by Gina Azzi
Are his homemade meals so few and far between? He must feel me looking at him because he glances my way, his expression smoothing out when our eyes meet.
“So, Easton,” Indy says and East stiffens beside me. “Did Noah tell you how he almost botched our relationship before it got off the ground?” She lifts an eyebrow and I feel the tension drain from Easton’s body as he chuckles.
“Indy girl, I knew my brother was feeling you from the first night he saw you at Firefly. I called him the next morning and he couldn’t believe he had his head so far up his ass that he missed the part where you’d moved to Boston.”
Indy laughs and looks at Noah.
Noah lifts his chin at his brother. “Way to throw me under the bus.”
East shrugs, a grin playing over his mouth. “I gotta get in tight with Indy. She’s the one who will be controlling Little Scotch’s social calendar.”
Noah laughs and Indy beams.
East asks, “How are you feeling, anyway?”
As Indy launches into a very detailed explanation of the myriad of pregnancy symptoms she’s experiencing—truly, her story could serve as a form of birth control to the next generation—Easton drops some of his hardness. The longer he chats with Noah, the more he seems to relax. Each time Indy’s laughter rings out, he smiles. Little by little, he melts back into the boy I remember from my teenage years, the one I saw a glimpse of last night. A surge of bittersweet nostalgia fills my veins. That guy still exists.
“How’s the job hunt, Claire?” Noah asks me, shifting the conversation.
I wince, flipping him the thumbs-up.
“That good, huh?” he jokes.
I shrug, taking a sip of my sparkling water. “The rejection letters are piling up. I may start scrapbooking them.”
Noah shoots me a sympathetic look as Indy wrinkles her nose.
Easton shifts next to me and wraps his arm around the back of my chair, his hand hanging over the top. I freeze. His fingers are only inches from my neck and the proximity of his touch has my body spiraling into overdrive. His fingernails skate across my hair, featherlight and so fleeting, I don’t know if it happened or I wished it into existence.
God, what is wrong with me? Easton and I are good. We’re friends again. Why can’t that be enough?
“Claire’s got too many great ideas to be saddled with a nine-to-five anyway,” Easton declares and my stomach drops to my toes.
“What do you mean?” Indy asks curiously.
“She’s designing all these awesome band logos and merchandise. I don’t know why she doesn’t do her own thing instead of searching for some position that will squash her creativity.”
“Is your demand picking up?” Excitement fills Indy’s expression.
I feel Easton’s gaze on the side of my face as I try to quell the nerves buzzing through my body. I know he didn’t mean to out me in front of my cousin and Noah. It’s not like Indy didn’t know about my new passion project.
It’s just that, I never let Indy think my current paying gigs were something I’d consider making a career out of. There’s no way my parents would support me trying to go out on my own. There’s no way my cousin who I adore like a sister would understand when her whole life has been dictated by measurement units like grades and rankings. She thrives on knowing her role in a larger system.
Besides, who am I to just create the role I want? I’m twenty-four years old with my parents paying my cell phone bill and Noah and Easton allowing me to live rent-free.
Easton’s arm locks down behind my head. His glance on my face turns into a glare as he waits for me to say something. I feel the shift in his energy and I hate that I’m somehow causing him stress.
Forcing a smile, I clear my throat and nod. “Yeah. I’ve had three new bands reach out in the past two days. With so many unfulfilled hours, it keeps me busy. I’m working on my photoshop skills and learning new lighting techniques.”
Indy nods, her mouth pursed as if she’s thinking this over. Noah leans back in his chair and asks, “Why don’t you run with that, Claire? I mean, if you like it, why not make that your main focus?”
Easton relaxes slightly.
Indy frowns, shaking her head. “Uncle Joe would lose it.”
My heart sinks a little at the truth in her words, a fresh reminder just how much my family would rebuke any attempt I make to carve my own path. It’s not that they wouldn’t support my desire to create and experiment and try. It’s that they wouldn’t want that to fill the role of my “real job.” Because a real job is supposed to provide security, benefits, and a 401k.
