Page 18 of Slapshot Baby

"Are you sure? You might be regaining your memory."

"I'm sure."

But I'm not.

5

AVA

The Body Remembers

Four weeks and five days. Not that I’m counting.

I'm absolutely counting.

It’s been four weeks and five days since Kai Donovan took my number, told me he wanted to take me out, and then proceeded to never text me.

Weeks of my chest stupidly clenching every time I think about his hand on my chin, asking if I was nervous. Of checking my phone like an idiot every time it buzzes, only to find Lucy sending me memes or Mom asking if I'm eating enough vegetables.

I knew better. That's the part that makes this worse.

Men who look like Kai get chased, enjoying it for as long as it's convenient. Then they move on to the next woman willing to climb into their bed.

I know this.

I've watched my own father do a version of it. His cheating multiple times is enough evidence. He wants to "reconnect" this weekend, which is code for pretending the last decade of abandonment didn't happen.

My mother invited me home like she might be able to buffer the awkwardness with homemade pasta and questions about my love life. She stirs the pot with her slender fingers, humming. Her pale eyes look satisfied.

Biscuit trots past Mom’s ankles. She’s a brown-and-white mutt with one ear that stands up and one that flops. She circles twice around Mom’s ankles and drops onto the cool tile with a huff.

I drop into a chair at the kitchen table that's older than I am. The vinyl tablecloth still has the burn mark from Lucy's fourteenth birthday candles.

Nothing in this house changes. It's the one constant comfort of coming home, that the refrigerator hums the exact same way it did years back.

My father’s frame fills the doorway. He has the same easy grin that used to make my mother's friends sigh when he walked into a room. His hazel eyes crinkle at the corners like he's been waiting all day just to see me.

Biscuit lifts her head. Her body goes stiff, ears flat. She lets out a growl.

"Your dog still hates me," he says, glancing down.

"Hey, Dad."

He crosses the kitchen and kisses the top of my head, smelling like the cigarettes he swears he has quit.

"I was thinking we could grab dinner on Monday to catch up properly."

My stomach churns. “You said this weekend.”

“Yeah? And Monday is just a day after.”

“Then why not have dinner tomorrow, Sunday?”

He scratches his head. “Um, something came up.”

"I have a client consultation on Monday."

"Cancel it."