I Know It's Over Part 14

"Okay." We keep moving in the same direction and I think I'll be sick, that I'll have to tell him to pull over and let me out, but just then he looks over at me and says, "I've been thinking about you a lot, Nicholas. I would've called, but I wanted to give you some time to talk things over with Sasha."

I nod, my eyes staring straight ahead. "She's not gonna have it," I say in a low voice. "She told her parents and her mom thinks she's too young."

"I think her mother's right," he says carefully. "It would be quite a burden on a young girl and you two aren't even involved anymore."

"That wasn't my choice." I bend my neck, fold one hand in front of my stomach, and hold my head up with the other. I can't say any more. My eyes sting and my throat is closing up.

Dad touches my shoulder and pulls off the highway and into a parking lot. My fingers sink into my hair and I'm shaking. Dad rests his hand on my back. "It's all right," he says. "You'll be okay." Then I break. Tears squeeze out of my eyes and soak my face and I sit there, letting it happen. "Listen," Dad says. His voice is surprisingly soothing. "This is a tough thing for anyone, but you'll get through it, Nick. I swear. You take it day by day and it happens. Day by day."

Dad keeps his hand on my back long after he's stopped talking. My eyes feel like they've been rinsed with bleach. They probably look that way too. My throat's too raw to speak. "We'll sit here awhile," Dad says. "How about I put on the radio?"

I nod and he switches the radio on. It's an easy-listening station and now I know why people listen to that stuff-it doesn't touch you. It's there, but it's not. It just fills the silence.

After what seems like an eternity but is probably less than ten minutes, we start driving again. "So you tell me where you want to go," Dad says.

"I'm not hungry," I tell him. "Anywhere quiet is good."

So we're back to the original plan, cruising towards steak to the sound of easy-listening favorites.

I don't say much in the restaurant and Dad doesn't make me. I order bruschetta and keep asking for refills of c.o.ke. Dad has a beer with his steak and the two of us eat, drink, and stare at each other across the table. The restaurant looks like the inside of an Ikea catalog and the food speeding by me on its way to hungry diners smells terrific, but I can barely manage what I have.

"So what's Bridgette doing tonight?" I ask.

"I don't think she has any particular plans."

"Did you tell her?"

Our eyes lock and Dad shakes his head. "Are you going to tell your mother?"

"I don't know." I fill him in on the last few days-about me quitting hockey and then faking partic.i.p.ation in the tournament while sleeping over at Nathan's.

Dad leans back in his chair and taps his temple. "I know it's hard to talk about, but what about Sasha's parents? You don't think they'll want to discuss it with us?"

"Maybe." I think they'll never let me see Sasha again once this is over. Does that leave anything to discuss?

"I'm going to leave this up to you," Dad says. "But for what it's worth, I think you can tell your mother."

"And maybe you can start talking to Holland some more," I suggest.

"I never stopped talking to Holland; she stopped talking to me." Dad tilts his head. "Of course I'd like to talk to her."

"Then you could try harder." I'm not mad at him; I just know how it feels to think he won't make the effort. I was there when he left and he did a bang-up job of edging himself out of the picture.

"She holds me responsible for your mother and me breaking up-there's nothing I can do about that." So why even try, right? Good plan, Dad.

"It didn't help that you hooked up with Bridgette so soon afterwards," I tell him.

"It was a year later," Dad says sharply. "And that has nothing to do with anything."

"Maybe, but it's not like you have a lot of time. You're always together."

"You and Holland live two hours away. You know I wanted you to come down more often during the summer, and I came up specifically to see your game in the fall. There's only so much I can do, Nicholas. If you want to see me, all you have to do is ask."

"If I want to see you," I repeat. "But it's never just you."

Dad takes a sip of beer and sets his gla.s.s back down on the table. "I'm here now, Nick. You have my undivided attention."

I pick up my fork and hold it at both ends. The sick feeling never completely goes away anymore. It's better and it's worse, but it's always there. Right now it's a little better and I wish Dad didn't have to go back to Toronto later.

"Hey," he says. "We still have to do presents. I should've brought them in with us."