“Why?” Noah asks, shaking his head. “Your uncle is a rational man. If Claire loves working with bands, being in the music industry, why shouldn’t she give that a go?”
Easton leans closer to the table, as if drawn to the answer.
I hold my breath, hating this conversation more with each passing second. I’m usually great in social settings. I know how to draw the fun and flirty attention my way and deflect the questions that delve deeper into my goals, plans, or dreams. I hate putting myself out there and having people know things about me that make me feel vulnerable. That’s why I only told Indy about creating logos. And then Easton because I was trying to cheer him up after his hockey practice.
Indy shakes her head, wrinkling her nose at me before turning to Noah. “I’ll support anything Claire wants, but Uncle Joe and Aunt Mary will be a hard sell. Owning a small business is a lot of work. There are so many variables, so much instability. I’m not saying Uncle Joe wouldn’t be behind Claire doing something she loves. Just that he would want to see her more settled, with a job that offers more guarantees.” Indy glances at me again. “Don’t you think?”
She speaks the truth. I hate that she knows my parents’ response as well as I do. I paste on a smile. “Yeah, he’s all about that retirement plan.”
Noah chuckles and Indy shoots me a sympathetic look. The conversation turns to my sister Savannah’s teaching position in New York. I look down at my plate, my appetite having vanished over the last ten minutes. Suddenly, my stomach is in knots and a sense of dread washes through my limbs.
For so many months, I’ve been focused on securing a job that I never really cared if it was the job. What if I spend my whole life doing something I don’t love just because it checks all the boxes?
But whose boxes?
I startle at Easton’s touch. His fingers slide through my hair so unexpectedly that my body short-circuits. I look over at him but his eyes are trained on Indy as she continues on about Savannah, her husband Mike, and their lives in New York.
Easton’s fingertips brush against the back of my neck slowly. I glance at Noah but he’s watching my cousin, so completely enamored by her that I don’t know if he’d notice an asteroid crashing into the center of the dining table.
Easton’s fingers make one pass, then again, then they wrap around the back of my neck and squeeze gently.
Noah laughs at something Indy says. She smiles at him sweetly. Easton leans into my side and drops his voice so only I can hear. “Don’t give up on your daydreams, Clairebear.”
I shiver as his breath rolls over the side of my face. Of course he would detect that Indy’s words affected me. But how? My family, sometimes even my best friend Rielle, all seem oblivious to how much my heart isn’t into the traditional job hunt.
How does Easton understand in a handful of weeks?
His hand slips away and immediately, a chill replaces the warmth of his touch.
I force a bite of turkey, chewing slowly as I mull over Easton’s words. Does he think applying for other jobs is giving up on myself? Everyone’s thoughts about my future seem surer than my own. Their certainty in the right path causes my footing to slip, as if I don’t know the right way forward.
Dinner continues without a hitch. Noah and East have us all cracking up with stories of previous hockey seasons, of silly pranks gone wrong. Indy shares how all the Hawks players are e
namored with me. Noah confirms this and I duck my head, blushing a furious shade of red, as East glances at me, his expression amused, his eyes thoughtful.
Too soon, we’re saying good night. As East and I walk to his car, his hand wraps around my arm protectively and hope flares in my ribs, rushing up to my chest. I feel tipsy from his touch. Intoxicated by how in sync Easton and I are. He sees me, he understands the fragility of my feelings when it comes to my future, and he supports me.
For years, it felt like everyone overlooked me. Saw past me. Savannah was the socializing beauty. Austin the hockey god. Indy the smarty-pants brainiac.
I was always just the silly kid. But tonight, Easton saw more than that. And he defended it.
“You have a good time?” he asks, pulling away from the curb.
“Yeah. Tonight was fun. You?”
East nods, tapping his palm against the steering wheel. “It’s been a good couple of days.”
“For me too,” I agree, happy we’re in a good place.
