Page 48 of The Tryout

I’m laying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, when I hear the front door close again.

Shit.

I’d meant to have a calm, rational conversation with Avery about the car and the gas and the food, about how important it was for me to pay my way. I’d figured that texting him about needing to talk would keep me from avoiding it like I had been for the past few weeks.

But then the couch had arrived, this huge piece of furniture that couldn’t be ignored. But even then, I figured it would just make me actually have the conversation. But then he’d shown up with the TV and the food and God knows what else and I’d…

…well, I’d just lost it.

Time to find another roommate.

There was no way he’d be staying after that.

To my surprise, I hear a gentle knock on my door. Resisting the urge to stay in here, hiding until he leaves for good, I get up, opening the door a few inches.

There he stands, hands empty and face…sad?

There were many ways I thought he’d react, but sadness wasn’t one of them.

“I’m sorry I didn’t handle that very well. Can we please try again?”

My eyebrows lift. He didn’t handle it very well? I’m the one who screamed in his face in his own home.

I open the door the rest of the way, hoping he’ll get the message and follow me inside. I have a feeling that having this conversation in the proximity of that couch will only result in more yelling.

I walk back to my bed, sitting on the edge and gesturing for him to do the same.

“I get the sense that you’re uncomfortable with my spending habits.”

I’m grateful that he’s willing to start the conversation this time, because I truly don’t know where I’d start. Probably by yelling at him again.

“I’m…it’s none of my business how you spend your money.”

That’s the truth, even if it doesn’t quite feel true.

“My dads’ money. Let’s be honest, okay?”

That does feel true, so I nod.

“Do your…do your parents not have the ability to help you out?”

It’s a nice way of asking the question, but at the heart of it sits an assumption – that they would if they could.

“Avery, my parents aren’t…they aren’t like that.”

He nods, but I can tell from the confusion on his face that he doesn’t really get it.

“Okay, I hate talking about this so I’m doing it once. One time. You got your listening ears on?”

He nods, eyes wide, and I get the sense he’d reach for a pencil and paper to take notes if he could.

“I don’t know who my dad is, neither did my mom. She was…is, I guess, an addict. Guys were in and out of our house, none of them particularly nice.”

I can see the questions forming in his eyes, but to his credit, he presses his lips together to avoid asking them.

“When I was twelve, they…I ended up in foster care. My Nana took me into kinship care. That’s why I moved. But she didn’t have a ton of money, either. I watched my first hockey game thanks to a trip the foster care agency arranged. Every set of gear I’ve had has been used or paid for by charity. When she died, I lived in a group home and worked at the arena to keep it up. I was…I am so proud of the fact that I am making a living from this.”

My voice is breaking over unshed tears, and I decide that’s all I can say for now.