Alex shrugs and then gives me a hug. “Okay. Take care, eh?”
I nod and smile. “Thanks for the guest room.”
“Sure.” Alex smirks. “But next time remind me to buy earplugs for my neighbors.”
Outside I’m greeted with a crisp, sunny fall afternoon. It’s not raining, which in Seattle is always a plus. When I was traded to the Seattle Winterhawks last season, I wasn’t all that thrilled about living so far from home. At least when I played in Quebec City, it was only an eight-hour drive from my hometown in Maine. But Seattle is fun, my team has been great and the fans here are a small but passionate bunch. I’m happy now professionally. At least I was until I broke my left ankle. Hockey is the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do with my life. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been great at and the one thing I have never screwed up. This is the first injury in my professional career. It’s a big one, and I couldn’t be handling it worse if I tried.
As I drive to the rink I call my brother, Devin.
“Hey, Jordan,” he says easily, answering on the second ring. “What’s up?”
“Lily Caplan died.”
“I know.” Devin sounds stunned for a minute. “Mom told Ashleigh.”
“She wants me to go home for the funeral,” I respond as I pull my SUV off the I-5 and down the familiar downtown Seattle streets to the hockey arena.
“Makes sense,” he says.
“How does it make sense?” I demand. I was calling him for support—so he could help me brainstorm excuses for not showing up. “Mrs. Caplan hated me. She hated all of us. She thought we were—and I quote—‘derelict hockey punks.’”
“She’s dead,” Devin reminds me snarkily as I slow at a stop sign and lean my head against the leather headrest. “This isn’t about her. It’s about supporting your best friend.”
“Ex–best friend,” I retort. “We haven’t talked in years.”
“And whose fault is that?” Devin mutters almost under his breath—almost inaudibly—but I hear it and it pisses me off.
“She left town, remember? Why does everyone blame that on me?”
I wave my players’ pass at the security guard at the gate to player parking. He’s obviously a little surprised to see me on a day off, but he raises the gate without question. “I should be concentrating on getting my leg healed. My family should be supporting that.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Devin counters, and the sarcasm rings loud and clear through the Bluetooth. “Is your leg going to stop healing just because it’s in Maine instead of Seattle?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Love you too, bro.” He laughs, enjoying this way too much if you ask me. But when the laughter dies he grows serious. “Look, Jordy. I would be there if I could and so would Luc. The Caplan girls are family. We’ve all given you and Jessie enough time to figure out how to be grown-ups, yet you can’t seem to do it. So I’m telling you be a grown-up and go and support her.”
“Fine. I’ll go if the coach lets me.”
“He’ll let you.”
“Shut up.”
“Shutting up,” Devin promises, and then the line goes dead. I sigh loudly, get out of the car and slam the door. Hopefully Devin is wrong and Coach Sweetzer has some reason he needs me here. Because as painful and frustrating as it was to be here dealing with my injury and not being able to play hockey, seeing Jessie Caplan again would be worse—much worse.
Chapter 2
Jessie
I walk through the Silver Bay Jetport, which looks more like something a child made with Legos than an actual airport. It’s a tiny, bleak, gray concrete block of a building with oblong single-pane windows and acid-green plastic chairs in the waiting areas. As I adjust my bag on the escalator step beside my feet, I look up and my eyes instantly land on my sisters. All the tension that has been building in my shoulders throughout the journey suddenly dissipates. No matter what happens now, having them with me makes it easier. It’s been that way my whole life, and even after a few years living in different states, it still rings true. Every time I see them, life just feels better.
They’re standing together at the bottom of the escalator, and they look exactly like I expect them to—beautiful and sad. Callie, who is a mere thirteen months younger than me, is wrapped in an oversized wool sweater with an Aztec pattern on it, tattered skinny jeans and tan Ugg boots. Her long hair is covering most of her face as she stares down at the iPhone in her hands. Rose, a mere twelve months and twenty-four days younger than Callie, is wearing black leggings, knee-high leather riding boots and a gray peacoat. Her long, pin-straight hair is pulled back in a low ponytail. Her dark eyes are staring back at me with empathy.