After we finish eating, he orders a coffee and heads out to the car to get the gifts. He sets the presents on top of the trendy pseudo-Ikea table and smiles. "I opened mine on Christmas," he explains. "Hope you don't mind-you left it in the car."

"That's okay." I pick up the smallest box. It's wrapped in green metallic paper and the gift tag reads: TO: Nick and FROM: Bridgette. I rip the paper off, pry open the box, and stare down at an ultra-expensive-looking Seiko.

"Kinetic," Dad says. "You never have to change the battery."

"Nice." I look up at him. "Thank her for me."

"You can thank her yourself next time you talk to her."

I slide the other two presents towards me, but it's the card I pick up next. It's signed by Dad and Bridgette and inside there's a check made out for three hundred dollars. "Thanks," I say. The other gifts turn out to be a new MP3/video player and a video game and I thank him for those too. Everything is great, really. It's all stuff I would've been excited about six weeks ago, but six weeks ago I wouldn't have had a breakdown in Dad's car.

Dad sips his coffee and then charges the dinner to his Amex gold card. "We should do this again soon," he tells me. He drapes his arm around me as we walk to the car. "You'll be all right," he says. "You'll see. Just give it some time."

I nod and keep walking. It's what I want to hear, but I don't trust it.

Dad stops walking and faces me. "You know you can call me anytime, Nicholas. I want to know how you're doing, especially now."

"I'll call," I promise.

"Good." Dad sighs softly. "Let me know if there's anything else I can do."

Just be around, I think, but I've spilled my guts enough for one night. I climb into the car and switch on the radio. Phil Collins fills the air and I sink down in the seat and let my head empty out, one agitated brain cell at a time until there's only one thought left: Sasha, I can't do this anymore.

seventeen.

Keelor calls as soon as I get home from work. The team won bronze in the tournament and Patrick, my replacement on the first line, got two a.s.sists. I should be happy for them, but I don't care one way or the other-hockey and me feel like ancient history. I tell Keelor that's great anyway, then ask what time he and Gavin are picking me up. Until last night I fully intended to opt out on Marc's party, but what good would that do me? Sure, I could sit in my room and reread Sasha's e-mails like a loser, wondering why she hasn't called from Lindsay's and bending myself out of shape worrying about the operation. But I won't. I can't. Not anymore.

"You're going?" Keelor asks, sounding surprised.

"Absolutely."

"We'll be there sometime after ten," he tells me. "Does this mean you're feeling better?"

"I don't know. Maybe it just means that I can't sit here anymore."

"For sure, for sure," Keelor says encouragingly. "That's why I thought you should play, but it's good you're taking some time to deal with things. So have you heard from Sasha?"

I tell him what I know and he's so relieved for me that I cringe inside. "Look, I don't want to talk about it tonight, okay?"

"Hey, n.o.body knows, man," Keelor says. "Unless you told them."

"No, I mean you and me. I don't want us to talk about it. I was with the old man last night and that's all it was-us having this serious conversation about it and I don't even know what to say anymore."

Keelor is happy to drop the subject and soon we're talking about Marc Guerreau's party, which I picked up some weed for earlier today. Keelor can always be counted on for that, but I do my part. Somebody always knows somebody and in this case the transaction was done in the privacy of the Sports 2 Go stockroom.

Anyway, almost everyone we know is going to be at Marc's tonight to take advantage of his family's trip to New Jersey. Party rules are minimal. Park a street over. Don't hang out in the yard forcing the neighbors to call the cops. Don't leave evidence (dirty sheets, beer bottles, cigarette b.u.t.ts, muddy footprints). Marc has already a.s.sembled a voluntary cleanup crew to implement the third rule; it's the second rule that's the real problem. People get a little wasted and they want to drift out onto the deck and grill hamburgers or hop over the fence and throw things into the lake, even in the middle of winter.

In case you haven't already figured it out, Marc's family has this big house on the lake. His dad is a financial controller, his mom's an accountant, and between them they make enough money to cover the house in Courtland and a one-bedroom condo in Toronto where his dad stays during the week. To tell you the truth, I don't even know Marc that well, just well enough to get invited to this party with a hundred other people.

