Page 132 of Slapshot Kiss

Seven years later, I can still remember exactly what the ice sounded like when it cracked.

That’s the part that comes back most often, which seems fucked up considering everything else that happened. You’d think my brain would’ve picked something better to hold onto, but instead it kept the sound.

A low crack.

Then another.

Then Wayne looking at me.

I stop playing.

My fingers stay curled around the neck of the guitar while I stare at the floor.

I should’ve checked the ice.

I know all the things people said afterward. It happened fast. I was a kid too. I couldn’t have known. None of it ever mattered much, because I was the one who took him out there, and I was his big brother.

I was supposed to know.

That thought has been sitting somewhere inside me for seven years, and I’ve gotten pretty fucking good at making sure nobody sees it.

Most people only get to see the version of me I present to the world.

Funny. Easygoing. Always ready to do something stupid if it’ll get a laugh.

That guy is easy to be around.

Tonight, Quinn got a glimpse of the other one, and I practically shoved her out the door for it.

I’ll talk to her tomorrow when this day is over and I can think straight. I’ll apologize for tonight, take her out somewhere, make her laugh until that careful look she gave me disappears.

I’ve done this part before too.

Every year, I tell myself tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow I’ll stop being pissed off at everyone who asks if I’m okay. Tomorrow I’ll make up for whatever I said or did because letting someone care about me felt worse than being alone.

Eventually, most people learn to stop asking.

I look at the empty spot beside me on the couch and think about Quinn standing at the door, waiting for me to give her one reason to stay.