SEVENTEEN

Jared

“Morning.”

My sister comes shuffling into the kitchen, looking as if she’s still half-asleep. Not a surprise since the sun is only just getting up.

She had been last night, when I got in. Just as she had been the night before. She hadn’t asked me any questions about my whereabouts yesterday, but from the squint she’s directing at me, I have a feeling I’m in for it this morning.

“Morning,” I rumble back, doing my best to ignore her observant eyes.

“Rough night?” she asks, pulling down a coffee mug and grabbing for the coffee pot that just finished gurgling.

“Do me one, too?”

I have my hands full of the dough I started making in the middle of the night, after I got tired of restlessly rolling around in my bed. You’d think Jordy would’ve inherited the Suzy Homemaker gene in the family. My mom had been a great cook and a fabulous baker. Growing up, we never lacked for friends just ‘popping’ in, who mostly walked right by us and straight into the kitchen, where Mom always had something on the go. I was only seventeen when I was moved around to billet families, depending on what OHL team took me on, and I missed my mom’s cooking something fierce. That’s when I started asking her for recipes of some of my favourite things. When I finally was drafted by the Sabres, I made sure the condo I moved into had a state-of-the-art kitchen. My teammates found it odd, preferring to eat out or order in, but I didn’t give a shit. I liked cooking, and they liked eating it. Even if they gave me a hard time about it. After they died, it became a way for me to connect with Mom.

“Are you making Mom’s cinnamon rolls?” Jordy says when she sets down my coffee and leans on the counter, looking at me.

“Mmmm,” I grunt, trying to avoid the question I know is coming. My sister knows me too well.

“Did something happen?”

And there it is, she doesn’t beat around the bush.

“Not really,” I try. “I was up early and hungry.”

“People who get up hungry usually make eggs. Takes all of two minutes. They don’t make Mom’s cinnamon rolls, which take a couple of hours beginning to end. Try again,” she snaps, and this time I look at her.

“They were on my mind. I couldn’t sleep. I still miss them,” I tell her honestly, watching her face soften.

I’d been staring up at the ceiling, with all these thoughts tumbling through my mind, and wished I could pull up a stool in my mom’s kitchen and talk to her about it. The way I used to.

Instead, I’m elbow deep in the flour I use to roll out the dough, with Jordy wrapped around my midsection, her arms squeezing tight.

“I miss them, too,” she mumbles against my shirt. “Days would go by that I only thought of them fleetingly, but since Ole was born, it feels like the loss is sharper again.”

She’s right, it does. My parents should be here. My dad would be sitting at the end of the dock, with his fishing gear, yelling out for someone to bring him another beer, but would drop everything to hold his grandson. Mom would love caring for my sister, pampering her, and loving on that baby. That is if she wasn’t in the kitchen, preparing every meal either of us ever liked.

Instead, I’m in the kitchen, like a poor surrogate, trying to find comfort in Mom’s food.

“But why couldn’t you sleep?”

My sister is a terrier. All she needs is a whiff of something, and she’ll put her teeth in and not let go until she gets it out.

It’s not my place to tell Mia’s story, but the odd connection to that one point in time has been plaguing me all night.

“Grab me that bowl with the sugar mix?” I point Jordy at the mix I prepared earlier, before turning back to rolling out my dough. The bowl lands on the counter with a bang, and I look up to find her standing with her fists on her hips.

“Jared,” she says, the threat clear in her tone.

“Okay,” I sigh, resigned. “I’m not gonna tell you everything, because that’s Mia’s to share, but the day we lost Mom and Dad? It’s the same day Mia’s life irrevocably changed.”

“The blackout?”

“Yeah. I guess it’s not that strange to consider there were more people impacted in some significant way on that date, but when she told me last night, it threw me off. Been chewing on it all night,” I admit, as I carefully roll the filling into the dough. “Hand me the chef’s knife?” Jordy automatically reaches for the knife block and hands me what I want.

“Did she lose someone, too?” Jordy asks, as I slice the roll into thick disks, placing each in the waiting muffin tin.

“In a way,” I admit, setting down the knife, and dropping the last roll in the tin, before covering it with plastic to rise one last time. “She lost herself.”

Ole chose that moment to let us know he was awake and hungry, by crying so loud, we didn’t need a monitor to hear him. The boy has some lungs on him.