Gavin and Keelor show up just after ten. I say goodbye to Mom and Holland, who have dedicated themselves to watching the ball drop on television, and pop out the front door with my weed in my coat pocket. It feels so familiar, me patting the weed in my pocket to make sure it's there and stepping onto the freshly salted driveway, that I think I must be back on track. It's a good feeling, only I wish Nathan were with us.

"Hey," Keelor says as I slide into the backseat, "this is my cousin Jillian." The girl next to me is long and thin with curly blond hair and a face like Kate Hudson. She smiles and turns towards me as Keelor points in my direction. "This is Nick."

"Hi," she says.

"Hi," I say.

Then Gavin jumps into the conversation, steering it somewhere I don't want to go. "Coach said you left the team. That's f.u.c.king huge. What's the story?"

"Man." Keelor glares at Gavin. "I told you he didn't want to talk about it. What word didn't you understand?"

My heart jumps and for a millisecond I wonder what else Keelor told him. But that's paranoia, plain and simple. Keelor would never tell anybody anything I wanted kept secret; he never has.

"It's family stuff I...can't get into," I stammer. This is what happens when you make up lies on the spot. I should've planned this better, but it's too late, everyone will be wondering what my big secret is: What made Nick Severson give up hockey? "The coach was cool about it," I add. "Said I might even be able to rejoin later." That's huge too. The team doesn't have to put themselves out for me like that. It would mean b.u.mping my replacement down to his old league.

Gavin's still semi-gaping at me from the front seat when Jillian springs forward and taps Keelor's shoulder. "Hey, who's throwing this party anyway?"

"What does it matter?" I say in my antisocial voice. "It's not like you'll know anyone." Okay, so maybe the party isn't such a good idea. Or maybe I'm just not in the mood for conversation.

Jillian's face folds into a frown. She doesn't look like Kate Hudson when she frowns; she just looks like a teenage girl. "Nice friends you have, Owen," she says, both hands gripping the seat in front of her.

"Hey, I didn't say anything," Gavin reminds her.

"It's just a guy we know from school," Keelor explains, ignoring Jillian's criticism. "His folks are in New Jersey with his sister."

Gavin cranks up the music so we don't have to talk and soon we're sauntering through Marc's front hall and checking out the action. Keelor introduces Jillian to people as we move through the living room. The music is pounding and the girls all look hot-plenty of bare bellies, tight pants, and criminally short skirts. Vix, hair straightened for the night, dances over to us and pushes her tongue into Keelor's mouth. He squeezes her a.s.s, which is barely covered by a brown suede skirt, and I keep moving, into the equally crowded kitchen where Marc, Scotty, Hunter, and a bunch of other guys are knocking back beers.

"Nick!" Marc shouts over the sound of the music. He pulls a beer out of the fridge and hands it to me and I'm instantly one of them. We talk s.h.i.+t loud and fast until a girl named Denise teeters into the kitchen and drags Hunter into the other room. I down the rest of my beer and move on too, past the kitchen and into the den. Six people are sitting in a circle on the floor, sharing a bowl of weed. This is exactly what I'm looking for and I sit down next to a girl from last semester's math cla.s.s and wait my turn. The bowl is cashed before it gets to me and I hand over my weed to this guy named Jonah who repacks it, takes a hit, and then hands me the bong and the lighter. The girl next to me reaches for the lighter and when I'm ready, I nod and she gives me a light. I breathe in slowly, careful not to suck in so much that I'll cough. I do this once, twice, and then pa.s.s the bong to the guy on my other side.

He smiles and I smile back. I can already feel the difference. My body's letting go and waking up all at once. The girl from math cla.s.s has long eyelashes and huge pores. I've never been close enough to her to notice. The music is sharper, better, and I listen and look and wait for my turn, no hurry, wait for my turn and then begin the process over again. This could be my whole night, this room and these people, but there's that beer I finished earlier and eventually I have to take a p.i.s.s.

I kick off my shoes before heading upstairs to explore. n.o.body is using any of the bedrooms, all the doors are wide open, and I walk through each of them, the carpet soft under my feet, before using the bathroom off the master bedroom. The bathroom has two sinks and a whirlpool and I think about locking the door, filling it up, and climbing in, but by now my mouth is dry so it's back to the kitchen for more beer.

