“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Then don’t act like you need one.” He skates backward. “I’m texting you tomorrow. If you don’t answer, I’m coming over. Non-negotiable.”
After practice, I sit in my truck in the parking lot and stare at my phone. At Marnie’s name in my contacts.
I could call her. Could tell her about tomorrow. Could ask her to stay, to not leave early, to just be there.
But she’s angry. Grieving. Dealing with her own shit. And I’m the one who made it worse by keeping secrets.
I drive home alone.
The apartment isempty when I get there. She’s still at her mom’s house, probably. Boxing up memories and trying not to fall apart.
I should go to her. Should help. Should do something other than stand in my kitchen staring at the calendar on my phone.
I pour a drink. Just one. To take the edge off.
It doesn’t help.
December 29th.
I don’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Just watch the clock tick from 5 AM to 6 to 6:30.
I get up. Make coffee I won’t drink. Stare at my phone, now showing notifications I haven’t checked. Texts from Dex. A missed call from Barrett. Nothing from Marnie.
The whiskey bottle is in the counter where I left it yesterday. I pour a glass.
It’s 7:30 AM. Too early for this.
But what does it matter? The whole day is wrong. Has been wrong for five years.
I scroll through old messages. The same ones I readevery year.
Matty: Dude, stop worrying. I’m FINE. Go to practice. Score some goals. Be the hockey robot you are.
Me: I’m not a robot.
Matty: You literally scheduled “spontaneous fun” in your calendar last week. You’re a robot.
I remember laughing at that. Remember thinking he sounded good. Happy, even.
Three days later he was dead.
At 7:43 AM exactly, I drain the glass.
By noon I’m drunk.
Not falling-down drunk. Not yet. But enough that the edges blur. Enough that the memories don’t cut quite as deep. Enough that I can breathe without my chest feeling like it’s in a vise.
My phone keeps buzzing but I silence it and pour another drink. I’ve lost track of which number it is.
The photos on my phone are worse than the texts. Matty at eighteen, first day of college. Matty at twenty, home for Christmas. Matty at twenty-one, two months before?—
I can’t look at that one. Can’t see him laughing and alive and completely unaware of what’s coming.
Matty: Ro, I’m good. Dr. Kim says I’m making progress. Stop treating me like I’m going to break.
Me: Not treating you like anything. Just checking in.
