30. OLIVIA

CHAPTER 30

OLIVIA

O n Saturday, nothing and nobody can get me out of bed. Dee and Mina try to coerce me with the promise of a nice little brunch somewhere, but I tell them I'm not feeling well and don't want to pass this along to them. They enlist their services to do pharmacy runs if necessary, but I don't have the heart to admit that what ails me isn't physical. Although, I sure feel it in my gut.

Brooklyn's leaving.

My time with him is coming to an end. I should be jumping out of my room and racing straight into his arms, kind of like he did yesterday after the game, but I have no energy.

Last night, I thought I could push through the grief twisting my gut and agreed to go to the gala with him. But today, I don't think I have what it takes to pretend like I'm happy in front of him.

Pawing under my comforter, I bump against my cellphone half tucked under my pillow. His contact sits at the top and I bite my lip. There's still two hours before we agreed to meet at the mall, but there's no way that's happening. Not while I burst into tears every ten minutes.

Me

Hey

Can we postpone the dress shopping?

*Cookie emoji*

Sure but what's wrong

He's been asking non-stop since yesterday, but he's the very last person in the planet I want to talk with about this. And especially not before he tells me the news himself.

Me

Just under the weather

*Cookie emoji*

Should I bring you soup?

Ice cream?

Period pads?

Alcohol?

Pizza?

My arms?

"Ugh." I bury my face in my pillow and kick my mattress.

I'd love for him to bring all of the above, except for the pads because I'm not really on my period. But mostly, I wish he was here. Spooning me. His face buried in my hair. My back pressed up against him. His arms around me.

But then we'd have to talk. And I really would break this time—ugly crying, snot and everything.

Me

Just need a nap

Have a good game and don't get hurt

I toss my phone on the night table away from me, and twist until I'm facing the ceiling. The sheets are all wrapped awkwardly around me, immobilizing me when I hear the device buzz with more incoming texts. I close my eyes and tears roll down into my hair.

"Wow, you're being the melodrama," I say to the quiet.

The funny thing is, I didn't even feel this shitty when Trent cheated on me or when he basically admitted he felt no attraction for me.

Slowly, I pull myself up by my elbows until I sit. I rub my face hard. Maybe I should study. I'm in the middle of finals and this drama is setting me back. I busy myself washing my face and fixing up my bed. But after cracking a textbook open and trying to lose myself in the world of organic biology, my mind keeps drifting back to him.

It's four in the afternoon now. This is when, in a different universe, we'd have met at the mall to start looking for a fancy dress.

I could try to film a new video. There's a recipe for cookies I've been tweaking with. I'm trying to make a gluten- and lactose-free brookie that doesn't taste like newspaper. And Brooklyn would definitely love to eat it after a game. I'd love to feed it to him. Slowly. With my fingers. And then, I'd really enjoy kissing the crumbs from his lips.

There's no point. He's leaving during the Christmas break.

I need to get out of my head, and there's only one place in town where I can do that. I pack an overnight bag, including my textbooks and my laptop, and hop on the stinky SUV my brother passed down to me when he graduated college and was hired on as the most expensive free agent in a professional team on the other side of the border.

See? That's what the hockey guys do. They work very hard to leave everything behind. It's my turn to be left behind again.

Some half hour later, I'm on the opposite side of town parking by the curb of my parents' home. I skid on black ice as I get out of the car, and for a second I think how shitty it'd be if I die cracking my head on the pavement right now. But I manage to stabilize myself and step more carefully to the other side to retrieve my bag. My heart's pit-pattering hard as I stand on the porch and realize I forgot to grab my keys to the house.

I feel more pathetic than ever by ringing the doorbell. But Mom opens the door, takes one look at me, and pulls me into a hug. "?Quieres unas arepitas, mija?"

This is why I came. Mom and Dad's way of showing affection is feeding us. Unless we want to talk, they don't probe.

From the living room, Dad asks in excellent Spanglish, "?Qué? ?Tienes que hacer un laundry?"

I snort into Mom's shoulder. Correction, food and laundry. I blame my siblings, because that's all they ever did when they visited home after leaving for college.

"Food," I say.