"Hi," someone says as they edge by me. It's Jillian with a beer bottle in her hand. She's wearing one of those beaded peasant top things and hip-hugger jeans. The outfit is new to me and I realize I must not have seen her since she took her coat off.

"Hey," I say back. "How ya doing?"

"All right. Probably not as good as you." She points to my eyes and I nod to acknowledge that yes, I'm aware they're dilated and weird.

"Where's Keelor?" I ask, for no reason really, except he's our only connection.

"Owen's in there." She motions to the smoke-filled living room, which has become the main dance floor, and I guess she doesn't seem thrilled at the prospect of talking to me due to my antisocial episode in the car.

"You actually call him Owen, huh?" It's one of the worst names I've ever heard. Like Frederick or Alastair. Besides, he looks exactly like a Keelor, which is why everyone calls him by his last name.

"It's what I'm used to," she tells me. "You seem marginally more communicative now."

"You caught me at a bad time earlier." I make sure I sound friendly to make up for before. "But I shouldn't have taken my frustration out on you. Don't hold it against me, okay?"

Jillian takes a swig from her beer and hoists herself onto the counter. "Here's to second chances."

I grab a beer from the fridge and take a step towards her. "So what are you doing here anyway? In Courtland, I mean."

"Staying with Owen's family for a while," she says. "Have you guys been friends a long time?"

"A long time." My mouth is drier by the second and I gulp down beer and stare at her t.i.ts. They're small, but that doesn't bother me.

"h.e.l.lo," she says loudly, waving into my face. "You're supposed to look at the girl's eyes."

I smile, swallow more beer, and apologize. She really does look like Kate Hudson and I try to remember what Kate Hudson's t.i.ts look like, but I'm not sure I've ever seen them. "I should get higher," I say, excusing myself. "Don't let any other guys talk to your t.i.ts, okay?"

Jillian makes a face, jumps off the counter, and slips into the living room. And me, I follow my feet back to my favorite room and continue to get ripped. By the time I finally leave the room again, I have the munchies bad. People are hanging out on the deck, just like I predicted, but sadly, there's no barbecue. Marc lures most of us indoors with a jumbo box of Oreos and multiple bags of potato chips. This is my cycle. Smoke. Drink. Food. Drink. Food. Well, you get the picture. I'll be out of balance for the rest of the night, but it doesn't matter. It's only an external problem. Inside everything's cool. Calm and easy.

The music rushes by my ears. Nelly, Nickelback, Jay-Z. I dance better when I'm stoned and so I dance and then I drink, vodka this time, and then there's more p.i.s.sing and my eyes can't focus, but I don't care. I amble into the kitchen, which is now full of girls making toast and sitting around the table talking. Eljeunia and Dani are there too and I stand in the doorway and listen to them console the crying girl at the table. Her father's been arrested for fraud apparently and everyone's saying that it's gonna be all right because it's not a real crime, like armed robbery, and then all of a sudden Eljeunia notices me hanging in the doorway.

"You want some peanut b.u.t.ter toast, Nick?" she asks.

Dani looks over at me too and I say, "I would love some peanut b.u.t.ter toast."

Eljeunia grabs two slices of bread and lays them out beside the toaster, ready for the next batch. "I'll bring them to you," she offers.

This is clearly a private conversation, and I slink over to the TV room on the other side of the kitchen and sit down on the floor to catch the video game in progress. "Hey, Nick," somebody says.

"Hey," I say back. I'm not really following the action; I'm staring at the screen and thinking about peanut b.u.t.ter toast. In fact, most of my body is parallel to the floor, silently praying for the swift appearance of peanut b.u.t.ter toast, when Dani steps into the room.

I sit up, like a fully functioning member of society, and she hands me a plate of peanut b.u.t.ter toast and a gla.s.s of orange something. "What's this?" I ask, holding up the gla.s.s.

"Just OJ," she says, sitting down next to me.

"Thanks." I take a sip of the orange juice and place the gla.s.s carefully down on the carpet.