by Elicia Hyder
We were on a clear part of the path, so I practiced a 180-degree turn and then skated backward to face her. “Not all marriages.” I turned forward again.
“Was it all bad with you and Clay?”
I wanted to say yes, but that would’ve been a lie. “No. We didn’t fight a lot or anything. In fact, if it had gotten bad maybe I wouldn’t have been so blindsided by the end of it. You know, the day he told me about the baby, I actually thought he was going to surprise me with a trip to Bora Bora. Can you believe that?”
Monica didn’t laugh.
I turned around again and slowed to skate beside her. “Maybe if I hadn’t been so hyper focused on the shop and my ovulation cycle—”
“Don’t do that to yourself, Grace. There’s no excuse for what he did to you.”
“I’m not making excuses for him. I just should have seen it. And I should have realized sooner that we were investing everything into his future instead of ours.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at me now. What do I have to show for the last decade besides a business that I no longer love? I don’t even have Bodhi.”
“I thought you loved the shop.”
“In the beginning I did. I had baby fever, and it was exciting to make tiny dresses and suits, and dream about whether or not we would have a girl or a boy. Now? Let’s just say all those oozy-goozy feelings are shot all to hell.”
We skated toward the small lake beyond the Parthenon to where there was a circular track of concrete.
“I can understand that, but are you thinking of closing it?”
“And put my mother in an early grave? God, no. I’ll get over it. I have to get over it. It’s what I’m good at, and I’ve invested so much into it.”
She pointed at me. “Grace Evans, I swear, if you waste the next seven years doing something that doesn’t make you happy, I’ll kick your ass. And I have the thigh strength to do it now!”
We both laughed.
“But I’m good at clothes, and I do enjoy the process.”
“Why not make a different end product?” She thought for a second. “How about brides? You could probably capitalize on your mom’s success.”
I made a gagging noise.
“OK. No brides.”
I jumped over a small stick on the path like it was a foot tall so I could practice sticking the landing. “No wedding stuff at all. Have you met my mother? There’s a reason she’s so scatterbrained now.”
“What about couture women’s fashion? I love the stuff you make for yourself.”
“I don’t know. That would probably be almost as stressful as brides.”
“I’ll keep thinking on it.”
“What up, derby bitches!” a voice called behind us.
Monica and I both spun on our wheels to see Full Metal Jackie walking down the path. She held the leash of a strange-looking mutt with the black-and-white spotted body of an English setter and the head of a beagle.
“Hi, Jackie,” Monica said as we rolled to meet her.
“Hey, Monica. Grace,” she replied. “I didn’t realize that was you.”
I laughed. “Are you shouting profanities at a lot of random people today?”
“Only the ones wearing quad skates and pads.” She wiped sweat off her forehead and shortened her dog’s pink leash by wrapping it a few times around her hand.
Jackie had been one of my favorite veteran Music City Rollers from the very first time she led Fresh Meat practice. Like me, she was Amazonian in height, pushing six four or six five when wearing skates. Unlike me, she was newly pregnant and happily married. She’d recently retired from derby, citing her “nine-month injury” as the reason.
I dropped onto my kneepads to pet her dog. “Hello there.”
The dog jumped and slammed both paws against my shoulders.
“Freckles, down!” Jackie shouted, tugging on the leash.
I laughed. “She just wants a hug.” I hugged the dog and let her lick my cheek.
“She’s a nightmare. Sorry, Grace.”
I stood, using my toe stops to push myself up off the concrete. “No worries. She’s cute.”
Freckles was wagging her tail like she knew I was talking about her.
“How are you feeling these days, Jackie?” Monica asked.
Jackie smoothed the front of her thin jacket over her midsection. “Better these days. I finally pushed through all the morning sickness of my first trimester.”
“Girl, I feel your pain.” Monica put her hand over her heart. “I was so sick with my first daughter that I lost nine pounds in the first three months. I couldn’t keep down water.”
“I know. And who decided it was morning sickness? In my experience, it’s been all-day sickness,” Jackie said with a laugh.
Freckles, perhaps sensing my awkward silence, nuzzled my hand with her wet nose. I scratched behind her ears. “You’re a sweetie.” I’ve always believed dogs have the ability to read human emotion. I know Bodhi does…when he isn’t too busy drinking from the toilet or playing fetch with himself.
“How’s derby retirement treating you?” Monica asked.
Her eyes widened. “I have so much free time now. I guess I didn’t realize how much time I spent at the Sweatshop.” She started counting on her fingers. “Or community events or fundraisers or parties.”
I looked at Monica. “Or places like this, skating.”
“Exactly. Derby’s a full-time job. I’m still helping out with the juniors’ team, but I’m hoping that will be passed off before the baby comes.”
“Oh yeah, Susan mentioned that in the team meeting. They’re looking for your replacement,” I said.
“Yep, but I don’t think anyone volunteered. Have you guys joined a committee yet?”
We shook our heads. “Still thinking about it,” I said.
“Well, the junior girls are the very best, just saying.”
Monica’s face soured. “I am so not ready to be responsible for anyone else playing this sport. I barely know what I’m doing myself.”
