“Let her,” Bitsy counseled. “Believe me.”
Katie settled back in her seat. A cold sweat was beginning to break out on her chest and back. The same thing used to happen in high school when kids would make fun of her. Then, as now, her principal tormentor was Liz Flaherty. Maybe you could never fully escape your past. Katie sipped her coffee, trying to maintain her dignity as the whispering swelled to murmuring. “They believe Liz,” she said to Bitsy, straining to keep the incredulity out of her voice.
“Can you blame them?” Bitsy asked carefully.
Katie looked at her. “No, I can’t,” she said after a moment. “If my kid wasn’t being played, I’d be pissed, too.” Heartsick, she scoured the ice for Tuck, who was warming up with the team. She watched him circle the ice alone— once, twice, three times. Was it her imagination, or were the other boys being standoffish toward him?
Frank held out his Doritos to her. Katie hesitated, then thrust her hand in the bag. Screw it. A handful of Dorritos wouldn’t kill her.
“You probably don’t want to know this, but Paul got totally shitfaced at the Penalty Box Saturday night,” Frank confided between bouts of chewing. “Basically insulted everyone there.”
“You’re right,” Katie said through a mouthful of Doritos, “I don’t want to know.”
Bitsy looked confused. “I thought you were seeing Paul Saturday night.”
“I was. I did.” Misery shot through her. “We argued. About Liz and other stuff.”
“Well, you did a number on his head,” Frank continued. “I mean, he was—”
Bitsy elbowed him. She looked at Katie in disbelief. “You fought about Liz?”
Katie nodded. She told Bitsy and Frank the tale of the socks, asking their opinion.
“Liz is totally capable of holding on to socks for months,” Bitsy declared.
“Women are screwy,” was Frank’s pronouncement.
“So, you don’t think he’s slept with her since the night of the reunion?”
Bitsy looked shocked. “Paul? No way. He’s totally smitten with you.”
Katie groaned. This was not what she wanted to hear, though she knew it was true. She’d spent all of Sunday thinking about Saturday night, trying to sort out her feelings and determine whether she was a snob. There was only one way to find out.
“Do you think I’m a snob?” she asked Bitsy.
“No!”
Katie held her breath. “What if I told you that I’d rather have knitting needles shoved in my eyes than live in Didsbury for good? That the day I left to go to college I vowed I would never come back here, except to visit? That every time I open the paper and see the utter lack of cultural life I want to hop into my car and go back to Fallowfield immediately? Would you think I was a snob then?”
Bitsy considered this. “Yes.”
Katie’s shoulders sank. “I thought so.”
“Is that true?” Bitsy sounded wounded. “Do you really hate being back here?”
“Of course not.” Katie chose her words carefully. “It’s just a little too slow for me, you know?”
“Did Paul ask you to stay?”
“No.”
“Then why did he accuse you of being a snob?”
Katie wiped Dorito crumbs from her mouth. “He thinks I think he should have done more with his life after hockey.”
“And do you?”
“Yes.” Katie felt like a snob admitting it. “But only because he seems so damn unhappy!” She leaned over to Frank. “Aren’t I right? Doesn’t he seem unhappy?”
Frank chewed thoughtfully. “He was Saturday night, I’ll admit that.”
“I don’t think he’s really dealt with his past.”
Bitsy looked at her like she was naive. “Who has?” she asked.
Gutless. That’s the best word Katie could come up with for Liz’s absence during the Panthers’ game. Liz had come to the arena, disseminated her poison, and left.
As for Paul, Katie couldn’t decide whether he didn’t care, or if he was simply oblivious to the tide of ill will flowing both their ways during the game. Just as he’d done the week before, he was evenhanded the first two periods, in some cases playing kids who’d barely logged any ice time previously. But when the Bob-o-Links deked their way into a one-point lead, Paul broke out his secret weapon: Tuck. It pained Katie to watch her nephew fly down the ice, knowing that most of the parents there believed his prominence had to do with her. And the way Tuck smiled in adoration at Paul… Katie could see that every time Paul tapped him to play, Tuck viewed it as further proof Paul was his father. She needed Paul to break him of that notion, and fast. And she needed to disabuse Paul of a few notions himself.
