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“Ahh, that would be tough at that age.”
“At any age, really,” Erin adds.
Isn’t that the brutal truth?
Sadie overflows when the game starts. Whenever Cillian is on the ice, she yells when she sees him. She’s even more animated when he has the puck. Her little arms stretching over her head as she watches with anticipation. She screams as loud as any adult here when our team scores. I hope she never loses her enthusiasm for the sport or her dad.
It’s my fault she hasn’t experienced this before. The realization hits me like a train, pulverizing every lie I’ve told to convince myself that what I was doing was the right thing.
Neither of us is completely innocent.
Am I any less a villain than he is? What other special connection have I denied my daughter?
Cillian doesn’t score, but ends up with an assist, something equally as good through Sadie’s exhausted eyes. He managed the entire game with no penalties, too. I send him a text on our way to the family room to wait for him and my dad.
Me:
She’s dead on her feet, might be asleep by the time you get out.
Cill:
I’ll hurry.
Yeah, right.
I’ve yet to meet a hockey player that has a quick post-game routine. No such thing exists, I’m convinced. While he’s one of the first bunch out, it still takes forever. Sadie collapsed in my arms, near comatose, but her eyes aren’t fully shut just yet.
“There’s your daddy, baby.” Her head pops up a few inches.
“Good job, Daddy.”
“Thanks, Sadie Baby,” Cillian says, picking her up from my arms and cradling her in his. I think she falls asleep before her head even hits his shoulder. “Thanks for waiting for me before taking off.”
“Oh, it’s fine. I think we’re all used to waiting around for hockey players,” Mom tells him, and Erin agrees.
“I’ll carry her out to your car,” Cillian tells his mom who is having Sadie over for a Nana night.
Following behind him, I try not to feel the things I’m feeling as he snuggles into her wild curls. He’s made it clear he doesn’t see her as often as he wants. That’s not because I’m unaccommodating or anything. It’s just schedules that don’t always align. Normally, it isn’t something to feel guilty about. It’s not as if I see her as often as I’m accustomed to either. Except tonight I do feel bad, like it’s all my fault.
Clearly, Cillian has made her a priority. There’s still a voice inside reminding me that he didn’t do the same for me.
He carefully buckles her into the car seat, and we both say goodbye to our daughter and his mother. Then it’s just the two of us in the middle of the dark parking lot. People come outside and drive off around us while we stare at each other.
Cillian waits for me to do take the first step, he wants me to do it. He’s drawn the line, not knowing if I’ll step over it or not.
“Good night, Isla,” he says after a hefty, disappointed sigh.
“Wait.” I reach out to grab his arm, feeling the flex of nervousness under my fingers. So much has changed for and about us, but not this. Not how we still affect one another. Maybe that’s what we should focus on instead of our anger and our hurt. What brought us together in the first place? How did our fucked-up fairytale start? “Want to grab a bag of Dick’s and talk about the game?”
* * *
“This was nice,” Cillian says later. After we’ve finished our greasy late-night dinner on the upper deck of his house. The gas outdoor fireplace is lit but I’m still wrapped in a blanket to ward off the rapidly cooling weather. The chill is worth the view of the moon reflecting off the lake water.
Feels like old times.
“It was,” I say instead.
“You haven’t deposited the check yet.”
