Page 82 of Filthy Goalie
I said, “The man—the man is still in the apartment. He lied to me. He kept a secret that was not his to keep. But he’s still there. He’s learning how to trust me with his life, and I’m learning how to forgive him for not trusting me sooner. It’s not perfect. But it’s real. And real is better than perfect.”
I touched the stone. The granite was rough under my fingertips.
I said, “I think you would like him. I think you would have liked the way he looked at me when he was trying to pretend he wasn’t looking at me. I think you would have approved of the fact that he came into the diner at 4:58 a.m. and refused the pie because he did not want to accept charity, which is something you would have understood.”
The stone did not answer.
The stones never did.
But I could feel her in the cemetery, in the diner, in the space between me and Knox where the trust was slowly starting to rebuild. I could feel her in the letter that was sitting in my purse, the letter that meant the diner was going to survive, the letter that meant I was going to be okay.
I said, out loud, “I’m going to marry him. I don’t know when. But I’m going to marry him. And I’m going to keep the diner, and I’m going to have a life that is real and hard and mine. And I think you would be proud of me for that.”
I stood up and I brushed the dirt off my jeans and I walked back to my truck.
The sun was setting over the lake. The sky was turning the color of copper and gold, the kind of sunset that only happened in Minnesota in late winter, when the light was starting to change and spring was somewhere on the horizon, still far away but coming.
I drove home.
Knox’s truck was already parked on the street. He had come back early from the rink. He was waiting for me, which meant he understood that something had happened, that something had changed, that something in the architecture of my life had shifted in a way that I was going to have to tell him about.
I got out of my truck and I walked to his window and I tapped on the glass.
He rolled it down.
I said, “Come inside. I want to tell you something.”
He said, “Okay.”
We walked into my house together. The first time in a week that we had done this, that we had crossed a threshold together instead of separately. The diner was mine. The house was mine. The life I was building was mine. And I was choosing to share it with the man in the apartment, the man who had lied to me, the man who had learned to trust me with his brokenness.
I sat down on the couch and I held out the letter.
I said, “The bank refinanced the mortgage. The payment is cut in half. The diner is going to be okay.”
He took the letter and he read it. He did not say anything for a long time.
Then he said, “Maddox.”
I said, “Yes. Maddox did this. He said it was an investment. He said the diner matters to the team and the town. He said he was tired of watching me be stubborn about accepting help.”
Knox looked at me.
He said, “Are you okay with that.”
I said, “Yes. I signed the papers. The diner is mine, but it’s also part of something bigger than me. It’s part of this town. It’s part of what you’re all trying to build here.”
He set the letter down on the couch between us.
He said, “Your grandmother would be proud of you.”
I said, “I told her that. At the cemetery. I told her I was going to marry you, and I was going to keep the diner, and I was going to have a life that was real and hard and mine.”
He said, “Are you going to marry me.”
I said, “Yes. Someday. When I’m ready. But yes.”
He moved closer to me and he took my hand.