She waited until the game was over and the players and their parents had left before approaching him. Paul always waited until every child had been picked up before leaving. Today he was sitting with Darren Becker, whose parents never watched him play. Katie felt for the kid: Every time he hit the ice his eyes combed the stands, hoping in vain to see his mother or father there. “Do you want me to try calling your mom again?” she heard Paul ask him gently.
Darren shook his head. “No. She said she’s on her way. She probably got tied up in traffic or something.”
“If it’s a problem for your mom to get here, I can drive you home,” Paul offered.
The boy’s face lit up. Getting a ride home from the coach carried cache. He looked about to accept Paul’s offer when his mother hustled into the rink, briefcase in one hand, cell phone in the other. “Sorry I’m late,” she said breathlessly. “I’m on the phone with a client.” She snapped her fingers at her son impatiently. “Ready?”
Darren nodded, collecting his backpack and equipment. “See you at practice tomorrow, Coach,” he called over his shoulder at Paul.
“Good game, Darren,” Paul called after him.
Katie could tell from Paul’s frown of displeasure that he was thinking the same thing she was about Darren’s parents.
“It’s nice of you to wait,” she observed.
Paul shook his head. “You think I should say something to his folks? It’s really bad for his morale.”
“I think anything you say to the parents right now wouldn’t be taken seriously,” said Katie, sitting down beside him.
“Why’s that?” Paul asked, his eyes following the zamboni now smoothing the ice. There were circles under his brilliant blue eyes, and his pallor was gray.
“You’re not going to like this,” Katie warned him.
“Love the sound of that.” Paul loosened his tie. “Before we get into the fun stuff, I want to apologize for Saturday night. Asking you to leave like that was a little abrupt.”
“Not really. We both needed time to think.” She studied his face. “You look exhausted.”
“I am. Haven’t been able to sleep.”
“Me neither.” She drew a deep breath. “We need to talk.”
“The words every man wants to hear.” His eyes locked with hers. “Shoot.”
Katie drew her coat tight around her, less from the cold blasting through the rink than from needing a sense security. “It’s Liz,” she began on an exhalation of breath. “She’s telling everyone the reason you use Tuck so much is because we’re sleeping together. She’s circulating a petition to have you removed as coach.”
“Screw her,” Paul scoffed. “It’ll never happen.” His tone was offhand, but his expression said otherwise. Anger smoldered in his eyes and his jaw was clenched so tightly Katie kept imagining his teeth cracking.
“Whether it happens or not isn’t the point. I spent the entire game getting dirty looks from parents.”
“Screw them, too.”
“No, Paul. That’s not the right attitude. They have a right to be upset. You’re not being fair.” She swallowed. “This is doing damage to Tuck.” When he said nothing, she pressed on. “You have to stop playing him so much. It’s not fair to the other kids, and it’s not fair to him. He’s nursing a fantasy tha
t you’re his father. Did you know that?”
Paul looked taken aback. “No.”
“Well, he is. And the more ice time you give him, the worse it’s going to get. So please, stop.”
“Fine, I’ll stop. And we’ll lose.”
He reached out, stroking her hair. Katie closed her eyes a moment, relishing the sensation. “Don’t distract me,” she commanded quietly. “I’m not done.”
Paul’s hand dropped. “Of course you’re not.”
The wisecrack hurt. “What does that mean?”
“You’re going to tell me we have to break up for Tuck’s sake. That he’ll never catch a fair break if we don’t.” Katie could feel her face beginning to turn red. “Right?”
“Paul—”
“Don’t interrupt, I’m not done yet. Then you’ll remind me you’re going back to Fallowfield in the fall, as if no couple in the history of the world has ever endured a longdistance relationship. I’ll point this out to you, and you’ll squirm and stutter and say it has nothing to do with that. You’ll claim it has to do with me not fitting into your vision of things. Then you’ll say I’m trapped in the past and you can’t be with someone like that.” His gaze was hard. “Did I nail it, or what?”