Grandma Lily used to say we were varying shades of the same person, inside and out. It was completely true, but I was shocked that she’d noticed. Callie, Rose and I share the same noses, lips and chins, but Rose is darkest in coloring and deepest in personality. She’s intuitive, shy and philosophical with almost-black hair and almost–coal colored eyes. Callie’s looks are the middle ground between Rose and me with chestnut brown hair and coffee-colored eyes. But she’s not in the middle when it comes to disposition. Callie is loud, assertive and wild. Although I have the most vibrant coloring—auburn hair, fairly bright green eyes with only the slightest specks of the brown my sisters got, my personality is squarely in the middle of them. I’m not as sensitive as Rose and not as wild as Callie. I tend to be thoughtful like Rose but have a temper that, when pushed, matches Callie’s. And, unfortunately, I share Callie’s attraction to the wrong type of men, but unlike Callie, I have Rose’s deep-seated longing for true love. The two traits don’t mix.
I beeline to them and we hug—one giant family hug—for a long moment. When I pull away, Rosie’s eyes are brimming with tears and Callie’s mocha-colored ones are as hard as nails. I would expect nothing less.
“Come on,” Callie insists, taking my suitcase from me. “It looks like it might snow, and I refuse to drive in that shit.”
Rosie and I both roll our eyes and follow the angry middle child as she storms through the tiny airport. I keep my eyes down and try not to make eye contact with anyone. Silver Bay, Maine, is a small place, and everyone here used to know exactly who we were. Chances are they still do. I’m in absolutely no mood to deal with small talk with anyone from my past—a past I have worked hard to stay as far away from as possible.
We pile into the massive Ford F-150 Callie leads us to. I glance at Rosie with a smirk because the truck is a bit over the top, and she smiles back with a shrug.
“Has it been that long since you’ve driven in winter conditions that you think you needed to rent this beast?” I joke to Callie.
Callie turns and gives me a strange stare, her eyes hiding something. “At least we’ll be able to leave the house in this puppy no matter what ridiculous weather this useless town throws at us.”
“Remember how we used to have to beg Dev or Jordy for lifts when there was even one flake of snow on the ground?” Rose has a fondness in her voice and a nostalgic smile on her full pink lips. “Our stupid Honda hatchback would only slide sideways in the winter.”
I swallow and take a deep breath but say nothing. I’ve been here maybe a minute and a half and there’s already a Garrison boy reference. I shouldn’t be shocked it happened so soon. The Garrison brothers, and their honorary brother, Luc, were a huge part of my life. They were part of every good memory I had of this town. The problem was, that one bad memory of them…of him…eclipsed the good.
The rest of the ride is silent as I stare out the window and take in the familiar sights. I feel my chest tighten when I can’t keep the memories from clouding my brain. We pass our old elementary school, the one Lily put us in when we first moved in with her after our mom died when I was eight. I can’t help but remember how Jordan used to split his lunches with me in fifth grade when he realized that Lily wasn’t supplying me with one.
We pass the high school. I remember a hot sum
mer night, sitting on that football field with two six-packs we’d stolen from Mr. and Mrs. Garrison. Lying on the fifty-yard line, drinking and watching the sky for shooting stars as we laughed at stupid jokes; just our small tight group of “besties,” as I liked to call them. It was me, Jordy, Luc, Callie, Devin, Leah, Cole and Rose.
As we barrel down the road, I’m reminded that Callie drives like a crazy person. I still wonder how she got her license. I think she bribed the guy at the DMV. Silver Bay Arena blurs by my window, and I remember kissing Chance Echolls for the first time on the rink inside at sixteen—and wishing it was Jordan. I smile sadly at the memories. God, I was so young and so completely naive. It feels like it was a hundred years ago, but it was only six. And every year of those six Jordan Garrison has done something—or someone—that proves how naive I was for believing he was the perfect boy for me. Hockey blogs, sports papers, even celebrity gossip sites have enjoyed keeping track of his sexcapades, making it impossible for me to ignore.