“That’s not true. You had one of the highest scores in team history on the written exam,” Jackie argued. “You know more about the rules than some of the All-Stars, I think.”
I looked at Monica. “She has a point.”
“What about you, Grace? Those girls need a new coach, and I’ve always had a soft spot for you.”
“Because we’re both six-foot-seven in our skates?” I asked with a laugh.
She smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I don’t know about coaching. I didn’t even come close to a perfect score like Monica.”
“There’s no better way to learn something than to teach it to someone else, and you have the technical skills almost mastered.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I feel like you should go into politics, Jackie.”
“Well, I do work in the governor’s office…”
Monica laughed. “Really?”
“Really. And we could seriously use the help. We’re so short staffed that I’m already filling two positions, coach and president.”
“Why are you so short on help? The team has a lot of skaters,” I said.
“Yeah, but the juniors’ team is brand new. They haven’t even played their first bout yet, so it’s not really high on the league’s priority list.” She grimaced. “It also probably takes the most time commitment out of all the volunteer committees. It’s hard when we all have lives outside of derby to add in a whole second practice schedule.”
I grinned and crossed my arms. “You should have stopped while you were ahead.”
She laughed. “It’s really rewarding though. The kids are great. Just think about it, and if you’re interested, come watch us practice sometime. Tuesday and Thursday nights at the Sweatshop.”
I looked at Monica. “OK. We’ll think about it.”
“Cool. You guys just started practicing, right? Are you enjoying it?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” I said.<
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“I haven’t felt this good in years,” Monica added.
Jackie smiled. “And it’s a great community to be part of. I already miss it. You’re coming to the Slammy Awards, right?”
“Oh yeah,” we said together.
“Excellent. I’ll be there, probably as the designated driver for half the team.”
I laughed. “That sounds about right.”
“Well, I won’t keep you guys. Freckles and I were on our way to the car when we saw you. Thought we’d come say hello.”
“So glad you did,” Monica said.
“Yeah. It’s good to see you, Jackie. We’re going to miss you at practice.” I bent to pet the dog. “And it was nice to meet you, Freckles. I hope to see you again sometime.”
“Bye, girls,” Jackie said with a wave as she turned back toward the parking lot.
When she was gone, I looked at my watch. “It’s almost ten thirty.”
“All right, no more talking. Let’s get this done. What’s our fastest time around the loop?”
“With this many people out here?” My head bobbed side to side. “I’d guess nine or ten minutes.”
“Skate two laps and call it a day?” she asked.
I smiled. “Two? In under thirty minutes?”
“Yes,” she said confidently. “No breaks. We can do this.”
“All right.”
Monica pushed her sleeves up her forearms. “Go!”
The first Sunday of every month was now the designated gathering of the Evans clan at the homestead. This was a post-retirement ritual started by my mother in an effort to reclaim some of the lost family time of our younger years. Growing up, both my parents had been very successful business owners—Mom in bridal wear, Dad in construction—which left little time for home-cooked meals and conversations around the dinner table.
Mom was hell-bent on making up for lost time. Problem was, Sheila Evans wasn’t exactly Suzy Homemaker. A seamstress, absolutely. A cook? Not so much. During meal prep was almost the only time we ever saw our mother angry. It was like road rage, but over the stove.
The reassurance that she was human was comforting as of late. Especially since lately I wasn’t having much luck living up to her legacy in the couture-design department. She’d made running her store look so easy. All I wanted to do was quit.
My brother Garrett’s brand-new, king-cab truck was beside my car in the driveway. It was a glaring reminder that, unlike me, he had inherited the golden thumb of entrepreneurship. The truck had an iridescent-blue paint job and flashy chrome trim that could be used to signal space if he needed to.
Meanwhile, the clear coat was peeling on my eight-year-old sedan, and it was eighteen hundred miles overdue for an oil change. These days, a loud whirring noise was coming from the engine. I had no idea why.
With a heavy sigh, I opened my door and got out. The hinges croaked like a bullfrog.
“Hello! Hello!” I called when I walked in the front door without knocking. A faint haze of smoke hovered near the ceiling. I grinned.
“In the kitchen!” Mom replied.
Garrett’s eight-year-old daughter, Hope, was coming down the wooden staircase. “Aunt Grathe!” She ran the rest of the way with open arms and collided with my midsection, nearly toppling me over.
Her long blonde hair was braided in pigtails, and she wore a burgundy floral print dress and black ballet flats. Her two front teeth were missing.
“My goodness, have you grown since last month?” I asked, bending to rest my chin on her head.
“I dunno.”
“I think you’re going to be a giant like me, kiddo.”
She beamed up at me. “That’th what Popth thayth.”
“I said what?” My dad, aka “Popsicle” or “Pops,” walked through the dining room to where we were standing in the foyer.
“You thaid I wath going to be a clodhopper giant like Aunt Grathe.” Hope was still hanging off my waist.
I gasped. “A clodhopper giant?”
Dad’s eyes widened. “I said no such thing! Tall, strong, and beautiful like your Aunt Grace is what I said.”
“Nuh-uh!” Hope argued, laughing.
