Page 79 of Best Man on Campus

“Answer your damn phone.”

Still laughing, I slip the phone from my pocket and click it on without checking who it is.

“Ben, did you check the email I sent you?”

“Dad?” I don’t remember the last time he called me. “No, I didn’t have a chance—”

“Open it. Check the links. It’s important. I was talking with your mother—or she was talking to me, and she said you’d be better off playing hockey.”

“Did she? Glad everyone has an opinion on what I should do.”

“Not me. It’s your call, son and I… I’m sorry if I put expectations on you.” He pauses. “Look I know you love hockey. It’s perfectly clear to any imbecile who watches you play a game.” My heart kicks up and I click on the link in his email. It’s an article about med school students who start later in life, in their 30s and 40s, claiming it’s a small but growing demographic.

“Shit,” I say under my breath.

“No pressure, but I know you’ve been knocking yourself out to get into med school. Dr. Adenaki called me—”

“Dr. Walt? Called you?” Fuck. He asked dad about my aversion to blood. I take a deep breath, ready to deal with the truth.

“We had a good talk. I didn’t know…”

“No big deal,” I lie, then pushing my hand through my hair, I look at Jazzy and her eyes are on me, challenging me to deal with my truth. “That’s not true. The sight, feel and smell of blood makes me so nauseous and dizzy I can barely hold my shit together, let alone attend to a patient’s wound.”

“I heard. I also heard you have been dealing with it, holding your shit together admirably. The ER wouldn’t be the ideal specialty for you, would it?”

“No. But when I get past med school,” I say and then I stop. My gut churns and I let the whole truth unwind. “In the future. When I go to med school some time in the future. Because, dad, the truth is, I want to play hockey right now. If I’m fortunate enough to get drafted and have an NHL career, I’ll visit kids in the hospital and donate money to research. If I play for ten years, I’d feel fucking lucky. I could try for med school then.”

Dad laughs and tells me that’s what mom predicted for my future. He ends the call with a promise to come to the next game if he’s strong enough.

My eyes are on Jazzy’s and she’s grinning, looking energetic and lively when I could have sworn she was ready for sleep a few minutes ago.

“Dilemma solved,” she says. “Go have your fucking unicorn life now and leave me alone.”

“Leave you alone? No fucking chance of that. You’re my biggest dilemma of all and I’m looking forward to solving you.”

“Is that what you call it? I call it fucking,” she says, her grin gone, her face unreadable and my tension back, bracing me for another ride on the Jazzy emotional rollercoaster.

“No, I call it making love, if you want to know.” I watch her eyes narrow and decide to push her. “Or making babies.” And if we’re lucky enough to have children, I’ll be there for them every day that I can and I’ll be there for you. Saying this out loud would be a push too far.

Her eyes pop and she laughs, but it’s a false tense laugh. She’s trying to make light of something she knows is serious underneath.

“Make babies? You’re out of your fucking mind.”

“Someday. You don’t like kids?”

She turns away but I see the pain, see her choking up.

“I could never be a mother. Could you imagine the torture of being my child?” She tries to laugh it off. I wish I could tell her fully how I feel, but no way in hell is she ready to hear it, not without pain, as much for me as her. So I exercise more patience than I ever thought I had, newly found patience spawned by Jazzy the she-devil.

“You have a lot of love to give, Jazzy. I hear it in every song you sing.”

She scoffs. “I don’t believe in love. Or unicorns.”

“You believe in me.”

She looks at me with those deep brown eyes, impossibly long lashes glistening with unshed tears.

“I do. And you know I never realized it until just now what a fucking unicorn you are.”