While Mom goes off to fix some arepas, I crash on the living room couch next to Dad. Unfortunately, with so many hockey goons around him, he's come around and now follows the sport closely. He's watching a rerun of an old game of Aran's where my brother's pulling saves that should get him this year's Vezina. One of those saves has Aran doing the splits like some Olympic gymnast, and now I get why Brooke said that pulling their groin is a common injury for goalies.

That sure helps me focus on my textbook until Dad asks, "You okay, Aceitunita?"

I sigh, perennially annoyed at the nickname that likens me to an olive. "I'm okay. "

He hums from his throat but keeps watching the game. I push through my reading for at least fifteen minutes until Mom calls me from the kitchen. The house smells like freshly grilled arepas, and I let my nose trace the scent to the plate waiting for me on the kitchen counter.

"You're too skinny, Olivia," she says, obviously not realizing I've loaded on the pounds from stress-eating vats of popcorn with Coke at Brooklyn's games. "Are you eating okay? Or is it something else?"

I chew on my arepa with avocado and pico de gallo and say nothing.

"Something else, then." Mom nods to herself and turns back around to the kitchen. "I'll be here whenever you need to talk, okay?"

A memory hits me smack in the face. That's exactly what Mom said the night I came home crying, after Brooklyn agreed with those terrible things a hockey bro said at the Bolt House party almost two years ago.

I set the arepa down and swallow hard. That's why I came home. Not because my parents are less snoopy than my friends or my siblings, but because they're my parents. And whenever I feel sad, hurt, or I'm sick, I look for them. Or for Brooklyn, which right now and back then I couldn't do.

"Mom." My voice shakes and it makes her drop the bowl she's washing. The entire kitchen blurs as tears pool in my eyes. "Mom?"

"Mija, what's wrong? Are you sick? Arturo!" She calls to Dad. "Get the EpiPen!"

"No!" I shake my head. "I'm not sick. It's not… not that."

"No EpiPen?" Dad screams from the living room.

"No." Mom confirms, before appearing back at my side. "?Qué pasa, Olivia?"

I draw in a shaky breath. "It's Brooklyn. "

"But I thought things were finally going the way you wanted?"

"I did too." I squeeze my eyes shut and lean against her. "But he's leaving."

"What do you mean leaving?"

I tell her everything I know, which isn't much but is definitive enough. "Ma, he's getting the opportunity of his life. I can't just get in the way."

"But why would you be getting in the way?" She strokes my hair with one hand, the other holding me tight against her.

"Because I dallied. I didn't tell him what I feel in time and if I do that now it might make him hesitate." I shake my head against her shoulder. "I can't do that to him. Hockey's all he has."

"He has you too. He wouldn't choose one or the other."

I frown. "What?"

"People can have several loves without favoring one over the rest. Just look at your father and I. We love you three just the same."

"That's not true." I scoff. "Luz is the favorite child. I'm the middle of the pack. Aran's the third fave."

"What?" Mom screeches and pulls away. There's abject horror on her face. "Is that what you kids think?"

"Uh…" How did I just make this all worse?

"Olivia Maria…"

"Well." I scratch my head. "It's in the level of attention."

"What you just mentioned is the level of neediness." Mom smacks my arm pretty hard, making me wince. "Your sister's injury screwed us all up, and then there are your allergies. We just didn't have to worry very much about Aran." Her eyes glaze over as she gasps. "Oh, no. Does he think we don't love him? Arturo!"

"EpiPen?" Dad calls out from the living room, his voice still coming from the same place on the couch where he's attentively watching his son's game.

"Apparently the kids don't think we love them enough!"

I shake my head. "Sorry, Mom. I didn't?—"

Dad takes a moment to say anything. "Should we buy them more gifts for Christmas?"

"Yes!" The word spills out of my chest automatically. "For your youngest! After all, your two eldest have very well-paying jobs already."

Mom starts laughing and for the first time in twenty-four hours, I do the same. I lean back into her and squeeze my arms tight around her, taking in her familiar scent. It's enough to calm me down.

"So what you're saying is that I don't have to make Brooke choose between me and hockey?"

"Yes." Mom kisses the top of my head.

"And what do I do if he leaves for the pros anyway?"

"Maybe give him the chance to help you come up with a plan."

I mumble. "Well, that's if he likes me too."

"Oh, he does, Olivia. You've always been that boy's world."