Point of No Return

by Olivia Luck

  “Not this time around. I’m needed back at the office,” he explains.

  “What are you boys up to?”

  “Waiting for you to get here,” Ben responds. “Let’s go get lunch somewhere.”

  “Okay,” I agree.

  Ben’s oblivious to the tension simmering in the air. He talks animatedly about a diner a few blocks away.

  “Is that Max’s truck?” Dominic asks when we’re outside. The wind bites against my cheeks and I hug my jacket tight around my body to stay warm.

  “Yes.” I hear what he’s saying underneath his taut words. Max bought this car. The truck belongs to Max and not me. “It was sitting in the garage unused.” I don’t know why I’m explaining myself. This car is mine now. But I would give it back in a heartbeat if it meant I could curl up in my husband’s arms again. “I’ll drive,” I offer stiffly.

  The ride to the diner is short, and within ten minutes, a bedraggled hostess shows us to a booth. Ben follows me on one side and Dominic sits opposite of us. Nerves prickle at the back of my neck. I wasn’t nervous when I got to the Hope House, but now my stomach has a knot. Until we order, the conversation circles around the family restaurant, Baccino’s.

  The three Baccino brothers split ownership of their infamous Little Italy bistro. Eventually, all of their children will receive a stake in the restaurant. Whenever anyone mentions Baccino’s, I’m reminded that I need to seek some legal advice. I’m not sure if Max’s share in the restaurant transferred to me. Regardless, I want to ensure that his ownership is divided among his twin and their cousins. No one needs to tell me that I have no rights to the family business. For a long time, I was too lost in my grief to even contemplate issues like this one. But now I’m starting to be ready . . . to take the next steps in my life.

  Ben tells me about a new line cook who wants to date the hostess at the restaurant. The conversation flows easily and we select our food and order from a waiter. While we wait, a comfortable silence descends over our table. Well, comfortable for Ben. Dominic’s staring at me intently.

  “Ben, I need to ask you a favor,” I blurt under the weight of Dominic’s frown.

  “Okay. What is it?” Trust shines in his eyes. A wave of guilt passes over me. Ben doesn’t think I would ever do anything to harm him. I wouldn’t knowingly, but I’m afraid he could somehow get hurt. That’s the last thing I want. But the risk is worth the reward, and I forge on.

  “I’m going to meet with the whole Scrapers team to tell them about the event with the Hope House. And I think it would be really powerful to have someone from Hope talk about what that place means to them. I thought a lot about who I could ask and, really, I believe you’re the best person for the job.”

  “Me?” Ben asks with surprise.

  “Of course. You gave that beautiful speech at my wedding.” My heart contracts thinking of the warmth of Max’s hand gripping mine while we listened to Ben talk. My husband, who faced vicious fires, had fought back tears and it made me melt. With a deep breath, I bring myself back to reality. “You don’t have to tell me today. Think about it. The meeting’s at the beginning of January.”

  “I’ll do it,” Ben says before I can continue my argument.

  “That’s it?” Dominic says at the same time I ask, “Come again?”

  That was the final straw. I nudge Dominic’s foot underneath the table with mine in a silent shut up.

  “That sounds really fun. Would I get to meet all of the guys?”

  “Of course,” I say. “That’s one of the perks.”

  “Even Cam Stone?”

  “Especially Cameron. Actually, last time I saw him, I asked if he wanted to meet you.”

  “Really?” Ben asks in shock.

  “We’ve become friends through the whole dog sitting business. You’d really like him, Ben; he’s funny and kind. Anyway, he said he’d love to hang out sometime. If you don’t want to talk to the Scrapers, we can go out with Cameron some other time.”

  “Can I do both? I mean, I’ll go with you to the Scrapers. I’ve only ever been with Stella and Blake when the team isn’t around. I really want to meet the team. Do you think Cam would want to chill even if I do the speech, too?” Ben’s eyes light up with excitement. “I already know what I want to talk about.”

  “Um–” I cast a glance at Dominic, who stares back and forth between us, dumbfounded. “Of course.” My own surprise is palpable. I can’t believe it didn’t take more convincing than that. “Thank you, Ben. This means . . . this means a lot to me.”

