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That it’s about Brit.
And, fuck, I can’t do this.
I need to go. I’ve barely had the strength to do what I need there—and I’m failing at it, considering I fucked her the night before, considering I told her?—
That throb in my temple grows.
Considering I’ve fought to keep my distance from her for the last months…
And failed utterly.
My doctor sighs as I’m sitting in that failure.
Then…he just drops it on me. “I think it’s less about you needing to be there for Roxie and more that you’re scared of what the outcome of the treatment might be”—he presses a few buttons on the keyboard and the screen goes black—“and what the journey to that recovery will look like.”
Hard.
It’s going to look hard, I know that. I?—
Well, I fucking know it.
But—
I’m not afraid of hard.
It’s why I made a living playing professional hockey.
It’s why I’ve made it this far.
I just?—
He settles his hand on my shoulder. “Think about what I said.” He squeezes lightly, releases me. “And then keep the appointment.”
A nod and then he’s gone, disappearing into the hall, the door clicking closed behind him.
Leaving me alone in the patient room, sitting on a paper-covered table, stewing over being called a coward.
I sit there for a long time.
And then go out to the front desk and I reschedule my treatment.
* * *
“Again, Dad!” Rox says and I toss the pizza dough up in the air.
We both look up, watching the disc of dough spin around and around.
It falls back down and I catch it before any pizza catastrophes can happen, smoothing it back out onto the peel. “Want to do sauce, Roxie girl?”
She reaches for the bowl of homemade sauce and begins to spoon it onto the crust, plopping some in the middle and using the back of the spoon to smooth it around and around like I taught her. “Is this the special one for Mom?” she asks.
“Yup,” I say. “Veggies and vegan cheese for Mom. Olives and pineapple for us.”
A combination that’s…disgusting, likely to the outside world, but something that Roxie and I both enjoy.
“I love pineapple!” she says, darting a hand forward and trying to sneak out a slice of pineapple from the bowl I have ready for topping.
“I know,” I reply lightly, letting her grab a couple of pieces before nudging the container out of reach. “We’ll put Mom’s in the oven when she gets home so it’s hot for her. Sound good?”
