Page 115 of Puck the Coach's Son
I press my head against the window.
“Okay.”
“Your aunt,” he says, after another block.
I look at him.
“You mentioned your aunt earlier. On the bench.”
Did I? I don't remember saying her name. Maybe I saidmy aunt.Maybe I said it as part of the list of people I couldn't call.
The name comes out of my mouth before I decide to say it.
“Diane.”
“Diane.” He tests it. Nods once, like he's filing it. “She close?”
I rub my thumb along the seam of my jeans.
“She was.” I swallow. “When I was a kid. She's Paul's older sister. She hated him when we were growing up. Said he was a drill sergeant with a clipboard where his soul should be. She used to take me to the library on Saturdays when he was at the rink and let me read whatever I wanted. He didn't let me read fiction at home. Said it made boys soft.”
Maddox makes a sound that isn't quite a laugh. Just air out of his nose, short. “Your aunt sounds fun.”
I stare at the dashboard.
“She's the only person in that family who ever looked at me like I was a person.”
His jaw tightens.
“Have you talked to her lately?”
“Not really. Paul cut her off when I was thirteen. Something about her influence at the time. I don't know all of it. I have her number. She sends me a birthday text every year.”
He's quiet for a second.
“Text her tonight,” he says. “Not about this. Not yet. Just text her. Tell her you're thinking about her.”
“Why?”
“Because you're going to need her in a week, and you don't want the first message you send in eight years to be a 9-1-1.”
I look at him. His face is still on the road. His hand is still on my thigh. He's thinking about strategy. About how to protect me. It's the exact opposite of every instinct I had about him when we first met, and I can't tell if I want to cry again or crawl across the console into his lap.
“Okay,” I say.
Apartment 304. I know it now. The buzzer, the stairs, the creak of the third step, the gray door that doesn't quite close flush unless you lift it an inch. He lifts it. We go in.
The low gray couch. The one lamp he leaves on because he hates walking into dark rooms. The city glittering through the balcony door. It smells like him. Cedar and clean laundry and, faintly, yesterday. I stand in the middle of it and something in my chest uncoils for the first time in hours.
He takes my coat. Hangs it on the hook by the door like it belongs there. It doesn't, yet, but he's decided it does.
“Sit,” he says. “I'm going to scramble eggs.”
“You can cook?”
“I can make eggs. It's not cooking. It's eggs.”
He disappears into the kitchen. I sit on the couch. I pull my knees up. I can hear him. Pan on the stove, fridge opening, the small clink of a bowl. He's humming something. Not a song. Just a low steady sound to fill the space. I don't think he knows he's doing it.