  “Anything for you,” he says sincerely. I drop my head to his shoulder and sigh in relief, uncaring with what Dominic thinks.

  With friends like these, who needs more in life?

  You do, a whisper slithers through my mind. But that time has passed for me. I have to accept that I’m alone and probably will be for, well, a long time. Moving on past my love for Max seems like an insurmountable mountain to summit. There’s something safe about hiding in the thick of my love for Max.

  There’s no chance I’ll get hurt again if I’m alone.

  Once Ben’s agreed to meet the Scrapers, the rest of the meal is relaxed. The stick up Dominic’s rear disappears and he’s much more pleasant to me. I drop Ben and Dominic back at the Hope House because I need to take Rocky on his afternoon walk.

  Rocky yelps when I push the front door open. He’s up on his hind legs, hopping in a circle, tongue hanging out one corner of his open mouth.

  “You want to go on a walk?”

  The magic word sends him into a frenzy. I laugh at his exuberance. Nothing matches a dog’s unconditional love. The plain black collar Cameron brought over was, I decided at first glance, too boring for a dog with such a big personality. I took it upon myself to upgrade him to one that, while still black, has the added style of cartoon hockey sticks. It’s too fashion forward for Cameron to get mad.

  Wind whips around Rocky and me as we make our way down the sidewalk. Burrowing into my jacket, I hunch my shoulders to stave off the cold. The day went from chilly to bitter in the time I had lunch with Ben and Dominic. Still, I forge on with Rocky. Truly, the temperature doesn’t bother me. Being with Rocky clears my mind.

  Soon I’m back inside, rubbing my hands together to wake up the blood cells and push away the numbness in my fingertips.

  “Game time,” I tell Rocky. He hops on the couch, watching me flit around the apartment. First, the boots come off then I hang the jacket up; finally, I fold the scarf and place it in a drawer.

  I fold myself onto the couch next to the dog. He promptly stretches out along the length of my leg, propping his chin right above my kneecap. I slip my fingers through tufts of his hair with one hand while the other presses remote buttons until I land on the channel for Cameron’s game. I find myself smiling as the players skate on the ice. Cameron’s easy to spot because he wears a helmet with a grill on the front and ginormous leg pads. He skates around the ice rink as easily as he would stride across a room and positions himself in front of the goal.

  “Let’s send Cameron a picture,” I say to Rocky. I shimmy my way down the couch, lying with my head next to Rocky’s. I use my cell phone to snap photos of Rocky and me staring at each other. After lots of trial and error, and maybe missing the first couple of minutes of the period, I get the perfect picture. Rocky got tired of looking at me and flicked his tongue against my nose and I couldn’t help but laugh. I love it so much that I decide to print and frame it later. Cameron will probably think I’m a dork for this, but I don’t care. I text him the picture along with We’re ready to watch the Scrapers win!

  In the pause between periods, the commentators appear on the screen to analyze the game and I venture off the couch to prepare Rocky’s dinner.

  “The biggest story of the night is Cam Stone. He’s having an unbelievable season. The Scrapers are a solid club, that’s for sure, and Stone has become their cornerstone.” My ears perk up at the mention of Cameron. Surprisingly, a wave of pride was
hes over me.

  “Stone’s playing with an urgency I’ve never seen in him,” one of the guys says. “There is a subtle shift in his game. And I’m not sure if it has anything to do with physical toughness. Something has happened to tighten his mental game. It’s almost as if he has a sixth sense tracking the progress of the puck. This guy is turning himself into a mainstay of the hockey aristocracy.”

  The commentators move on to another topic, but I don’t hear them. I have the urge to text him again and tell him how the analysts were cheering on his game. But that would be too much, right? Without a text, I settle back into my spot cuddling with Rocky. There’s work I could be doing now, but I’m interested in the game.

  When Cameron blocks a seemingly unstoppable puck, I cheer for him and throw my hands up in victory. Watching him play his sport opens my eyes to a whole other side of this man. On the ice, if it’s even possible, he’s more confident, more sure of himself. He owns the rink. His concentration is impenetrable. He’s a fierce protector and on some, subliminal level, I can’t help but be drawn to that strength.

