Absolving Ash

by Chantal Mer

  I nod and return my dad’s hug. I’m a thirty-year-old man standing in a bustling city parking lot in broad daylight crying on my dad’s shoulder. Again, I don’t care because the ache in my chest is so powerful it threatens to split me in half.

  Dad pats my back and cups my face. “If he’s everything you say he is, then he’ll come around.” Wrapping his arm around my shoulder, he leads me to my car. “And if he doesn’t come around, he’s an idiot.”

  “He won’t come around.” A tear beginning at my chest is ripped farther and farther apart. “He hasn’t forgiven himself, and until he does…” I don’t want to think about it. I’m a fool. Just because I’m in love with Ash, doesn’t mean he feels, or will ever feel the same way about me. “It doesn’t matter. Even if he does finally come to his senses and forgive himself, we’d only get so far. He has too much respect for you and family to come between us.”

  There are so many obstacles, I wonder what the heck I have been thinking. Fishing in my pocket for my keys, the soft leather of Ash’s gloves pulls at the rip of my chest even more.

  My dad is watching me in the same way that made me nervous as a kid. Like he’s dissecting me, able to read my every thought and feeling. “I thought I raised a fighter.”

  No longer willing or able to continue this pointless conversation, I head toward my car. “I’ll see you later, Dad.”

  I’m so tired. Every muscle screaming with fatigue. Turning the ignition, I steer my car toward home. Instead of going to the community center, I’ll walk Grinder and go to bed early.

  And pray that tomorrow the gaping hole in my sternum will be mended.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Asher

  The pounding fist on my door and Cila’s yippy barking wakes me. With the blackout curtains, I can’t tell if it’s two in the morning or two in the afternoon. I roll over and put the pillow over my head. If I don’t move, maybe whoever it is will go away.

  Pound. Pound. Pound.

  Yip. Yip. Yip.

  “I’m using my key in two seconds if you don’t get your ass to this door,” Alejandro bellows so loudly I’m sure the neighbors two floors up can hear him.

  I pull the comforter over the pillow covering my head and pray that he forgot his key.

  No such luck. Heavy booted footsteps stomp through the condo and down the hallway. There’s muttering and cursing. Then frigid air assaults my ankles and calves as my very toasty down comforter is ripped from my body.

  “Jesus, Ash. Why are your feet at the head of the bed?” There’s a sniff. “You stink. When was the last time you showered?” Another sniff. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Asher Alexander.”

  Popping up my head, I grab it and groan. The tequila I consumed does not agree with this early morning interruption. “Soph?”

  My sister’s face is peering at me through the phone Alejandro is holding millimeters from my nose. “If you don’t get your butt out of bed and help Alejandro run that restaurant, then Mr. Peabody and I will have to fly out. And you know how much Mr. Peabody hates to fly.”

  I stare up at Alejandro, who is, not so successfully, trying to hide his amusement. “You called my sister?”

  “What the hell else was I supposed to do? You’ve called out sick for the last three days.”

  I cover my mouth and cough. “I’m sick.”

  Alejandro pulls the phone from my face and points it toward his. “You see? This is the type of shit I’ve been dealing with for the last month. I thought it would get better, but he’s getting worse.”

  “It’s bad, all right.” Sophie’s voice consoles Alejandro. “We should just put him out of his misery and put him down.”

  “I’m not a dying cat, Soph.” Punching at the twisted sheet around my waist and arms, I push myself to a sitting position. My head wobbles as the room spins clockwise then counterclockwise before slowing to a stop.

  “You’re right. You’re far too dramatic to be a dying cat. Cats behave with dignity and grace.” The phone is in my face again, and my sister is waving her arms all around. “I don’t know what this is, but there’s definitely no grace going on.”

  Laughing, Alejandro settles next to me. “Have I told you how much I love you, Sophie?”

  “You tell me in your daily emails, cutie.” Soph gives Alejandro an exaggerated wink and blows him a kiss while he laughs.