“Drink your coffee,” I tell Jordy, who is standing there, looking lost in thought. I step around her to wash my hands. “I’ve got him.”

When I walk up to his crib, Ole immediately quiets, looking up at me with big wet eyes, his mouth already working in anticipation of food. Typical boy. I pick him up and snuggle him in the crook of my neck, where he enthusiastically starts rooting around. I rock back and forth on my feet, inhaling the soothing scent of baby soap and feel the world settle around me.

I would’ve been comfortable staying like that indefinitely, but my nephew has other ideas. His little legs pump for traction and his little head bobs around in search for milk, which clearly, I’m not properly equipped for. An angry cry lets me know that snuggle time is over, and I quickly lay him down on the commode to change his diaper before taking him to his mom.

With Jordy nursing Ole—something that took some time for me to get used to, but is a beautiful thing to observe—I slide the cinnamon rolls in the oven. When the smell of cinnamon and butter starts filling the air, I grab my coffee and sit down on the couch, lifting my arm around my sister’s shoulder.

Through the windows, I can see the sun coming up over the water. It’s promising to be another beautiful day. But when my gaze drifts over to Mia’s cottage, that promise evaporates.

Mia

I slept like a baby, but I wake up like a bear.

There’s a reason I don’t drink. I’m a lightweight. Normally one glass of anything and I’m already happily sozzled, but last night, Doug’s half bottle of scotch got annihilated between Jared and myself. I don’t remember feeling drunk when I kissed him goodbye at the door near midnight, or when I rolled into bed just minutes after that. There’s no doubt this morning that I was. My head is throbbing and my mouth feels like I licked the inside of an old barrel: raw and funky.

It’s still early, judging by the soft light I manage to distinguish with one barely cracked eye, but Griff makes it very clear there will be no rolling over for me. He’s restlessly pacing between my bed and the front door, indicating the need to relieve himself. Wonderful.

I tumble out of bed, fighting a wave of nausea when my second eye opens and the light hits it. Instant dizzy spell, with the accompanying surge of stomach contents, reminding me once again that drinking is evil. Normally I’d say riding a roller-coaster is top of my list of things never ever to do again, but this morning it’s been eked out by the consumption of alcohol.

My feet blindly find my flip-flops and I grab my oversized, zip up hoodie from the back of the door. In the kitchen, I quickly put a fresh pod in my single cup coffee maker and jam a mug underneath, before shuffling to the front door, where Griff is much too excitedly jumping up and down.

“Please, buddy,” I plead uselessly. “Have some mercy.”

It clearly falls to deaf ears, because the moment I open the door, Griffin barges out, barking at the top of his lungs. I immediately cover my ears and squeeze my eyes shut against the light. This much sensory stimulation is not working for me. The fact that my dog is out there causing a ruckus is not something that has priority right now. Coffee does. It’s probably a chipmunk or bunny anyway, that has his tail in a twist. I’m not too worried about my only neighbours, since as I discovered, their place is pretty much soundproof. Something that makes me more than a little envious right now.

My Advil bottle is empty, so instead I down as much water as my stomach can handle, before doctoring up my coffee. Mug in hand, I work up the courage to go see what has Griff all riled up outside; I freeze the moment my foot hits the first step down.

The first thing I notice is the white van, sitting in my driveway and clearly the object of my dog’s attention, since he’s jumping against the driver’s side door, making a lot of noise. The second thing I notice, is the huge lens of a camera, sticking out the driver’s side window, aimed in the direction of the cottage. Where I am standing in flip-flops, my favourite ratty pyjama pants, slouchy tank, and a men’s XXXL hoodie, with hair that I’m sure this morning resembles a tumbleweed.

The third thing I notice, as shock seems to have frozen me on the spot, is a familiar figure charging toward the van, bellowing, “Hell, no!”

This is too much for my fragile condition this morning, and I barely manage to bend over the bushes on the side of my steps as the meagre contents of my stomach comes surging up. Did I say wonderful?

“Mia!” I hear Jared yell and before I embarrass myself even more, I rush inside and slam the door behind me. The loud noise makes me wince as I hurry to the bathroom.