  On a friend level, of course.

  Eventually, the game ends. The Scrapers win three to one.

  I then open my computer to review the budget I created for Lorelei’s spa event. She wants this in her inbox first thing tomorrow, and I do not intend to give her any reason to think I am anything but on the ball. I’m eating leftovers from my dinner with Stella last night when my cell buzzes with a text.

  Great picture. You two having fun?

  A little jolt of some unidentified emotion perks me up when I read the message from Cameron.

  A blast. Good game tonight. I didn’t realize I was dog sitting for hockey royalty :)

  That’s why I trust you with my dog. Only the best for the son of a legend.

  I giggle at his silliness. Cameron always finds a way to make me laugh. It’s a nice escape from perpetual blueness.

  You learning about my sport?

  Yes. Now I don’t shield my eyes from the TV when the puck’s flying at your head. I know you’ll stop it.

  My finger hovers over the send button. Am I coming off too fan girl? Oh, well. Cameron’s my friend. I don’t need to pretend to be cool.

  Damn right. Hockey royalty and all.

  The response comes instantly.

  Well, I guess I had better get back to work. See you tomorrow.

  You can count on it.

  Violet

  Christmas. Never my favorite holiday because Father took this time to deliver the annual lecture of how his daughters were failing him while my mother watched silently. It’s not my first Christmas without Max, but the day still burns feverishly without him. The firsts in our relationship used to be exhilarating—first date, first text message, first holiday season together. Now they’re harrowing. Last year’s Christmas passed in a haze of sleep and suffocating depression. This year I’m able to identify my feelings. Lucky me. Identifying grief, remorse, weakness, and glimpses of strength is exhausting.

  The doorbell rings and, like I promised Cameron¸ I ask the person to identify themselves even though I know it’s Stella.

  “Hello?”

  “Your sleigh awaits.” Stella’s like that, always making corny jokes. Actually, I was once like that. Because I never curse (thanks for that one, Father), I would replace those words with silly alternatives to make my friends laugh. I miss that. I miss being lighthearted and silly.

  “Coming down.” I’m smiling to myself when I step outside. A bitter chill bites but all the twinkling lights are majestic if you ask me. I’m armed with bags of gifts, strung up on my arms like they’re hangers. The Baccino family is huge, and the Christmas Eve dinner has enough uncles, aunts, cousins, moms, dads, sisters, brothers, etc. that it’s impossible to get presents for everyone. I’ve brought parcels for Max’s first cousins, Dominic, and his parents.

  Stella welcomes me outside with a warm hug. She takes hold of some of my packages and helps me load them into the trunk. With a stifled sigh, I climb into the backseat of the sleek SUV. It wasn’t that long ago that it would be Max and me in the front seats, and Stella sitting in the back. Not that I don’t want her to be with Blake—he worships her and she’s been in love with him for forever—but it’s a stark reminder that I’m alone. There’s no man to hold hands with across the console or squeeze my hand to remind me that I’m at the top of his mind.

  “How’s it going, Violet?” Blake asks.

  “Swimmingly.”

  He doesn’t buy my response by the way he’s studying me in the rearview mirror. I force the corners of my lips upward, not wanting my mood to dim Stella’s festive atmosphere. “Thanks for picking me up,” I add sincerely.

  “We’re family; this is what we do,” Stella says firmly.

  We’re family. The thought sears me.

  Thankfully, the conversation ends when Blake’s cell rings through the Bluetooth and he has to take the call. While he talks business and drives toward the family restaurant, I fiddle with my phone.

  Merry Christmas! Hope you’re having a good time with your family.

  I send the text to Cameron without thinking twice. In the past few weeks, we’ve talked through text every few days. Then I drop the phone back in my bag, settling into my seat for the rest of the short ride.

