by Ellie Hall
She counts the bills while I sort the coins.
She lassos me by the arm and says, “I’m not letting you out of my sight until you have some fun. I owe you that much. If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t have made—well, so far nine-hundred dollars. My future and the new roof are getting closer and closer.”
While I stash the empty cookie bins in a storage closet, Zoe chats with one of the players. I wander outside. The spring air quilts my cool skin. Rusty stands in a circle with a few other guys and rakes his hand through his hair as though trying to smooth something away.
He turns slightly and spots me. As if the world moves in slow motion, he rushes over, once more picking me up. “We won. We won,” he cheers.
The dark thought that he did the same to Zoe back in the day interferes with my enjoyment of the moment. I know it’s juvenile and silly, but she’s part of this world. His world. She’s home. I’m an outsider. Always have been.
“It was an amazing game,” I manage. He’s holding me so tight I pity his hockey stick.
When I’m back on solid ground, Zoe appears on his other side, tucking herself under Rusty’s arm. He claps her on the back and then subtly steps away from her, keeping his arm around me.
“Who’s going to the party?” she asks.
Rusty eyes me as if asking what I want to do.
The corner of my lip lifts, non-committal.
“I signed up to play. Not to party,” he answers.
The guys tease. “Oh come on, too good to hang with your hockey homies?”
Another says, “The doctor has to be good.”
Then they start reminiscing about some of the things they used to do involving pranks, vandalism, and broken bottles in a field. I stop listening and chat with Zoe about the success of our sales.
She must be half-listening to them telling stories because she says, “I bet if you knew Russell back then, you wouldn’t like him. He’s changed so much. Russell cleaned up his act since—” She breaks off. “I wonder if he remembers how to have fun.” Her tone contains an edge.
“Alright, alright. Let’s not sully my good name,” Rusty says in protest.
The guys go on to pontificate about his career as a doctor.
Someone says something about using duct tape instead of bandages. Sounds tough.
“You all go have fun for me.” He waves them off.
Zoe links arms with the guy wearing the number thirty-four jersey and shouts, “You’re missing out.”
In moments, only the two of us remain in the parking lot.
“We can go if you want to. Or I can walk back to Starboard,” I say.
Creases form around Rusty’s eyes. “First of all, I’ve been to more of those parties than I’d care to admit. Sure, they can be fun, but I’ve also already given stitches once this week. Chances are someone will end up needing some.”
“Given my luck, it’d probably be me again.”
He shakes his head. “Not so. You’re good luck and you’re wearing my lucky sweatshirt. Double good luck, Cupcake.”
He opens the passenger door to the Maserati for me. “Also, I’m tired and there’s no one I’d rather snuggle on the sofa with than you.” He kisses my forehead and closes the door.
Maybe it’s because I’m already analyzing Zoe’s comment, but I worry he’s saying that because he can tell I’m not up for a party. It’s already been a long day. Insecurities come at me from all directions and no matter how many turns the car takes, I can’t seem to outpace them.
20
Downturn of Events
Rusty
Just before I turn onto Starboard, Lottie says, “Wait. We should go to the party. Celebrate your big comeback.”
I idle at a stop sign. Part of me wants to go home, shower, and snuggle. For real. The other part, still exhilarated by the game, the rush of fans cheering, and playing with my home team, tugs me in the opposite direction.
Lottie insists, so I drive toward the party, parking behind a long line of cars before we even near the house.
“Zoe said you used to be different.”
“Like night and day. It was hockey, party, sleep, repeat.”
“What changed?”
I’ve thought about this so much I can pinpoint the exact moment. But it has no place in conversation or the celebration tonight.
“Me,” I simply reply, catching her hand in mine and walking down the damp street toward the light pouring from the house and the music blaring.
I’m not sure what to make out of the fact that the scene is identical to nearly fifteen years ago except that we all look a bit older.
As we reach the front door, Jared looms in the doorway.
Zoe appears and takes up my flank as if we’re walking into war. Even though I socked him for taking the money, this isn’t my battle.
“What are you doing here?” she asks him.
“What? I’m friends with the guys on the team. I was going to ask you the same question. If you forgot, my uncle is the coach.”
“By marriage and he divorced your aunt six years ago. Jared, when you cheated on me and stole from me in the same night, I’m pretty sure those so-called friends declared themselves enemies. I’m surprised you made it this far into Skinny’s house.”
“Buckman and I are tight.”
I stiffen, tucking Lottie slightly behind me.
Jared turns on the front steps while I remain at the bottom. As ever, his hat sits askew and he tries to face-off, eye-to-eye with me. “And you? What are you doing here, Russell? My uncle had no business taking you off the bench. And worse, what is she doing here?” He points at Lottie.
I breathe deep, oxygenating my blood. My muscles tense. Primed for a fight. Yeah, I used to be different. That’s for sure. “She’s my girlfriend. And if you have a problem, you’ll have to get through me.”
Jared sneers. “You’ve gone soft, doc. Living in the big city with your big fancy job. Too bad you didn’t have that medical degree when Sanderson needed it.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Zoe says sharply.