Katie’s voice trembled. “It’s not that cut and dried.”
“No, it’s not. Because I left out the most important part of the equation.”
“What’s that?” Katie asked uneasily, rocking in place to keep warm. The temperature in the rink seemed to have dropped twenty degrees in the past thirty seconds. Or maybe it was just the humiliation of being so accurately parodied.
“You love me, and you can’t deal with it. I’m not the only one with a problem reconciling the past and the present. You’ve got one, too, but you’re too damn intellectual to see it, never mind admit it.”
“That’s not true,” Katie whispered fiercely.
“Sure it is.” Paul stood up, draping his sports jacket over his right shoulder. “You’re afraid of your past and, according to you, I revel in mine. Look, it’s okay. I understand. I’m now an underachieving townie. You’re a high-powered professor scaling the heights of the ivory tower. We had a little fun between the sheets, and now you want out before the really tough questions start getting asked. It’s cool.”
Katie could barely find her voice. “I never meant—it’s not—”
“We’re done, Katie.” He smiled at her sadly. “There, I said it. Now you don’t have to stress over letting the ex-jock bar owner down easy.”
“I don’t view you that way!” Katie protested. “I don’t—”
“We could go round and round on this,” Paul cut in wearily. “But let’s not. It’s been great. I love you. I’m sad it didn’t work out, but that was your call, not mine. I’ll make sure Tuck doesn’t have any hassles. Thanks for letting me know about Liz’s big mouth. Maybe while you’re still in town we could meet for the occasional cup of coffee and talk. I know Didsbury doesn’t have a Starbucks, but I’m sure we could find some place that would satisfy your sophisticated tastes.” His eyes darkened, filling with pain. “I always enjoyed talking to you, Katie.” He leaned over, planting a soft, lingering kiss on her forehead. “Good luck with your book.”
• • •
Katie, lay, tut, the narrow, lumpy bed of her childhood, staring at the water stain shaped like a sheep on the ceiling. Normally, the smell of her mother’s pot roast wafting beneath the bedroom door would have set her stomach grumbling in anticipation. Tonight it made her queasy.
Her mind had been blank as she watched Paul leaving the rink. She went to collect Tuck, who loved playing the video games in the rink’s lobby. In a daze, they’d come straight home, Tuck’s raving about ice time going in one ear and out the other. She didn’t have the energy to respond or refute; all she cared about was getting to her mother’s house as quickly as possible and hiding in her room.
How many times had she lay here like this as a teenager, crying lonely tears? She wittled away hours visualizing herself thin and successful, plotting her escape from this town that felt like a prison. And now here she was ten years later, doing the same thing. The only difference was, she was thin and successful. Did she actually owe that to Didsbury, the way Paul claimed? She wasn’t sure. But the yearning for escape—especially now—remained as strong as ever.
She was supposed to break up with Paul. His actions had shocked her, not because she hated having the tables turned, but because he had so perfectly anticipated everything she was planning to say. Was she that transparent? Or had her reservations become a broken record he could recite verbatim? She suspected it was a bit of both.
“Katie?”
She took a deep breath. “Yes, Mom?”
“Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”
Katie hesitated. “I’m not really hungry tonight. Thanks.” She could practically see her mother’s puzzled face on the other side of the door as she tried to figure out the appropriate response.
“Can I come in a minute, honey?”
“Sure,” Katie made herself say.
Her mother entered and perched beside Katie on the bed, taking her hand. As a little girl, Katie had always loved her mother’s long, delicate fingers, thinking her hands so elegant. She still thought so, though time was beginning to mottle the skin. It was hard watching her mom age.
“What’s going on?” her mother asked gently,
“Nothing. I’m just tired, that’s all.”
Her mother smoothed her brow. “You sure that’s all?”