  The moment you enter Baccino’s—you feel comfortable. The restaurant exudes warmth: family pictures on the walls, high-backed red booths, and low candles illuminate the space. Someone rearranged the square tables into two long rectangles down the center of the room to accommodate all of the family members. Frank Sinatra croons through the speaker system. There’s a stack of gifts growing on the bar. Stella and I bring our bags and boxes and place them there. The throng of verbose Italians pulls us in the crowd. I’m passed between family members, warm lips press kisses to my forehead and cheeks, arms curl around me in thick embraces. Somehow, Stella finds me in the crush of Italian and passed appetizers.

  “Come on. Let’s go see the moms,” she orders.

  A prickle of anxiety makes my stomach tighten. It’s stupid. Really, it is. But every time I see Valentina, Max’s mother, I get nervous. She’s never been anything but loving and welcoming to me. And in the aftermath of Max’s death, she insisted on including me in the family. It didn’t matter to her that a relentless three-alarm fire destroyed my ties to the Baccinos.

  We skirt through the family, carefully avoiding the trap of more conversation. Blake’s long lost to a spot behind the bar. He’s helping Tony, the husband of Stella’s cousin, Antonia (yes, it’s confusing), pour drinks. Stella leads the way into the kitchen.

  “Every year it gets better and better in here. It smells like the king of cheese sent a Christmas gift of his best yield,” I say.

  Stella laughs over her shoulder. “Your family tradition, too.”

  I don’t say anything to that. Once Teresa, Stella’s mom, catches sight of us, there’s no need to speak because she rushes around a stainless steel prep table to hug both of us at once.

  “My sweet, sweet girls,” she cries.

  I try hard—really, really hard—not to stiffen, but the move is automatic. I’m not used to maternal gestures. It’s been ten years since I’ve seen my own mother, and even when I was growing up, she wasn’t one for affection. If Teresa notices my reaction, she doesn’t say anything, just pulls me closer.

  “Hi, Teresa. Thank you for having me.”

  “When is this girl going to get it?” she mutters, before crossing herself with a muttered prayer. I can’t help but smile then.

  Antonia and Ben’s mother offers a hovering hug because some sort of olive oil sauce covers her hands. Near the back of the kitchen, Valentina’s arranging Christmas cookies on a white platter. At the sight of her, my throat gets tight. Her eyes go soft when she sees me. Silently, we walk toward each other. Her arms open and I walk into them, pressing my cheek to her collarbone.

  “Mama,” I whisper the name Max called her. T
he one she insisted I used after meeting me two times.

  “Bellissima,” she murmurs, squeezing me tightly. Flour, sugar, and butter wrap around me in her comforting scent. “Merry Christmas.”

  I nod against her, inhaling one more shaky breath against her blouse. I stand up straight and smile wobbly at her.

  Nothing needs to be said.

  “We could use your help; the wolves are getting hungry,” Teresa says.

  Stella’s cousin, Antonia, bursts through the kitchen doors then, her raven-colored mass of curls flying in every which direction. “Is it just me or are there more people here every year? Seems like we doubled.” Antonia is the queen of hyperbole.

  “Yes, I believe you had more children this year,” Stella teases, already sidling up next to her mother to do . . . something. I’m kind of hopeless in the kitchen, something Dominic had reminded his brother of often before I married Max.

  After I wash my hands, I help Valentina dress serving platters with desserts.

  “I have some news,” I tell the room at large.

  There’s a collective silence. Then Teresa shoots me a look, silently urging me to go on.

  “Well, you all know that I’m planning the Scrapers charity gala.”

  “And doing a wonderful job of it, I’m sure,” Valentina says.

  My cheeks get hot, but I continue as though I’m used to this type of compliment from a mother. “I’ve decided to go for it. Independent event planning, I mean. I already have a client through one of my old contacts at Speck. The company’s going to be called Expertly Planned and I’ve started researching how to set up my own company. Tonight, I’m going to ask Blake if he can help me out with some of the legal stuff because I obviously don’t know much about it. I mean, it’s a lot. Starting your own business. But I think I can do it and I’m really, really excited.” The words come out of my mouth in a rush, as they usually do when I’m nervous.

  I admire these women deeply and want their approval. I pretend like I’m okay not having a relationship with my family. And, for the most part, I don’t miss anything about my father’s criticisms and my mother’s silence. However, Iris was always my closest confidant and dearest friend. I miss her desperately.