When we get home, East locks the door behind us. He stares at me for a long moment as I hang up my coat and place my boots in the hall closet. I raise my eyebrows at him, waiting for him to say whatever he’s thinking.
But he shakes his head, an enigmatic expression crossing his features. “Night, Clairebear.”
“Good night, East.”
After that night, an easiness settles between Easton and me. We morph from two strangers with a shared connection to two friends living together. During the day, East sticks to a rigorous schedule of workouts, practices, AA meetings, and group therapy. I apply for jobs every morning, casting a wide net for positions spanning across the country. But in the afternoons, after lunch, I feed my creative side by designing album cover concepts and logo templates and posting them in an online group I created. Some nights, I cook dinner. Most nights, we scrap something together or order out. At night, we play cards or Netflix and chill. Really chill, not code word chill.
For two weeks, our routine is natural and fun. We talk, we laugh, we hang out. But we don’t cross any lines. Although I’d be lying if I said we didn’t begin to blur and smudge them. But how could I not with Easton living right down the hall?
Every morning, the sight of his bare chest and bedhead make my mouth water. The colorful ink that scrolls up the left side of his body has my fingers tingling with the need to touch. Once, he walked out of his bedroom with just a towel wrapped around his waist and I literally drooled. “Eyes up here, Clairebear,” he taunted. So yeah, I’m not saying living with Easton and keeping things strictly platonic is easy or anything.
But we’re doing it. Until we’re not.
9
Easton
I open the door to my locker. The noose that’s been tightening around my neck all week loosens a hair. Today felt okay. For the first time since I left rehab, I was back on the ice and didn’t feel sluggish, off-balanced, or terrified.
“Nice work today, East.” Torsten slaps me on the back.
“Thanks, man.”
“You looked good,” he adds. I know he means it too. Torsten is the oldest guy on the team, and over the past few years, his outlook has shifted. He’s morphed from protecting his playing time with the ferocity of a Viking to mentoring the younger guys as we come up the ranks.
“You too.”
He snorts.
“What?” I ask, rubbing a towel over my wet hair.
“It’s a relief to hear you say it, East. Because I am feeling the hits from the other night’s game. My body does not recover the way it used to.”
I frown, recalling the two solid hits Torsten took in Tuesday night’s game. He started but wasn’t able to finish the third period.
“You all right?” I ask, lowering my voice. Injury can be the kiss of death.
Torsten nods, chuckling. “More than all right, East. You’re back, the team’s jiving, and I played hard this week.”
Some of my worry eases at his words and I grin. “Good. What’re you getting into now?”
Torsten shrugs, pulling open a locker door a few down from mine and starting to dress. “Gonna eat something. You hungry?”
I pull a sweater over my head. “Could always eat, Big Daddy.”
He snorts. “Want to grab a bite?”
“Sure,” I answer automatically. Before, I used to grab bites and happy hours with the guys all the time. But this is the first time any of the guys on the team, not counting my brother or Austin, have asked me to hang out since rehab.
I recognize the olive branch for what it is and I jump on it, not wanting to miss an opportunity to remind the guys that I’m committed to the team, to this season, to them.
“Cool. Panda’s in too,” Torsten says, mentioning our goalie.
“Ryan?” I ask about the other starting defenseman.
Torsten shakes his head, giving me a sad smile. It’s no secret that James Ryan has been struggling for the last year. His wife’s death rocked him to his core and raising twins on his own has taken its toll. Other than his commitment to the team, he rarely socializes. He shows up, puts in the work, and rushes home to his kids.
“How’s he doing?” I ask.
Torsten sighs, his expression somber. “Good days and bad. It hasn’t been an easy year.”
I pull a sweater over my head. No, it certainly has not.
Once we’re dressed, we leave the arena and head to the parking lot.
“Follow me.” Torsten points down the road. “There’s a little place I like in the West End.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “It’s not too far from your brother and Indy. See if Noah wants to come.”
