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AURORA
I still remember the first time I met him.
A dazzled child starstruck by the older boy next door. The one with blond hair that flopped in his face, that his mother was always fondly brushing back from his forehead. The blue eyes that were brighter than the sky.
But as older boys went, he didn’t want a shadow.
The first time I met him, in the sloping backyards that weren’t bound by fence lines—no one in the neighborhood bothered with that, not at that time—he pushed me in the mud for touching his hockey stick.
They had a goal positioned in the middle of the yard and one of those boards that’s supposed to feel like ice. I was fascinated, sure, because I’d never met anyone who needed to practice outside of the rink. Or maybe I just hadn’t met anyone my age who cared enough to do so.
But I wanted to try. The scuff of the puck against that white, dingy board drew me across the lawn like a magnet. I just remember reaching, my fingers skimming the taped handle, and his hands on my shoulders. The bark of possessiveness, of ten-year-old anger.
I was knocked flat. My fingers curled into the grass as wetness from last night’s rain seeped through my jeans.
Never mind that my dad was the coach for the ten and under, and I was probably a better player than him and his younger brother combined. I’d been on skates since before I could walk, after all. Chasing after my dad on the ice, a tiny stick in my hand and pigtails sticking out from under my pink helmet.
We were at the rink almost every day. Mom shooed me off with him gladly. Anything to keep me out of her hair, to burn off my never-ending, restless energy.
At that age, professional hockey was a far-off dream that I pictured every time I closed my eyes. Playing for the women’s league, getting to play for the US in the Olympics. The roar of a crowd after a goal, the rush of cool air on my cheeks, and the collision of teammates celebrating. A gold medal.
It was everything I ever thought I could be, bottled up in a pair of skates, a helmet, and a stick.
Then I got sick.
And as it turns out, my father didn’t really care much for chasing dreams with me if it meant putting my health in jeopardy.
What a disappointing, crash-to-earth moment.
But the boy who’d pushed me in the mud… well, I suppose we were on a collision course from the moment we moved into the house beside his. That was the beginning of the end. I thought getting sick was hitting rock bottom, but I had no idea how hard I would eventually land.
1
AURORA
The alcohol has made me silly. I don’t enjoy rowdy clubs, and I don’t like big crowds. The last time I was properly drunk, I was nineteen and under the supervision of one of my cousins. It was the after-party of a funeral, and I had every right to be blinded by liquor.
Who has an after-party for a funeral?
My mother, that’s who.
Anyway, it’s different now. I’m twenty-three. I’m celebrating the successful launch of my book, which took off way faster and better than I ever could have anticipated. Like, it blewup. And although it came out four months ago, it’s still selling extremely well.
The book is everywhere, and yet, I remain relatively unknown.
Pictures of me are scarce. I haven’t posted any on my author accounts anyway, and I’ve never done a signing or met a reader. I think I prefer that to the fame—or infamy—that success might bring. You know, celebrities.
“Cheers.” Beth pushes another shot in my hand and taps hers against it. “To new starts.”
Just because I coast by unknown doesn’t mean my best friend will let me stay in the shadows. And tonight is worth celebrating, because we’re finally living in the same city since we left our hometown for college.
We’re at a club of her choosing, just outside the VIP section. We’ve got stools at the bar in front of rows of booths, and the atmosphere is decidedly… rich. The men wear starched white dress shirts with the sleeves rolled to their elbows, ties forgotten, suit jackets shed, and hair slightly, purposefully disheveled.
It’s an aesthetic that Beth seems very much into.
“Cheers,” I reply, happy and warm. I toss back the shot, which tastes more like water than anything else, and close my eyes for a moment. Then they pop open at another urge. “I need to pee.”
“Toilets are over there.” Her gesture is vague, in the direction of the far back corner.
