Page 113 of With the Assist

“I’m going to use the bathroom.” I push off the counter and hurry out of the room.

No one stops me.

I shut the door behind me and lean against it for a second, breathing out slowly. The house is quiet in a way that presses in, every sound amplified by the overwhelming unwelcomeness of it all.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, fingers flying across the screen.

Me: Merry Christmas.

I hesitate for a second, then hit send before I can overthink it.

Wesley: Merry Christmas, Wilder. I hope you’re surviving.

The tension in my chest eases a fraction as I laugh softly.

Me: How’s it going with your family?

Time ticks more slowly as I stare at the screen, before tucking it back into my pocket without waiting for a response. I can’t hide here forever, and dinner will be ready soon. Delaney’s voice is drifting down the hall as she talks about dessert.

I wash my hands, look at myself in the mirror, and try to pull it together.

My breath comes a little easier as I head toward the dining room. It’s as if texting her bought me ten more minutes of patience.

We sit down at the table, plates already warm, and the spread is impressive in the way it always is here. Everything looks perfect, but tastes like an obligation.

“So,” I say, breaking the quiet. “How are things going for you guys?”

Mom launches into a safe answer about the neighborhood and a charity committee she joined. Dad mentions work in vague terms, something about numbers and end-of-year planning.

I ask a few follow-up questions even though we all know that I don’t care. I’ve given up the pettiness that used to be showing them the same kind of indifference that they show hockey. Now, I offer only enough to qualify as conversation.

My phone vibrates against my thigh.

I glance down without thinking, then immediately feel my mouth curve up.

Wesley: Really great. Nice having them in my space for once. Exactly what I needed. How's yours going?

The question lands at the exact wrong moment.

Dad clears his throat. “Have you thought any more about your contract? It ends this year.”

I look up. “Of course I have. I’m planning to renew it.”

The motion in the room stops as he sets his fork down carefully. He and Mom exchange some sort of silent conversation. Things are about to tip on their head, so I take a minute to respond to Wesley.

Me: It’s been thirty minutes, and we’re about to get to the part where they tell me to grow up and quit hockey.

My dad coughs, drawing my attention back to the argument that’s about to ensue. “We were hoping,” he says, choosing his words like chess pieces, “that having a serious girlfriend might mean you’re ready to grow up.”

There it is.

“I am grown up,” I say. “I’m twenty-eight. I live on my own. I pay my bills. I have a career.”

“A career,” my mom repeats. “Or a phase that’s gone on too long.”

I laugh once, sharp and humorless. “You can’t be serious.”

Dad leans back in his chair. “We want you to think about the future. Stability. A real plan.”