I shake my head. “He’s busy today.” Not wanting to share my brother’s personal life, I don’t add that he’s accompanying Indy to the doctor’s for an ultrasound.
Torsten shrugs. “Okay.”
I get behind the wheel of my car and follow Torsten and Panda through the busy city streets until we pull up to the eclectic, bright, Mexican fusion restaurant. Even though I’ve only been here once, my mouth waters the moment I recognize the place. The food is that good.
The guys and I make our way into the restaurant and Torsten leads us to a table in the back. A few patrons glance at us as we weave through the tables. Several hushed whispers break out and I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention. Are they whispering about Hawks players being here? Or are they dissecting all my screwups, wondering aloud how many more months until I’m back in rehab?
The thought rattles me even though it surfaces in my mind several times a day. Some days, multiple times an hour. My throat burns and my heart pounds in my temples as I feel the eyes of strangers tracking my movements.
I’m relieved when I’m seated at the table, my back to the restaurant and all of the attention I don’t want.
Panda sighs as he unfolds his large body into a chair. “Man, this week has been brutal.”
Torsten snickers. “I was just telling East in the locker room that my body doesn’t recover the way it used to.”
Panda shoots me an amused grin. “East is still too young to know what that’s like.”
I flip him the middle finger and he chuckles. Relief rolls through my veins at their ribbing. For years, Torsten and Panda gave me shit for being green and wet behind the ears. The fact that they’re doing it now, after all the stress and shit I caused the team, feels good. Normal.
The same server as last time pops by. “Hey guys! I’m Shell and I’ll be your server today.”
“Hey Shell.” Torsten smiles at her like they’ve been friends for years and Panda rolls his eyes.
“Hi, Torsten. Good game on Tuesday.” Shell grins back and Panda and I both hide our laughter.
Torsten shakes his head at us. “You could both be a little friendlier,” he scolds us in front of Shell.
Shell chuckles. “Can I get you guys something to drink?”
Immediately, a tension forms, hovering over the table like a storm cloud. Torsten
and Panda glance at me, their gazes flickering with an uncertainty that causes the burn in my throat to increase tenfold. My shoulders stiffen. Shit.
“You guys order whatever you want,” I say, waving a hand. I keep my tone light, my gestures easygoing. But inside, the monster within roars to life. My eyes dart to the bar, to the taps of beer, to the bottles on bottles of alcohol. My chest tightens, my throat now on fire. I shift my hands to my knees, clenching the fabric of my jeans. “I’ll take an iced tea.”
Panda’s eyes narrow. “You sure, East?”
I nod, smiling at him. At least, I try to smile. “Of course, man.”
Whatever he sees in my expression puts him at ease. It’s both a testament to what a skilled bullshitter I am as much as it is to how no one truly understands the demons I’m constantly warring with.
Today feels different than the lunch after I left rehab. I’m not with family now, but with teammates. Sure, they’re like family, but the dynamic is different. These are the guys I used to get shitfaced with. The guys who would carry my drunk ass home. Anxiety claws up my throat and my heart hammers.
“Sweet.” Panda’s gaze shifts to Shell. “I’ll take a Corona.”
“Make it two.” Torsten throws up two fingers.
Shell runs through a couple of specials I don’t hear because a roaring sound, like an ocean wave, fills my ears. The eyes on my back intensify until it feels like an entire arena of people are watching my every move, waiting for me to slip up, to fuck up. Again.
Dad’s voice, his cold blue eyes so much like mine, flicker in and out of my head.
Panda and Torsten study the menu. My eyes are locked on Shell, on the tray with the two cold, tangy beers resting on top. The limes stick out the tops of the bottles and my mouth waters, imagining the taste of the cold beer with a hint of lime.
My teeth clamp down, my molars grinding together. I force my gaze to the menu, scanning it for something to distract me, but nothing can distract me from the clink of ice in an empty glass, the colorful bottles on shelves behind the bar, the loud laughter of a toast a few tables over.
