Just as I’m about to ease my door closed, Yumi leans over the console. “Noelle?” she calls, in a voice that’s uncannily similar to the girl I used to know.
“Yeah?”
“Can you just…Whatever version of the story you tell him…” She winces. “Can you try to make sure he doesn’t think I’m…bad?”
Yumi may hate me, but I don’t hate her. So I say, “No version of the story would make him think that.”
The apartment is dark when I step inside, save for the ever-present light from the TV.
“Noelle? Is that you?” my dad calls through a yawn.
I’m surprised he’s awake this late. “It better be,” I say, jingling my keys as I turn the corner into the living room. “Or have you been giving away our key to strangers on the street?”
“Only the really trustworthy-looking ones.” My dad lies under a fleece blanket on the couch, his head resting on the memory foam pillow I got him for his last birthday. He mutes the Vegas/Vancouver game and looks up at me expectantly. “How was your party?”
I puff up my cheeks and blow out a loud breath. “Interesting,” I decide.
“Oh?” He pushes himself to sitting with a grunt (old-person grunt, not hurt-person grunt—an important distinction for me). “What does ‘interesting’ mean?”
I don’t even know where to start. “Do you rememberThe Adventureverse?”
His face twists, like I’ve asked him if he remembers Wayne Gretzky. “Yes, honey. I could be dead and I’d still rememberThe Adventureverse.”
I knock wood on the doorframe, glaring at him. “Don’t talk about being dead.” I need to stop wasting time. “Dad, do you trust me?”
“Of course. What’s wrong?” He cocks his head to one side.
“I…I got a call. They want me on this season ofThe Adventureverse.”
My dad’s jaw drops into a wide smile. “That’s amazing, honey!” After examining my face, his mouth settles into a frown. “Why aren’t you excited?”
“I am,” I rush to assure him. “I am excited. Um, it—youknow how the—the show—” It feels like I’m in the Season 4, Episode 15 logrolling challenge. Every time I get my feet under me, the log spins again and I get tossed into the water. “You know how there are teams?”
“Uh-huh.” Realization unfurls on his face, his brows climbing, eyes widening, mouth opening. “Oh! Okay, uh, who’s your partner? It’s not me, is it? Because I don’t think that I—”
“It’s not you, Dad,” I interrupt. Exhaling, I decide to just bite the bullet. “It’s…Yumi.”
“It’sYumi?” he repeats, voice pitching up on her name.
“Yeah.” I shrug helplessly.
There’s a beat of silence between us before he shakes his head and commands, “Say more words, Noelle. I—this—Yumi?” He gestures around the living room, at a loss.
It’s been a long time since I’ve heard this tone from him. It surprises me. I expected a lot of things from this conversation, but I didn’t expect parental annoyance. For the past year, my dad and I have been on even footing. Equals, basically. I’ve been his emergency contact, his chauffeur, his protector and caretaker. I haven’t been hiskid.
“I don’t…I don’t have a ton of time right now. I’ll explain everything, I promise,” I blurt when he thrusts his jaw out, affronted. “But I w—” I don’t choose to stop speaking, it just happens. The power of speech just leaves me, replaced with absolutely nothing at all. My vision goes unfocused as I enter a mental void. Pins and needles start at the tip of my nose, rippling across my face in waves.
On screen, the Vegas Golden Knights score. It’s a home game.I can tell from the logo at center ice. The Canucks goalie squeezes his water bottle, squirting a stream of water through the cage on his helmet and into his mouth. I’ve always wondered if that’s something a goalie has to learn, or if it just comes naturally. If I were a goalie, I think my first instinct would be to take my helmet completely off to drink water, but none of them ever do that. It’s weird.
“Noelle,” my dad says softly, stopping my train of thought before it crashes. “It’s okay, honey. I’m not angry at you, I’m just confused. We’re okay. We’ll always be okay, okay?”
I open my eyes to look at him. I don’t even remember closing them. He looks back, face gentle as he nods encouragingly.
“Okay?” he prompts again.
I swallow. “Okay.”
“Good. I trust you. You don’t have to explain anything. I mean, you do; I wouldlikeyou to. But I just want to know you’re safe.”