“Jared, leave. I’m not saying it again. I don’t care if you think you and Buckman are tight, the other sixteen players on the team don’t want you here. You’re looking for a fight and I don’t think you want to take up with the rest of us.”
Jared jitters, glares, and then storms off. Likely, that’s not the last we’ll hear from him.
“This was why I didn’t want to come,” I mutter, but I’d hoped things would be different. I hesitate before taking the steps.
“Thanks,” Zoe says in a small voice. “Glad you came, Russell.”
The sound of my name must act as a summons because soon a crowd closes around me, offering congratulations on the game. I grip Lottie’s hand but am sucked into the scene.
After what feels like twenty minutes of answering questions about where I’ve been and what brought me back, I break free and go in search of Lottie. Hopefully, Zoe stuck by her.
I’m partway to the living room when the sound of smashing glass draws me outside.
A parade of hockey players gathers around my car with a splintered windshield glinting under the streetlight.
Buckman restrains Jared who holds a can of spray paint. It drops to the ground with a hiss. Thankfully, he hadn’t used it yet. But he did smash the Maserati’s windshield.
Jared glares to his left. “This is what happens when you don’t mind your business.”
Lottie stands starkly by herself.
Jared juts his chin in my direction. “You’d better chain your dog, man.”
I surge forward, slamming into Jared. Before I get a good punch, we’re pulled apart. I shake the guys off when I see Lottie’s eyes, wide with horror.
Zoe leans in, but loud enough for me to hear, she says, “Sometimes they keep it to the ice. Sometimes not.”
I’ve successfully kept this stupidity out of my life for a decade. This was but one reason I left. Not to get caught up in this small-tow
n, small mind, stupidity.
I want to take off but can’t leave Lottie or my car behind. I’ll be leaving soon enough, anyway. Shame fills me, dark and mucky like the flats at low tide.
Stepping toward Lottie, I grind out, “Come on. I knew it was a mistake to come here.”
I manage to drive the Maserati back to Starboard—it’s only three blocks and I’ll deal with the windshield in the morning. She’s quiet the whole way.
Before going inside, I say, “I’m sorry about that. I never wanted you to see that side of me. I thought I’d escaped it.”
As if not wanting to deal with the drama, Lottie turns up the radio. “This used to be my favorite song.” She sings softly to the words to the classic hit, “I Will Survive.”
I think about surviving in Seaswell...and those who didn’t.
“I want to do more than survive,” she says. “It was a fun spring break, right?”
The comment feels slightly like an ending, a goodbye and reminds me of how before it sounded like Oma was saying goodnight. I’m a loser like the rest of them. Shame about my behavior has me looking for an exit, an escape hatch.
“We need a song. Yours and mine.”
“I was thinking I owe you an apology, maybe some chocolate, a date night. Or—” I falter at the thought of telling her that things are getting too intense. She deserves better.
“I kind of like the one you did at karaoke.”
“That’s Zoe and my song.” She stops abruptly. “Did you guys used to have a song?” Then she holds up her hand. “Wait. Don’t answer. I don’t want to know.” Her other hand lands on the door handle and she blinks rapidly.
“Cupcake, you don’t think that she and I—?” I wave away her worry. “She’s a friend. Hardly that.”
“But she knows so much about you.”
“She knew me. The guy I was then. I’ve changed. Please believe me.” I want to believe me. “Yes, what you saw tonight was a glimpse into that, but it was like I was pushed right to the edge. I chose not to go over.”
“No, the guys restrained you.”
“But—” She has a point. Ice slides through me. I want to explain that I’m not who I was. But have I really changed?
Lottie gets out of the car. I’m slow to follow her, but she waits by the screen door.
“You played amazing tonight. You should be proud. And if you want to play hockey but not be the same guy you were back then, that’s your choice. Just like Oma said about happiness, you can choose how you react or respond to situations.”
I nod. “Thanks for saying that.”
She kisses me lightly on the cheek then turns to go inside. “One question.”
She faces me from the upper step. Much like with Jared, we’re eye-to-eye, but this is far preferable. The dim porch light softens her features. I could kiss her right now. Kiss her forever.
She brushes my cheek with the back of her hand. “You have stubble.”
“Yeah, I’ll shave in the morning.”
“I don’t mind it. But I’m wondering something. Zoe called a guy sweater face.” Her eyes sparkle with laughter.
“Did he have a beard?” I ask.
She nods.
“Another name for a mustache is a lip sweater so I suppose you could call someone with a beard, sweater face.”
She cringes and her expression crumbles. “The guys at work used to call me pork-lip because it’s so big.” She bites it most adorably.
“Your lips are perfect.” I lean in, wanting to kiss her more than ever and to show her how perfect she is.
“He was really upset we were out of brookies and didn’t want a cupcake.”
“His loss, but do I need to find him and punch him?” I’m only half-joking. Looking up at the stitches on her chin, my urge to protect her from the bullies in the world is strong.
“No punching, hitting, or fighting. Hands to self.” She pins them to my sides. Her lips quirk.
“What if I want to—?” I twine my fingers through hers. I draw her close so she’s leaning against me.
A tiny smile hoists the corners of her mouth. “A better name for him would’ve been cookie vacuum or a crumb catcher.”
