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I don’t know what to say. Everything we talk about is from the past, but I don’t want to talk about hockey. She hates hockey.
This is awkward. I open my mouth to ask if she still makes jewelry, but the doorbell rings, and she jumps up like she was waiting for an out. She opens the door and more of her friends pile in.
“I’m so glad we could make it,” her friend says, hugging my mom. “When you called yesterday—”
“Oh, yes, yes.” My mom cuts her off, eyes darting over to me and Hazel. “So good to see you.”
Her friend sees me and gasps, hands on her mouth and eyes wide. “Is this Rory?”
I give her a tight smile. “Hi.”
“My god,” she breathes. “He’s Rick’s twin!”
So fast I barely catch it, my mom winces, and my heart sinks.
“I need to, uh,” I start, getting to my feet, not meeting Hazel’s searching gaze. “I’m going to grab some water. Be right back.”
I sense Hazel’s eyes on me the entire way to the kitchen. At the kitchen sink, I pour a glass from the tap, down it, and pour another, staring out the window into the back yard.
What am I doing here? I’m just ripping open old wounds. The way she reacted when her friend said I looked like my dad was everything I needed to know.
This was a huge fucking mistake. I don’t know what I thought was going to happen, showing up. Did I think suddenly we were going to be different people? That we could start fresh or something?
Pathetic, Rick would say.
I think back to the day she left, when she asked if I wanted to go with her. Everything would be different if I had said yes. I’d know my own mom. I wouldn’t play hockey, though.
“Rory.” My mom steps into the kitchen wearing a strange expression.
The kitchen feels too small with just the two of us, but at the same time, my gaze clings to her, taking her in. My mom. My heart hurts, looking at her. Even though she’s right in front of me, I miss her.
I wish wecouldstart fresh. I just don’t know how.
She gestures over her shoulder, shaking her head. “I’m sorry about what Erica said. About you looking like your dad.”
I take a drink of water, just for something to do with my hands. “Everyone says it.”
“I always thought you looked more like me.”
Silence stretches between us. I can smell her perfume—the same one she used to wear when I was a kid.
“How’s your dad?”
“Uh.” I rub the back of my neck, thinking about our call yesterday. “He’s good.”
“Is he in town for the holiday?”
I shake my head. “Back in Toronto. He’s not much of a Christmas guy.”
She nods like she remembers before her expression changes. “He used to be, when you were really little. He loved doing all the Christmas stuff with you.”
I make a face. That doesn’t sound like him.
“Honestly, Rory, he was.” She sighs. “Your dad loves you. I hope you know that. He shows it the only way he knows how.”
My dad loveshockey. He loves being the best and anyone connected to him being the best, but I shove that all away.
“I should get back—” I start.