  If I thought either one of them had feelings other than sibling-like, I’d be ready to bash Alejandro’s head right now. “Okay, I’m up. You two can go now.”

  “I don’t think so, big bro. According to my future husband”—Alejandro finger waves and blows a kiss at me—“you stink, and you’ve been drinking. So, you wash off your funk and meet Alejandro and me in the kitchen, where he’ll whip something up for you to eat. But announce that you’re coming in case we’re having phone sex.”

  I shoot from the bed. “Jesus, Soph.”

  Alejandro has flopped back and is in hysterics talking about how he’s got a friend Sophie should meet and some other nonsense.

  I traipse to the bathroom and shut the door. When I catch a glimpse of myself, it’s not pretty. After three days of not trimming it, my beard looks like it’s halfway to full Duck Dynasty shit. The circles under my eyes look like I’ve covered them with eye blackout, and my hair is a greasy mess standing on end in every direction. My skin looks like I haven’t seen daylight in a year.

  I feel like shit. While I’m not sick, I might as well be. My body aches, my skin hurts, and I’m nauseous. After I told Isaiah that he couldn’t count on me to be in it for the long-haul, I went to work and was bombarded by media. But I pushed through the reporters and focused on running my restaurant and cooking.

  Going in early and coming home late did little to keep me from wondering what Isaiah was doing. Or how he was feeling. Or if he was missing me as much as I missed him. Or kicking myself for being a dumbshit and not telling the kindest, most forgiving, most caring man, that in too short a period, and fighting it the whole time, I fell in love with him.

  Yeah, I finally realized that I’m in love with Isaiah Blake, of all people.

  Not that it matters at this point.

  I turn the shower water onto scalding and pray that the steaming water will drown out the constant echo of Isaiah’s words that continue to bounce around in my head. I have to love myself.

  The thing is with Isaiah, I was learning to. Learning not to define myself by one incident. With his forgiveness of and belief in me, I was learning to forgive myself.

  Showered, shaved, and the sheets stripped from the bed, I head for the kitchen.

  “No, once it’s in there, you have to gently squeeze. If you go too fast, your cream spills everywhere.”

  What the hell? If Alejandro’s still talking to my sister—my baby sister—my ears may start bleeding.

  “That’s what happens every time. Then I’m fighting Mr. Peabody to keep her from licking up all the cream—”

  “Stop!” My ears are definitely bleeding. Afraid of what I may see, I keep my eyes glued to the floor and covered with my hand as I enter. “Whatever you’re doing, stop. And for the love of God, please make sure all important parts are covered.”

  Alejandro lets out a deep belly laugh at the same time Sophie screams, “Asher!” Like I’m the one in the wrong.

  Between hiccupped breaths, Alejandro says, “Uncover your eyes, you fool.”

  Slooowly I lower my hand to find Alejandro sitting at the table—fully clothed and looking way too amused. His phone propped up with Sophie’s horrified face staring at me.

  “What is wrong with you?” she screams.

  “It sounded like…” I don’t ever want to finish that sentence.

  “Like Alejandro was giving me pointers on how to fill a cream-filled donut without spilling the cream everywhere?”

  “Um, yeah?”

  Now standing, Alejandro slaps me on the back but keeps talking to my sister. “Facetime me the next time you m
ake them, and I’ll walk you through it.” He looks at me, eyes alight with mischief. “We don’t want Mr. Peabody licking up all your cream.”

  Sophie, the little shit that she is, cackles like my sous chef is the funniest person she knows. “Now that I see you’re up and look like a human being again, I’m off. I have a job interview in an hour.”

  “Where?” I ask.

  She waves me off. “I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you about it. Alejandro’s going to make you something to eat, and then you’re going to work.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I don’t care what you think, big brother. You’re going to work. If you don’t, then I will come out there and tell you all about the challenges I’ve had filling my donuts and regale you with stories of my numerous cream mishaps.”

  I swear I can feel a warm sticky substance flowing from my ears and down my neck. “Fine. I’ll go in. Just stop saying cream.”

  “You got this, Alejandro?”

