If I don’t get drafted this year, Hunter’s making me go to post-secondary school, so I’ve got to go through the rigmarole of planning out that future with Hunter, but I’m not into it. Dash is on my mind more than ever. A stricken feeling burrows into my guts and rots there, festering. What if Dash … No. I’m not even gonna say it.
“Can’t I take a gap year?” I ask Hunter, who has his laptop in front of him.
“Gap year? To do what?”
Work at the restaurant. Keep looking for Dash. Play hockey.Hang around with Trav.“Some kids go to Italy, travel abroad.”
“Sounds to me like an extended vacation. Sorry, little brother. It’s hockey or school for you.”
A loud rap on the door interrupts the feeble protest I was gonna put together. It doesn’t wait for an answer either, getting louder and more frantic.
Hunter catapults off the couch, abandoning his laptop, and I’m at his heels. He grabs the bat we keep by the door.
“Dirk! Dirk, help!” the voice cries.
I know that voice.
“Dash. Fuck, it’s Dash. Open the door.”
“Wait.” Hunter checks the peephole, and then he unlocks and swings the door open.
It’s Dash, alright. What’s left of him. He’s thin, thinner than I’ve ever seen him. Bruises and scratches pepper their way up his arms. His hair’s longer, covering his eyes, making him look like a scraggly kitten. All he’s wearing is a t-shirt and jeans. No shoesor socks. Shivers wrack his body, his teeth clacking. And his hand. What the fuck is wrong with his hand? It’s swollen, bent sharp at the thumb joint as if someone twisted it halfway off.
“C’mere. Oh my God, come here.” He screams when I pull him in, but his arm latches around my neck.
“We have to get him to a hospital,” Hunter says.
“No. No, please. He’s coming. He’ll come. He can’t find me.”
He means fucking Robin, doesn’t he? “No one’s coming to find you,” I promise. “Whoever tries gets a bat to the head.”
Dash nods, sobbing into my neck.
“And I have a whole lot of cement at work,” Hunter adds, leaving that hanging. Guess he was more concerned about Dash than he let on. We have a conversation with our eyes. He’ll take Dash upstairs and see about his injuries, get him cleaned up. I’ll call Travis.
A Year and a Bit Later
Dirk, 19
Dash has been living with his dad. Robin was eventually arrested, but it took longer than it should have, in my opinion. Travis kept Dash safe, bringing him to every hockey practice once his dislocated thumb healed enough, letting him get his GED instead of returning to classes. Hunter wouldn’t let me do the same, so I had to finish off my grad year without Dash.
We’re at the restaurant, riding out the pause between the storms otherwise known as the lunch and dinner rushes. I’m clearing tables, sleeves shoved up, sweat sticking to my back, while Dash rides the pine, making like he’s wiping off tables as I gather glasses when really his attention’s elsewhere. Stacey’s on bar, and I know all he wants to fucking do is sit at the bar top and flirt with him. Trav never gets on his case for slacking off. Trav never gets on his case for anything. Does Dash see how fucking spoiled he is? Hunt would hand me my ass on a platter if I had his work ethic. I’d never get special treatment in a “the boss’s son” kind of way.
But Trav might take issue if he knew how often Dash makes eyes at Stacey Alderchuck.
“I think I’m moving out,” Dash blurts out.
“Moving out of where?”
“My dad’s. It’s way too cramped in his little apartment.”
“But…” Every fear flashes across my mind. He’s a lot better than he was, but he’s not ready to live on his own.
“It’s okay. He found me a place with the Alderchuck brothers.”
My eyes flick up to check on Stacey. Fucking Stacey. He and Dash have gotten close, and that’s fine, so long as he stays in the friendship lane. Dash isn’t ready to date people after the Robin thing.
“Move in with us instead,” I say.