“Flavor saver.”
“Soup strainer.”
We go on, making up at least a dozen more. Our laughter choruses and my shoulders relax.
“You make me want to be a better man. To truly leave the old me behind. I’m glad you were at the game tonight.”
“I wouldn’t be a good fake girlfriend if I wasn’t.”
“Not a fake girlfriend, you’re the real deal. And Lottie, you truly are good luck.” The words come out effortlessly.
She snorts.
“I’m serious. Who you were yesterday doesn’t necessarily define who you are today. I mean you, me, anyone. It may have contributed to who you are, but it isn’t the sum of all your parts. Lucky, unlucky, whatever. You’re whoever you want to be.”
“You and your grandmother are wise, but you should take your own advice.”
We go inside and I give her the biggest, juiciest, kiss goodnight.
Unfortunately, the next morning, I wake up grouchy. It could be the still, thick, and almost hazy air. The weak, midmorning sun puffs a lazy checkerboard on the wood floor. Or it could be that I haven’t quite slept off the aggression from last night even though Lottie softens all the rough parts of me.
Dense, salt-tinged air blows in through the window. I don’t want to get out of bed because I’m supposed to leave today, head back to Manhattan.
Reluctantly, but with a gurgling stomach, I get up. When I pass Oma’s bedroom, her door slightly ajar, she’s still in bed, a mass of covers pulled up to her shoulders. I lean against the doorframe. Unusual. Her chest rises and falls, and her breath is a soft snore. Above her bed is another painting of an owl, this one roosting, as though watching protectively over her.
Lottie’s room is quiet. She must still be sleeping too. I slouch back to my room and fall back to sleep.
It’s nearly lunchtime before I shower and return to the kitchen. Oma slices tomatoes at the counter and offers me an egg salad sandwich and pours a glass of lemonade for each of us. When she sets the plate down in front of me, the light glints off the amber ring resting in a box on the table.
“I found this shortly after you arrived. It had been a long time since I wore it,” she says, admiring the stone. “It doesn’t quite fit on these old crooked fingers.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you, mazdēls. Sturgis, your grandfather, gave it to me as an engagement ring—long after he proposed.” She glances up at the ceiling. “About thirty-seven years later. Things were different when we were young. When he asked me to marry him, he gave me a pair of mittens.” Her smile makes her cheeks rosy. “I still have them, upstairs. We were under Bolshevik rule and rings and adornments weren’t common or acceptable. But later, when we gained our freedom, he brought me to Vermanes Park. It was winter and the snow-frosted the bows of the pines. He got down on his knee, as you see in the movies, and said, ‘Valda, will you marry me?’” She laughs. “I said the most obvious thing, ‘We are already wed!’ For a moment I thought he’d gone senile or that it was a joke, but his smile, a rare sight, parted his lips, and he said, ‘If I could, I’d marry you all over again, but since as you said, we’re already wed, I want you to know my love for you is as solid and true as this stone.’” Her eyes mist as she thumbs the ring.
“Do you miss him?”
“Very much, every day, but especially today, our wedding anniversary.” She pats my hand, her sandwich forgotten. “Listen to the way she says your name, like the very word means love. When she speaks to you, it’s like her every word is a tender caress. She will be your best friend. You will make her feel safe, adored, and like she is the brightest star in the sky. And most importantly, you will listen to each other, every word you say, even the ones you don’t.”
I think about the way Lottie says my name. How she
calls me Rusty. The only other people who called me that were my mother and Sanderson.
Then I think about how Oma has said more to me in the last few days than she has in all the years she was my guardian.
Oma meets my eyes then says, “Russell, they call them sweet nothings, but they’re everything.”
She looks out the eastern facing window and I follow her gaze, suddenly afraid she’s never going to be able to return to Latvia, home. The thought thickens in my throat, preventing me from speaking the important question of whether she’ll return.
“You asked me if I miss him, yes, very much, but I also miss who I was with when we were together. I was his brightest star. Life is shorter than you’d expect. Love well, mazdēls.”
She puts the ring in my palm and then closes my hand around it. A thought surfaces. This ring belongs on Lottie’s finger. She is my brightest star. My everything.
21
Lutzing Around
Lottie
Despite the team win, Rusty is scarce the next day. His eyes are strangely icy, cold, and distant despite the warm air when he meets a guy in the driveway to repair the Maserati’s windshield.
I take Magnolia for a walk in the thick humidity. We stop by the Ice Palace to cool off and get water. The rink welcomes me with a chilly gust.
Zoe sweeps up the cups and hot dog trays, discarded fan gear and dirty napkins, evidence of the big game the night before. She waves me over.
“Already back here?” I ask.
“Is Russell with you? I wanted to thank him for getting rid of Jared last night...and offer to pay for his new windshield.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“I could’ve snuck into his apartment and stolen my money back. Instead, I dragged you guys into my drama. Speaking of drama, after you left things got wild. As usual. Solomon climbed onto Buckman’s roof, wearing the Storm mascot—yes, the giant fish head and then jumped into the pool. Needless to say, he’s on thin ice with the coach. Pun unintended.”