“Lotta memories,” Rose whispers thoughtfully as she rubs my arm.
I nod but say nothing. I know the worst memories are yet to come. I don’t know how the hell I’m going to spend a second in that house and not completely melt down. Everything about it holds bad memories now. It’s literally a box of rejection, fear, heartache and loneliness held together by peeling white clapboard and a cracked stone foundation. I know how dramatic that sounds, but being that our grandmother never wanted us to live with her, the house was never a warm or comforting refuge for me. And kissing my best friend, giving my virginity to him there and then later having him rip my heart out did nothing to endear me to the hundred-year-old farmhouse.
Before I know it, we’re pulling up the long dirt drive and Callie careens to a stop. We’re beside the decrepit barn that we only ever used as a tomb for old toys and broken lawn furniture. She throws the Ford into park and we all pile out. I yank my suitcase out of the back and Rose helpfully pushes the tailgate back up.
Callie heads straight for the porch and stands on it, the key dangling from her hand, her eyes narrowed on me. “I can make a reservation at the motel if it’s, you know…more comfortable.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s fine.” I can’t afford a motel room since my internship barely pays minimum wage. Besides, I have a perfectly fine, free house to stay in, no matter the memories it conjures up.
I walk up the porch, Rosie trudging along behind me. Callie opens the door and makes room for me to pass. I step into the kitchen and blink. It hasn’t changed a stitch. The white Formica countertops, the scuffed dark wood cabinets, the yellow sunflower accessories Lily loved so much. God, I still hate them. I let go of my bag and run a hand along the countertop—the one next to the sink, across from the table. The one where I kissed him for the first time.
Callie grabs my hand and guides it off the counter, dragging me to the kitchen table. “Okay, enough of that.”
She knows I’m thinking about him, and I’m grateful she isn’t about to let me wallow. Callie has always tried to save me from myself. I love her dearly for it. She pushes me down into a chair as she walks over to the fridge and grabs three beers. She hands one to me and one to Rose before twisting the cap off her own.
“So, now what?” I ask and sip the cool frothy Corona.
“Well, tomorrow we have appointments at the funeral home and with Lily’s lawyer,” Callie explains. “Until then, we drink.”
“That’s it? That’s the big plan?” I smile, and she smiles back.
“Yes. That and…” Callie nods vigorously as she tilts back in her chair like a misbehaving eighth grader. She grabs a bottle of Patrón off the buffet hutch behind her. “We drink so much that you pass out. I’m having enough trouble adjusting to the time zone, I don’t need your sobbing keeping me up.”
My jaw drops open and I stare at her in shock.
“Drink,” Callie commands, and clinks her bottle with mine.
I think it’s probably about an hour or an hour and a half later. We’re on our third beers and we’ve done two shots of Patrón; Rose has told us all about her senior year so far at University of Vermont. Callie’s made us giggle with crazy stories of life in LA, and I’m smiling—really smiling. I know I’m a big part of the reason that they’re as well adjusted as they are, and I’m proud of that. But even more so, I’m simply relieved. They deserve everything they want in life, and it seems like they’re getting it.
“Do you think…” Rose starts, her tone low and soft. She bites her lip and circles the rim of her beer bottle with her index finger before continuing. “Do you think she wished we’d been here? Been with her when she…died?”
She’s talking about Grandma Lily, of course. The reason for this reunion. Callie clears her throat, probably just to stop the depressing silence that’s filling the room.
“It was sudden, Rose. Her heart just stopped in the middle of the grocery store. I don’t think she had time to wish for anything.” Callie sips her beer and leans back against the old red and yellow plaid couch. “She’s never asked us to visit since we left town. Hell, she doesn’t…didn’t even call on birthdays. She died alone because she wanted to be alone.”
“But she let me come back every summer. She never charged me rent or anything,” Rose says timidly.
Rose’s dark eyes get watery as she shifts on the musty carpet we’re sitting on. I have never been able to see my sisters upset. It feels like something is clawing at my heart, tearing away tiny little chunks. And after the life we’ve had, there’s not too my chunks left to tear.
