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“I’m going to grab another load from the car,” my dad says, shuffling back out of the room after Chloe.
My mom opens the box she carried in and starts pulling items out. “Go help your dad. I’ll start unpacking.”
I agree easily. I’d never tell her, but I spent last semester living out of my suitcase. My dorm room in Boston never looked that settled either. And I didn’t unpack anything except the essentials staying at my parents’ over break, knowing I was about to move here. Having all my stuff settled—for me—sounds wonderful.
I walk back down the hallway, heading for the front door. I pause when I hear a bang from the kitchen. Chloe said she was heading upstairs, so maybe one of my other roommates is home?
Nope, it’s my father squatting in front of the sink.
“Dad!” I hiss. “What are you doing?”
He startles and stands, a guilty expression on his face. “Checking to make sure there was a fire extinguisher in the kitchen,” he tells me. “Lots of landlords don’t bother following the code and rely on the tenants, even if they’re college students.”
“Is there one?” I ask, because that’s easier than focusing on the lump in my throat.
My dad fussing over the house, my mom arranging my room.
The anxiety I’ve been carrying around, dreading the start of this semester, is slowly being replaced by relief. I’m proud of myself for leaving Boston, for finally admitting I wasn’t happy there. I’m tired of the guilt I’ve felt about choosing Boston in the first place. And a little grateful for it, right now, knowing it’s making me appreciate my parents that much more.
“Yes,” he answers.
“Good.” Straightforwardness has always been my dad and I’s love language. He wouldn’t know what to do with a sappy thank you any more than I’d know how to deliver one. He coaches hockey players and only smiles on special occasions.
According to my mom’s doctor, I was supposed to be a boy, which is how I ended up with my unique name, a variation on the family name they planned to give me. And I might not have beenthe son my dad was expecting, but we’ve always shared a special relationship.
One I didn’t realize how much I missed until I returned home.
It was easier, when I was thousands of miles away, to put emotional distance between me and my parents in my attempt at total independence.
“Do you need to check the plumbing and the fuse box too, or can we finish unloading the car?” I tease.
My dad chuckles as he bends down to close the cabinet beneath the sink. “When did you get grown-up enough to know what a fuse box is?”
“You should be asking who taught me what a fuse box is, and the answer would be you. Just like we went over how to change a tire and drive stick shift.”
Another gruff laugh. Then, to my surprise, he tells me, “I’m proud of you, Rylan. I know transferring will be an adjustment.”
I force a smile in response, trying to ignore the way the knot in my stomach tightens. I’m glad I transferred, but it doesn’t make starting over at a new school suck any less. “It will be fine. I grew up in Somerville, remember?”
“Of course I do, honey. But that’s different than going to college here. I want to make sure you’re—”
“I’m excited, Dad. It will be great.”
A hopeful statement I’ve repeated to myself so often, it almost sounds genuine now.
He nods, but I’m not sure he believes me. “I set something up…something I need a favor from you to make happen.”
I raise one eyebrow, thoroughly confused. The last favor my dad asked of me was to lift the wipers on the car last week when it was predicted we’d get snow. And he didn’t look nearly this serious then. “Okay…what did you set up?”
“One of my players—”
I groan. “Dad…”
My only interest in hockey is the polite kind I’ve feigned for my father. I sit through watching games with him because I know it makes him happy. But those are professional athletes playing. Hockey involving guys I’ll never meet, not peers.
Wanting to avoid the uncomfortable dynamic of being the coach’s daughter factored into my decision not to enroll here as a freshman, if I’m being honest. And so,of course, I’m starting at Holt while interest in the hockey team is at an all-time high. When I went to the campus bookstore yesterday to pick up my textbooks, two girls were there buying Holt Hockeysweatshirts.
I’m happy for my dad. He deserves the attention and recognition for turning around what’s been a historically terrible team.