That’s where Jared finds me, maybe fifteen minutes later, still hanging over the sink, splashing cold water on my face every so often. He bends down to pick up the hoodie I dropped on the floor and tosses it in the laundry basket, before placing a hand in the middle of my back. I should probably be upset, or even mortified, that he just walked into my house and barged into my bathroom. Especially when I look like I crawled out of a hole in the ground. Instead, I just let his hand comfort me, realizing that the damage was probably done when he saw me hurl into my Euonymus Alatus, the burning bush I’ve been struggling to keep alive for five years because it turns a such a pretty vibrant red in the fall.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” I want to know, lifting my head to look at him in the mirror. “And who was that?”

“Get some clothes on. We’ll go over to my place and I’ll fill you in.” He avoids answering my question, but raises another.

“Why over to your place?” I whine, I don’t want to get dressed, I don’t want to go back outside, and I don’t want to go over to his place. Wait, the last is a lie. I do want to go home with him but not when I’m feeling like poo.

“Because that creep I just chased off might be finding his way over to my house as we speak, and Jordy is alone. Just get dressed, please?” I can’t ignore the urgency in his voice and instead of wasting time arguing, I splash my face with water, one last time, before squeezing past him into my bedroom, and pulling on some clothes. I’ll have to forfeit my shower, but with Jared pacing in the living room, I’m not going to push it. Maybe I can grab one after.

-

When we step outside, the van is gone from the driveway and the light is much brighter, but I can handle it. Jared had been on the phone when I walked into the living room just now and seemed to quickly sign off. All he said was, “Let’s go,” and ushered the dog outside.

Jordy is waiting by the door, Ole on her shoulder and looking herself like she’s just rolled out of bed. It makes me feel a little bit better about my overall state.

“Was it Nick?” she asks Jared the moment we walk in.

“No,” he answers curtly. “But I bet it was his doing.” With that, he marches through to the kitchen and yanks open the oven.

“Took them out ten minutes ago,” Jordy calls after him, as I pull a sleepy Ole in my arms for a snuggle. That’s when the smell hits me—sweet warm cinnamon—and if I hadn’t just appropriated the baby, chances are good my stomach would’ve done an encore. As it is, the warm little bundle provides enough distraction to get me over that hump.

“Have a seat.” Jared walks up with a glass of water and a bottle of extra strength Tylenol.

I sit down, shift the baby onto my shoulder, so I have one hand free, and pop back the two pills he shakes in my palm. Once I’ve drained the water, I hand him back the glass, and wait for him to sit down across from the couch where I sit next to his sister.

“It looks like maybe your asswipe ex was served with his restraining order,” he directs at Jordy. “That was a reporter from The Sun, here on an anonymous tip, he said. Appeared pretty pleased to find his lead pan out. He left, but I’m sure it’s not for long. Put a call in to police.” Then he turns to me. “Last thing I wanted was for you to get pulled into this.”

“Pulled into what, exactly?” I want to know, although, I have a sneaking suspicion.

“Since I got injured I’ve kept a low profile, managed to avoid the press for the most part. This place was kept pretty much off the radar for Jordy’s sake but also mine. My life is no longer public property but my own and nobody’s business. A few weeks ago, Brian publicly confirmed my retirement and has been fielding more than the usual phone calls from the media since. They’re looking for an interview, but my head’s been elsewhere. I was hoping once things settled down here, I could do one media day in Toronto to get everyone off my back. Seems that someone decided to point the press in the right direction.”

“You think it’s Jordy’s ex?”

“I know it’s Nick,” Jordy confirms. “He doesn’t play nice when he’s crossed. Plus, he never liked Jared.”

“I never liked that asshole either,” Jared says, making Jordy snort. “Why don’t you get some clothes on before the cops gets here.” He gestures toward her oversized sleep shirt. For a minute I think she’s going to protest, but apparently decides to let this one pass. Shrugging her shoulders, she turns to me and plucks her son off me.

“I’m just gonna put him down.” She smiles apologetically when I whimper a little at the loss of his little warm body.

“You ready for food yet?” Jared asks when she’s gone. “Made my mom’s cinnamon buns this morning.”

“Thought that’s what I smelled,” I confess, gauging the state of my stomach. “Although I’m not sure I’m quite ready for that.”

“I’ll get you some toast and scrambled eggs then,” he says, getting up from his chair. I follow him to the kitchen and hop on a stool.

“You seem intent on feeding me,” I point out, finding this need of his as much endearing as it is curious.

“It’s what I do,” he says, pulling a carton of eggs from the fridge. “Besides, you’re gonna need it.”

“Why?”

“Because the guy this morning? Is only the beginning.”