Page 141

“That makes sense.”

“I guess.” I rub my thumb along the side of hers. “Either way, after he left, we barely talked. We still barely do. Birthday text, Christmas text, maybe a phone call if something big happens with hockey.”

“That’s it?”

“Pretty much.”

“And your mom?”

“She tried harder. Still does.” I smile a little. “She calls too much, worries about everything, sends me articles I don’t read.”

“That sounds familiar.”

“Your dad sends you articles?”

“No. My dad calls me to tell me information I could’ve found myself in thirty seconds.”

“Yeah, that tracks.”

She smiles, and somehow that tiny break makes the conversation easier.

“My mom comes out here a couple times a year now because she’s learned that if she waits for me to go home, she’ll be waiting a long fucking time.”

Quinn’s smile fades. “You don’t go back?”

I shake my head.

“At all?”

“Not really.”

“Because of the lake?”

“The lake, the house, my dad. Pick one.” I lean farther back into the couch. “That whole place feels tied to it now. I tried going back once after I left. Got in the car, told myself I was going home for a few days, and made it close enough that I started recognizing everything before I turned around.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing dramatic. I just couldn’t do it. The closer I got, the worse I felt, until eventually I took the first turn that would get me heading in the opposite direction and told my mom something came up with hockey.”

“Did she believe you?”

“Not for a second.”

Quinn gives me a faint smile. “But she didn’t push.”

“No. She never does. She just started coming to me instead.”

“That’s a good mom.”

“Yeah.” I nod. “She is.”

We sit quietly for a little while, Pickles rolling onto his back between us with all four legs in the air, completely unconcerned with my emotional breakthrough.

Lucky bastard.

Then Quinn looks at me. “The hotdish.”

I glance over. “What about it?”