“Maybe we should say some nice things about her,” I suggest because I know it’s what Rose wants. Rose romanticizes everything. She needs to believe there is good in everything. I admire that in her and I’m grateful for it. I would see the world a lot more bleakly if she weren’t around. “Lily took us in. Even though she thought of us as a burden, she still took on that burden. She could have left us in foster care. Separated. But she didn’t.”
Rose nods at that and gives me a weak but thankful smile. We both turn to Callie, waiting for her to share a positive memory of our grandmother.
“She never hit us,” Callie says, rolling her eyes. “All her punches were emotional so at least she didn’t mess with our pretty faces.”
Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. Rose shakes her head but smiles despite herself.
Then suddenly there’s a knock on the front door and it swings open. We all turn toward the intrusion. A serene, smiling face peeks around the door and I see arms holding a huge pan covered with tin foil.
“Donna!” Callie calls out happily, and scurries to get up off the floor.
“Hi, girls,” Donna Garrison responds. “Sorry to interrupt.”
She walks into the kitchen and we follow her. She looks exactly like I remember. Of course, unlike her sons, I had seen her in the last six years. Twice in the last six years she and her husband, Wyatt, have taken golf vacations to Arizona and stopped by to visit me at school. It was awkward both times. It’s not her making it uncomfortable, it’s me. I can’t let go of the humiliation because she knows what happened between me and her son. And I’ve always felt like I can’t hate him and still love her. But I do still love her, and that’s why I’m awkward.
She still has the same shoulder-length honey hair, although now it’s a little gray on the sides. And the same smiling sky-blue eyes that look exactly like his. Something pinches inside my chest, but I ignore it. She places the casserole pan on the stovetop and immediately starts digging in the big canvas bag on her shoulder.
“I brought you some perogies and other essentials,” she tells us, placing milk, coffee grounds, bread, butter and homemade jam on the kitchen table.
Callie reaches out and hugs her. “You always take such good care of us. Thank you.”
Donna closes her eyes and hugs my sister tightly. “My pleasure. As always.”
When she lets go of Callie, she automatically reaches for Rose, who willingly
embraces her. And then Rose steps away and Donna is standing in front of me. She puts her hands on my shoulders and pulls me to her.
“Welcome back, Jessie, honey,” she whispers in my ear. “It’s so good to see you. I just wish it wasn’t for these reasons.”
I nod. It’s all I can do. If I try to talk, I will cry. Why is this still so hard? After all these years, I still can’t stop associating her with my loss of him. I hate myself for it.
“Wyatt says you can keep the truck as long as you need,” Donna announces, and I shoot Callie a withering stare. I should have known she was driving Wyatt Garrison’s truck. “And if you need help with anything, just call. You know we’re here for you.”
We all smile and nod.
“The boys said to tell you—all of you—how sorry they are you’re going through this. I know they wish they could be here,” Donna tells us simply.
As she turns to the door, she grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. Her pale blue eyes level on me, and it’s like she two-handed me in the abdomen with a hockey stick when as she says, “Jordan told me to tell you he’s thinking of you.”
I nod again, barely containing the urge to scream.
“Thanks again, Donna.” Rose hugs her again. “You’re the best. Hopefully we can all have dinner with you and Wyatt before we leave.”
“I’d love that, honey.” Donna smiles and heads out the door.
Rose closes the door behind the woman I’d always wished was my mother and stares at me nervously. I turn and find Callie’s concerned stare on me too.
“I need another shot. Now,” I announce in a shaky voice as I reach for the Patrón. I drink from the bottle.
“He has no right sending messages through his mother,” Callie says, seething, as she hands me another beer. I promptly open it and chug. “What a cowardly thing to do.”
“He’s had years to say something, and he waits all this time and then can’t even say it himself?” Rose muses with an angry shake of her head that causes her dark hair to tumble around her shoulders in waves. “God, why does he have to be such a dick?”
One More Shot (Hometown Players #1) Page 2