I look over my shoulder as Reece squints at a box of pasta, ignoring us. He knows he makes a mess.
“Yeah,” I add. “Last time you cooked, there was sauce on the stove, the floor, the wall, the ceiling . . .”
He slams a pot down.
“Don’t overcook the noodles,” Boone says.
“Or burn the bread,” I chime in.
“Or the sauce. Smoke-flavored isn’t my favorite. I want to be able to taste the tomato,” Boone snarks.
Reece curses at us. “You two will love every fucking bite.”
“This is true.” I grab a controller and jump in the game with Boone.
There’s a lull in the game, and I glance over at Boone. “So, you wanna talk?”
He picks at some lint on his jeans. “Before we left for the maze, Scott gave me a shot of vodka. Just me.” He puts his elbows on his knees and dips his head, seeming to be fascinated by the carpet.
“Something was in it?”
He shrugs. “Doctors didn’t find anything, but I probably tossed it up or it was too late to detect.”
My fists curl, itching to go back over there.
He doesn’t notice, his voice wavering. “Reece told me the other pledges dropped me off, but I don’t remember.”
“Will you keep on pledging?”
A bitter laugh comes from him and his own fists clench. “I’d never, but they’re saying they kicked me out. One of the pledges returned my phone at the hotel and told me. My dad threatened him and he ran off. You tried to warn me and I should have listened. My parents, they’re upset. Angry with Kappa. Angry with the administration that wants to sweep it under the rug. We’ll look into it is what they said, which we both know is bullshit.”
My eyebrows go sky-high. “They filed a complaint?”
He nods. “Yeah. Jesus Christ on a bike, I’m glad they didn’t see me in the locker room. My mom might have packed my bags and moved me home.”
I slap him on the back. “It’s over now, bro. Hockey is your frat. We’ve got your back no matter what, yeah?”
Reece calls from the kitchen. “Alright, get your asses in here and eat.”
Boone smirks as we rise up together. “Maybe it’s decent.”
“I can hear you,” Reece mutters.
I chuckle. “The hard part is going to be finding clean dishes.”
“Remember the time we used tumblers to eat spaghetti?” Boone says. “I pretty much tossed mine back and poured it down my throat.”
We walk in the kitchen. Reece stands at the stove with an apron on that says Mr. Good-looking Is Cooking. He stirs the sauce, drains the noodles, then grabs a potholder to take the bread out of the oven.
The aroma of tomato and olive oil lingers in the air.
“We didn’t have napkins last time either. Used toilet paper,” I murmur then call out a victory yell when I find a package of paper plates in the cabinet.
“And he scores!” Boone shouts.
Reece rolls his eyes then pulls out a package of new napkins from a bag. “I went to the store.”
“Good job, my man,” I say as I swipe at the crumbs on the table and set the table.
“We’re eating in the kitchen?” Boone says. “But the den and TV are right there.”
I shrug. “It’s up to Reece. It’s his masterpiece.”
“Kitchen.”
Boone grumbles, then grabs a piece of garlic bread and stuffs it in his mouth. He devours it in two bites. Things feel back to normal.
Later, as we’re stuffing our faces, we talk about classes, about hockey, about me and Julia—although I cut that off pretty quick. I don’t want to go there. I don’t want to jinx us.
25
Julia
The rehab center we move my mother into is perfect. Well, as much as a sterile facility can be. Located a few miles outside of Sparrow Lake—I can easily ride a bike—it’s on a sprawling ten-acre estate with assisted living apartments, a hospital for emergency care, and the rehabilitation wing. Pretty landscaping lined the sidewalk when I wheeled her in. A nurse met us with a smile and showed us to her room.
Eric brings in the last box from the truck and sets it on the floor. There were only two, one with her clothes that I washed at my house, the other full of photos and mementos she’s been hanging on to.
The room is not big, but it is private. I pull out a purple comforter I splurged on at Target and make up her bed. A small kitchenette, basically a fridge, microwave, and sink are on the right. A desk is on the left that overlooks a walking path with trees and little gardens.
I take in the tiny Christmas tree in the corner of her room.
It’s so much better than the car. Tears well up in my eyes. I swallow them down.
The doctor and his staff helped me apply for a grant from a foundation for homeless people to cover what the state doesn’t. He assured me this place would assist with her loss of motor coordination on her right side, the speech therapy, plus the memory issues she’s experiencing. We met her speech and occupational therapist at the hospital several days ago. A psychologist also visited. She’ll be receiving counseling for her addiction.