  Chuckling and shaking his head, Alejandro says, “Got it, Soph. I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”

  “Good. Love you, Ash.”

  “Love you, too, sis.”

  “What about me?” Alejandro teases.

  “If my cream stays in my donuts, then yes, I’ll love you, too.”

  “No more cream!” The pounding of my head as I scream has me squinting and gritting my teeth. I swear they’re trying to kill me.

  “Bye, boys.” Sophie waves, and an instant later, the screen is blank.

  “That girl is a piece of work.” Alejandro pulls out a frying pan and heads for the fridge, where he pulls out eggs, cheese, prosciutto, and spinach. “Avocados?”

  “Bowl over there.”

  “Sit.” He slides a mug of steaming coffee in front of me, then proceeds to make me two breakfast sandwiches. “I talked Sophie out of flying out here. Figured you’d prefer to get your shit together on your own.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  “But I promised to tell her the minute you begin to fall back into the abyss.” He plates my food and turns to slicing fruit.

  “What time is it?”

  “A little after three.”

  I bring the mug to my lips and let the steaming brew do its magic. “Who’s operating the kitchen?”

  “Tai. Figured she could handle the lull between lunch and dinner. Good experience for her.”

  “We’ll lose her soon.” My stomach rumbles, even as I bite into my sandwich.

  “Probably, but it’s good seeing them fly off on their own.” Alejandro is one of the few people who understood and embraced the philosophy of my business. “When was the last time you ate?”

  “Don’t remember.” The yolk breaks with my next bite, running down my chin.

  Arms crossed over his chest, Alejandro leans his backside against the counter. “We gonna talk about what you’ve got going on, or what?”

  “Or what.” Wiping the yolk from my face, I then wad up the napkin and set the ball next to my plate.

  “Fair enough. But you don’t get to disintegrate on me again.”

  “I won’t.” Probably.

  My friend studies me as if he’s determining whether or not to call Sophie back and tell her to get out here pronto. Whatever he sees must convince him that I can hold my shit together, at least for tonight. “Okay, then. Finish up. We’ve got a lot to do, and you have a load of paperwork on your desk.”

  It took me four weeks to break down, but for the entirety of that four weeks, I’ve mourned the loss of what I never knew I wanted.

  Now it’s time to get back to living. Difficult as that may be.

  While it felt good to be back in the kitchen, I’m wiped and weak from three days of wallowing. I push back from my desk, stretch my aching back, and head out to the bar, which is still slammed with people held over from watching the Bedlam versus Hellfire game. Usually, we’re not that busy on a Tuesday, even with a game. Apparently, everyone thought it would be a good idea to watch my old team and Isaiah’s former team at my restaurant.

  People are assholes.

  The game ended an hour ago, but there’s still enough of a crowd around for it to be uncomfortable.

  “Hey, Dante, another seltzer with lime.” I slide my glass along the bar and freeze when Curt Fowlie, former Hellfire player, and all-around asshole, says my name.

  “I mean guys like Delacroix give the game a bad name. That’s the kind of hit that can’t be forgiven.”

  “I disagree,” says Milo Olin, former goalie for Chicago. ”When you’re out there on the ice, adrenaline pumping, guys talking trash, you can’t expect young players to keep it in check all the time.”

  “I can, and I do. There’s no excuse for taking someone out. And the league let him off easy by letting him retire. Blake didn’t have an option.” Fowlie has always been one of my biggest critics, even before my fall from grace.

  “I agree the league should have done more—”

  “What are your thoughts, Booker?” Fowlie interrupts Olin like he has some agenda, and no one’s going to interfere with it. “The fact that this guy has been doing well, acting like nothing happened, really burns me.”

  The bar has gone quiet, and I can feel every eye on me, but I can’t pry mine from Booker Blake’s stern frown filling the screen. His nostrils flare, and I steel myself for the verbal thrashing I’ll take on national television.

  I deserve it, but it’s not going to be fun.