He pointed at her. “That’s it. No cake for you, toothless.”
She swatted his hand away. “Don’t call me toothleth!”
Dad growled and reached for her. She squealed and ran away. Still laughing, he turned toward me and opened his arms for a hug. “The child lies, Grace.”
“Sometimes you’re a shockingly terrible person,” I said, stepping into his embrace.
“I know.” He kissed the side of my head. “How are you, honey?”
I sighed. “It’s been an interesting week.”
“I’ll bet. We’ve thought about you a lot. You holding up OK?”
“Yeah. It’s nice to have some closure, at least. And my name back. But I miss Bodhi.”
“You gave him back to Clay, then?”
I nodded. “He was pretty pissed off the next morning.”
“I’ll bet he was.” Dad put his arm around my shoulders and turned me toward the dining room. “You’ll get through this. The worst of it is over.”
I leaned my head against him. “Thank you, Daddy.”
“Your mother made you a surprise.” He grimaced and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Try to be excited about it.”
I laughed as we turned the corner into the kitchen. On the counter, I saw it. A misshaped Bundt cake with black crumbs mixed into the white frosting. I bit down on the insides of my lips.
“Grace, you made it!” Mom cheered from where she was stirring a pot of something on the stove. “You’re late. We were getting worried.”
“No, we weren’t,” my brother, Garrett, said from the breakfast table.
I shot him the bird, making my mother gasp and put her hands on her hips like she’d never seen me do it before.
Garrett laughed and leaned back in his chair, crossing his boots out in front of him. He’d grown a beard since I’d seen him the month before, and he was wearing a new hoodie sporting the Battle Road Brewing label. Unlike me, Garret had inherited the golden entrepreneurial gene from our parents. The astronomical success of the brewery was evidence of that.
Mom came over and hugged me. “How are you, Gracie?”
She was tiny compared to me, Garrett, and Dad. I had to bend to put my arms around her. “I’m OK. Staying busy.”
“That’s the best thing for you these days. How’s the roller derby?”
A true southerner, my mother put “the” in front of everything. The roller derby. The Walmart. The Facebook.
“It’s good. I just finished my first week of practice as an official team member.”
She looked over at my dad. “Graham, we should watch her one night this week.”
“Oh no. I’m not ready for spectators just yet. But I am skating in the Nashville Christmas Parade in a few weeks. You should definitely come watch that.”
“You’re still playing that crazy sport?” Garret asked.
“I just made the team last week. It’s not like it’s old news.”
He pointed at me. “Well, thanks to you and that stupid game you took us to—”
“Bout,” I corrected him.
“Whatever. Ever since the ‘bout’”—he actually used air quotes—“the girls haven’t shut up about roller skating.”
“You should have told me. I’d love to take them skating sometime.”
Garrett cocked an eyebrow. “Are you offering to babysit?”
“Anytime.”
Mom laughed from the stove. “We’re lucky to get you here once a month, Gracie.”
“No, I want to. Let me check my calendar.” I pulled out my phone to check my calendar, but on the screen was a picture message from Jason. I swiped it open.
The photo was a mirror selfie of him in a department store’s dressing room. He wore a long, pink, fuzzy bathrobe over his clothes. The caption read: If I buy this, we can be twins.
“Earth to Grace,” Garrett said, waving his hand in front of my face.
“Sorry. What was I doing?” I asked, still staring at the picture.
“Not earning the title of Aunt of the Year, apparently. What are you looking at?” Garrett reached over and snatched my cell phone out of my hand.
“Hey!” I shouted.
“Well, well. Who is this?”
“Give me my phone!” I lunged for it, but Garrett caught me by the forehead and held me at his long arm’s length.
“Dad, tell him to stop!”
“I swear, you two are in your thirties now, right?” Dad grumbled.
“Is that Clay’s friend? The cop?” Garrett looked at me.
I groaned. “Give me my phone.”
He handed it back to me. “Scandalous, Gracie. I’m proud of you.”
“There’s nothing scandalous going on.”
“Is this the same guy who was at your apartment in the middle of the night?” Dad asked.
Both my brother and Mom “Ooo”ed at the same time.
“Yes, but it’s not like that. Clay wanted to have me arrested. Jason stopped him.”
“And now he’s sexting you,” Garrett added.
“Garrett!” my mother yelled.
“He is not sexting me.”
“Who’s sexting you?” Garrett’s other daughter, Gabby, asked as she came into the kitchen.
Dad twitched. “How do you know what that is?”
“Pops, I’m twelve. I’m practically a grown-up,” Gabby said.
“No, you’re not, young lady,” Mom said, pointing a slotted spoon covered in gravy at her.
“I’m not sexting anyone.” I sighed and turned off my phone’s screen without responding to Jason right away. “He’s just a friend.”
“How good of friends are you?” Garrett asked.
I thought about it.
“Do you talk on a regular basis?” he added.
“Well, no…”
“Does he date your friends?”
“No, but—”
“Is he gay?”
“No!”
Garret shook his head. “Then this is the first baby step into sexting, sis.”
Mom whirled around. “The next person to say sexting in my kitchen gets zero cake.”