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“Have you told Zeke?”
He shakes his head. “He’s not ready to hear it.”
“Does the team know?”
“Yeah. It’s not official yet.”
I nod, understanding his need for discretion.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
This is a bigger deal than he’s making it. I can only assume he’s had a dream of playing pro hockey for a long time, and now it’s officially over. He seems okay though. Not just like he’s covering it up, like he’s genuinely okay.
“How did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Move on like that? Figure out what’s next.”
“Who says I have it figured out?” A wry grin creeps into the corner of his mouth, and he nudges my shoulder with his. “One day at a time.”
I nod, understanding, but not satisfied. He stretches his arm across the back of the swing and gives me a little squeeze. “You’ll figure it out,” he says as if reading my mind.
“You think so?”
“I know so.” We clink our beer bottles, and I realize he’s drinking beer. He really is moving on. We drain our bottles and I get up to exchange them out for fresh ones.
As I’m about to grab fresh bottles from the fridge, I notice the light in my bedroom. I go to turn it off and find Zeke, standing next to my desk, looking at a picture frame.
Wordlessly, I join him. His face is serious, focused, like he’s trying to puzzle something out. He lifts a glass to his lips, draining the rest of his whiskey.
“When was this?” he asks.
I take the frame and turn around, leaning back against the desk. It was a quick snapshot my parents took when they dropped me and Edie off at Camp Abenaki the summer after my first year at Stanford. We’re wearing our red counselor shirts and jean shorts. I hated those shorts. I had made cutoffs from a longer pair, but they chafed and hugged my thighs in all the wrong places. I hate this picture. But it’s the only one I have of me with Edie where we look happy.
“Five years ago?” I say, remembering how excited we were to be the ones in charge for the first time.
“You look alike,” he says. His voice is thick and as I set the frame down, I take a good look at him. He’s leaning against the desk as much as I am, but where I’m using it for comfort, he’s using it to hold himself upright.
“How much have you had?”
“Not enough,” he says, leaning into me. His breath is so alcohol-soaked that I worry about his proximity to fireworks.
“Alright, buddy,” I say, bracing my arm beneath his and trying to coax him to lean into me.
“You’re so much prettier,” he says, picking up the frame again.
I take it back before he can break it.
“Well, it was sort of an awkward photo,” I say, placing it face down so we don’t have to look at my squishy nineteen-year-old thighs.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to get you to the bed.”
“Somebuddy,” he slurs, pinching my chin with his massive fingers. “Taking me to bed when I’m a little tipsy.”
“You’re three sheets to the wind,champ,” I say, and guide him to my bed.