  “Well, Curt, as a former player, I know we all have done some rough stuff behind the refs’ backs. In fact, I remember the time you rammed me into the boards after the whistle and told me my Black ass was dirtying up the ice. Though, as I recall, you chose to use the N-word instead of Black, but this being national television, I’ll keep it clean.”

  The bar erupts with chatter as everyone directs their attention to the big screen. I gulp back the seltzer that’s been placed in front of me and wish it was something stronger. If Booker is going off on his colleague like that, I’m in deep shit.

  The camera pans to Fowlie, who is sitting wide-eyed and looking like he was just hit by a bomb. Booker keeps going with his rant. This is a man who has been controlled and composed—on the ice and off—his entire career, but he’s letting loose. Holding nothing back.

  “As a father, there is nothing worse than seeing my only son lying unconscious on the ice. Nothing worse than seeing his career end at the age of twenty. Nothing worse than knowing his hockey talent would never be fully developed. And I hated the man who did that to him.”

  If I could crawl under the bar, I would. Hell, if I could travel to some remote village in the Amazon and cook for the inhabitants, never to be seen or heard from again, I would. But I stand next to the bar, using it to help support my Jell-o legs.

  “Fortunately, Isaiah Blake is a better man than I am. Instead of letting the incident jade him or ruin his life, he founded Hockey Included and is bringing hockey to communities that would otherwise not have it. I’m hopeful that with his work and the work of others like him, there will be fewer racist jerks who think hockey is only for white guys.” He pins Fowlie with a glare that would freeze the Caribbean Sea.

  Fowlie finds his voice, and he is not happy. “You know we don’t mean the stuff we say on the ice.”

  Booker spins in his chair, so he’s face-to-face with Fowlie. “I’ll educate you on the appropriate time and place to use the N-word when we’re off-air.” He turns to face the camera. “Spoiler, it’s NEVER appropriate.”

  The camera pans to Olin, who’s biting the inside of his cheek, obviously trying to hold back his amusement. When it returns to Fowlie, he looks a lot like a fish, his mouth opening and closing like he can’t believe he was called out on national television. I’d join my patrons in cheering on Booker if I wasn’t so petrified by what else he has to say. I’ve already received a few death threats since the media shit storm. I can only imagine what will happen after Booker says his piece.

  “My so
n is also a better man than me, in that he understands the value of forgiveness. Years ago, he forgave Asher Delacroix. I did not. As you know, the two have become close, and I have learned from Isaiah of the good Asher has done in the last ten years.” He ticks off my charitable contributions—all of which were anonymous, so I’m not sure how he got them—my involvement in mentoring new chefs, the people I employ, etc. etc. etc. “What have you done, Curt?”

  Looks like Fowlie has finally learned to keep his mouth shut because he sits in silence, arms crossed over his midlife belly.

  The eyes of my patrons and staff are shooting from the television to me and back to the TV. My face is warm because I’ve never wanted to be recognized for doing what I believe in. It’s our duty as human beings to look out and care for each other.

  “Didn’t think so,” Booker mumbles. “Other than the death of a child, since Isaiah’s hit, I thought there was nothing worse than seeing my son lose everything. I’ve done everything I could to protect my children, and as those of you who are parents know, we don’t always do the right thing. In an effort to protect my son and my inability to see past my own anger, I inadvertently hurt him.”

  I press my knuckles into my palm and clamp my feet to the floor to keep from running to Isaiah’s house to make sure he’s okay. The thought of him being hurt and not being able to console him is like a newly formed scab being ripped from a wound, leaving it gaping and bleeding again.

  “And now I know that keeping your child from the person they love is one of the worst things a parent can do.” He swipes a finger under his eye. “What I’m trying to say is if Isaiah can forgive Asher Delacroix and can get to know the man he has developed into, then I guess I can do the same. If I can forgive, then certainly all of you can too, and we can let these two men live their lives.” Booker turns to Fowlie. “You have anything to add?”

  Curt Fowlie shakes his head.

  Booker smiles.

  Milo Olin takes over, humor and appreciation lacing his words. “Well said, Booker. Thank you. We’ll be back after this word from our sponsors.”