“Yes.” Katie felt her heart cracking. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stave off tears. It didn’t work; a teardrop worked its way out of the corner of her right eye, heading toward her ear.
“Talk to me, Katie.”
“It’s nothing,” Katie tried to say dismissively, but the words lodged in her throat, coming out like a croak. What was happening to her? She wanted to wail, to put her head in her mother’s lap and weep over how mean and dumb boys were. It was an adolescent rite of passage she’d heard about but had never experienced. Until now.
“It’s Paul,” she sobbed. “We broke up.”
“Oh, Katie.” Her mother sounded upset. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” Katie sniffed. “Actually, I do. I fucked up.”
“Language, dear,” her mother tut-tutted.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Katie chanted defiantly. “If I want to say it, I’ll say it!”
“You’re right, honey. You ‘fuck’ away all you want.”
Katie lifted her head, catching her mother’s eye. They both began laughing before Katie dissolved back into tears. “See, this is why I didn’t want to get involved! Because I knew it would end badly and I knew I’d wind up in pain and
I worked so hard to get my life in order!“ She curled onto her side, hiccupping with sobs.
“You can’t avoid pain, honey,” her mother pointed out tenderly as she stroked Katie’s hair. “However you fu— messed things up with Paul, I’m sure you can fix them.”
“That’s the thing. I don’t know if I want to.” She flopped onto her stomach with a howl, burying her face in her pillow. “I don’t know what I want!”
“You’ll figure it out,” her mother soothed. “I know you will. You always do.”
Katie raised her tear-stained face. She hated her mother’s unswerving faith in her. It felt like pressure. “What if I don’t?”
“You will.”
“But what if I don V?”
Her mother sighed. “I guess I’ll just stop loving you.”
“Thanks for your help.”
“What do you want me to say, sweetheart?” Her mother sounded bemused. “If it’s meant to be, it’ll be. But first, you really do have to figure out what you want.”
* * *
CHAPTER 16
Big. Brass. Balls. That’s the only explanation Paul could come up with for Liz Flaherty breezing through the door of the Penalty Box, looking like sh
e owned the place. As if to confirm he wasn’t hallucinating, Paul glanced at Frank, whose shocked expression mirrored his own.
“She’s got some pair on her, that one,” Frank noted with the faintest hint of admiration in his voice.
“My thoughts exactly.”
Paul’s guts churned as he watched Liz approach. You ruined my fucking life, he wanted to yell. You and your goddamn sock trick! He wished he could shake her until her teeth rattled in her head. He knew Liz was only partially to blame, but still. It felt good to have a target for his rage. The loss of Katie had left a hole inside him he needed to fill. Anger seemed as good a choice as any.
“Paul.” Liz looked surprised when she leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek and he stepped out of reach. “Oh, now, don’t be that way, lamby.”
So, that was how it was going to be: Liz playing cutesy, him warding her off. Who had the energy for this shit? Seriously. But what was his choice? Not playing along would prolong the torture. And since he wanted her the hell out of there, he gave in.
“What do you want, Liz?”
Her gaze was seductive. “Do you mean in general, or to drink?”
“To drink.”
“My usual,” she said coolly, looking at Frank. “A Grey Goose martini.” She turned back to Paul. “He’s so dumb.”
For a split second, the sour look that streaked across her face made her look ugly. What did I ever see in her? Paul wondered. She’d always been a bitch. Yeah, but a popular one. A pretty, vivacious, popular bitch who bent over backward—sometimes literally—to please him in high school. Disgust for his adolescent self filled him.
“How’s your petition going?” he couldn’t resist asking.
“Pretty well.” Her expression was serious as she took a long, slow sip of her drink. “I’d watch it if I were you.”
Paul chuckled meanly. “Back at ya, baby.”
Liz did a small double take. “Meaning—?”
“If I find out you’re spreading any more lies about me and Katie Fisher, you’re going to be sorry.”
Liz looked amused. “What are you going to do, Paul? Bore me to death with one of your NHL stories?”
Deirdre Martin Page 19