed, understandably, but we’re moving forward as a team, and I’m grateful. I’ve talked to the rest of the guys and while it was universally acknowledged that I fucked up royally, they still trust me. They forgive me. I’m beginning to wonder if all the time I spent avoiding team bonding and nights like this was just a series of bonehead moves on my part.
My dad wasn’t at the game. It might be the first game of mine he’s ever missed. When he got to the arena last night and heard I was MIA, he lost it. Drove back to St. Johnsbury and left me a string of texts that made it clear I had disappointed him beyond repair.
I figured he might not call tonight, but he did. Not to ask how I was doing, or even what the hell happened. He called just to ream me out.
I finish my crunches just in time to hear the words “waste of fucking talent.” Jesus. I’m tempted to hang up on him.
My hand hovers over the little red button, itching to press it and end this call. There’s a knock at my door and I look up to see JD standing in the door frame. “COD tourney downstairs in ten, Briggsy. Be there. This is not a game you can be late for,” he says, and I deserved that.
I nod and interrupt my dad’s diatribe to let him know I have a team meeting to get to.
“A team meeting or a party?” he questions, not waiting for the answer. “You forget I played college hockey, too. I didn’t have half the talent you have, but I worked my ass off, unlike you. So, if this meeting is a party—”
“It’s not.”
“Don’t lie to me. Are you meeting up with your girlfriend?”
“What do you know about my girlfriend?” I ask him, knowing full well he’s the guy Paige was talking about.
“I know she’s distracting you. I know she’s the reason you missed that game, and the reason you’re about two seconds away from fucking up your NHL career.”
“So what, Dad? You want me to be just like you?” I’m done. I can’t take another second of his bullshit. “Look at you—you’re fucking miserable. You’re alone and angry and the only joy you get is from detailing every mistake I make. Yeah, sounds like you’re living the dream.”
“Spencer—” My dad’s voice is vibrating with anger on the other end of the line, but I’m done. I end the call and feel an incredible sense of relief.
