Page 84 of The Puck Bunny

“I’m sorry,” she says, looking up at me. “This isn’t something I usually talk about.”

“I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. You don’t have to tell me anything if—”

“That’s the thing, Quinn. I do want to share it with you. You’ve shared so much with me and I appreciate it so much. I’m really glad you did. So now I need to be brave and do the same.” She lifts her chin and smiles unconvincingly. “After all, I’m the one who opened the can of worms when I told you I had a loss. The least I can do is not leave you hanging.”

“I admit I’m curious. But most of all, I care.” I should qualify that and tell her I care as a friend, but, right now, I’m too confused about the truth of that. I have no idea why I care about her, only that I do. Very much. And I have no business caring.

“My father was in the Iraqi war. He married Mom before he went overseas and she was thrilled when he came back with all his limbs intact. He was fine… for a while. They had Bobby and then me and then Paul. But, by the time Paul was three or four, Dad had started having a hard time getting out of bed and couldn’t take care of us. I started taking care of Paul and my dad when Mom was working and Dad stopped going to work. Then, when I was nine, he went away. I remember the day clearly because he looked so helpless. it was the day before my birthday and he was so sad that he was missing it.

“Mom promised to send him photos so he’d stop crying. We were all crying that day, even Bobby who was a tough guy. I’d never seen him cry before or since.”

“Shit. That sucks. Where did he go?” I have an idea, but I don’t want to make assumptions.

“To a mental health facility. He was on drugs and needed to dry out and get treated for depression. To this day, I don’t know how the heck Mom handled it all.”

“It must have helped that her mother—your grandmother—lived upstairs.”

She looks at me surprised. “It’s true—you remembered that detail?”

“Of course. I don’t think I’ve forgotten a word you’ve ever said. You’re a pretty memorable lady, you know.”

“Sure, that’s what they all say—and they mean it—but not necessarily in a good way.” She gives me a smirk and then sighs. I laugh and hug her to me.

“Anyone who doesn’t appreciate you for the unique woman you are doesn’t deserve you, sweetheart. Remember I told you that if you remember nothing else about me.”

She snort-laughs. “You think I’m going to forget anything about you? You’re crazy. This is the kind of story that’s going to be a legend in my family among my grandchildren and their grandchildren. I’ll tell them their granny had a fling with a famous, handsome hockey star when she was young. They’ll insist I’m making up fairytales.”

We share a heartbreakingly sweet moment until her smile fades and she clears her throat.

“Where was I? Oh yeah, Dad left for the mental hospital to and we kids had no idea how long he was going to be gone. Mom didn’t say, but I got the impression that it was for a couple of weeks.”

“How long was it?” I ask.

“Six lousy months. I swear I thought he was never coming back, that he was up by an alien spaceship and kidnapped, never to return. I thought he was dead on my worst days. But, no matter what, I never talked about Dad to Mom or to anyone when she was around. Bobby, Paul and I talked among ourselves. Bobby said he’d be the man of the family. Paul didn’t worry because he had most of Mom’s attention. I pretended not to worry, but all I did was worry. At least I had Grandma Zanetti and Aunt Yolanda’s attention.”

“It’s amazing that you had your family nearby to help you through it.”

She nods and keeps talking.

It’s like I turned on a spigot and it turned into a firehose because she can’t stop now. She tells story after story about hearing her mom crying at night, about Bobby acting like her father and taking her to a father-daughter event at school, and about how her mom spoiled Paul and worried about him most of all because he was so much like his father.

“Then when Dad finally came home, he wasn’t the same. To this day, he’s like a kitten in a jungle. He never goes out. Doesn’t work except publishing poetry now and then.” She stops talking and leans against me, spent and yawning.

I wrap an arm around her, wishing I could make up for all the bad stuff, make her world as bright and shiny as she is.

We lie back together in silence, all the tension released and I yawn. The sun glows orange on the horizon outside the bedroom window, sparkling off the waves in a bright streak all the way to the sand. I pick up my phone from the night stand to check the time, while trying not to disturb Sara.

She stirs, bolting to alertness, then snatches the phone from me to see the time. “Oh my God. I’ve kept you up all night. What time do you have to get to practice?”

“In two hours,” I admit.

“You still have time to sleep,” she says as she scrambles off the bed.

Every muscle in me wants to stop her, but I can’t. I need to let her go. For good. I have no business being with a girl-woman like her. Not now anyway.

Who am I kidding? By the time I get my shit together, she’ll probably be married with five kids.

“I’ll drive you home,” I say, getting up. “It’ll only take twenty minutes round-trip.”