12. Robbie

Checkers has been a Kimmelwick institution since the Mesozoic Era, a classic small-town diner complete with black and white flooring, bubblegum pink stools, cherry red booths, and anti-freeze blue chairs. It might be in the town bylaws that every Kimmelwick family has to have at least one photograph taken in the small, square space. And I don't just say that because the owner knows the name of every person who's ever spent over seventy-two hours in the town proper. My family has photos from my childhood and my mom's. I think I even saw a photo once of Nan and Pop sharing a milkshake. A first date forever saved in grainy black and white.

The summer after my twelfth birthday, there was a small fire at the restaurant. It came courtesy of a "freak power surge" that everyone knew was Early Gumpter in the parking lot selling fireworks out of the hatchback of his battered Yugo. The doors were back open in less than a week, the whole town banding together to fix the damage and collectively agreeing to buy their illegal pyrotechnics from the empty lot down by the fire station. Just in case Early fell asleep with a cigar in his mouth. Again.

"Welcome to Checkerboard Café, be right with you honey," Mol says from behind the counter, barely lifting her eyes from the change she's counting into a customer's hand. "Your booth's taken, but I think they're finishing up."

"No need," I glance down at my watch, "I can sit anywhere."

Stepping into this place is like stepping back in time. Mol—"just Mol, not Molly, never Mary."—in her cat-eye glasses with the emerald green frames, a gold chain looping around the back of her neck just in case they jump ship into the cash register or a pot of chili. Both of which really happened. I can swear to it in a court of law. Those two afternoons are how I learned three of my juiciest curse words and earned the respect of all the other kids in the third grade.

"Where'd your little duckling go? Jack something?" She thanks the customer in front of her, gray beehive not moving an inch even as she bobs her head goodbye. "That one's a handful, but he's a cutie."

Considering I've heard that phrase before in reference to toddlers and hyperactive dogs, I agree with her.

"The usual?" She holds her pen between the knuckles of her second and third finger the same way she always has. As if she needs to write down my double turkey burger on a toasted sesame bun, piled with everything but onions, extra pickles on the side, and an order of sweet potato fries and honey. Balance. "Or double it today?"

"Double. Please." More like triple it , I almost say.

I'd run drills with the kids today, pushing them to the edge of their limits and then showing them how to stretch their capabilities even farther. It's not the skating itself that worked up my appetite. A high school training camp will never come close to team practices, no matter how many times I rush the blue line with the eager teens, but I may have pushed myself to go harder, faster, to show off a set of passing drills with Spags that left both of us red cheeked and winded.

It wasn't just the workout that got up my appetite. My breakfast ended up being the nastiest coffee to ever exist. If aliens were to land in the middle of Colton Boyle's farm at the end of town—leaving one of those pretty little circles in the corn—and took a cup back to their ship for analysis, they'd categorize it as some form of toxin.

I didn't set out to forget to eat. I didn't have time to grab breakfast from my parents' kitchen. Not after running late getting out of the Staycation. There had been more important things on my mind. Like standing in a frigid hotel room, staring at the woman who stars in all of my filthiest fantasies, trying to hide both my erection and the way my heart was threatening to put me six feet under as we navigated our misunderstanding about a lunch invitation. At first my brain could barely follow the swings from relief that she said yes, to devastation that she said no, to arousal as I caught sight of her hard nipples. My cock took them as a permission to follow suit.

Given that I hadn't rubbed one out in over twenty-four hours—I used to be able to live like a monk, I swear—and hadn't had a joint orgasm in significantly longer than that, we're both lucky I didn't come in my pants. Immediately. Embarrassingly. Like I did several times in my teenage years that now, no matter how hard I try, refuse to be blocked from my memory. Kind of like that jingle for those two lawyers that specialized in car accidents and shit. One of them died in a plane crash or a helicopter crash, something like that, and still the damn jingle stays hidden in the corners of my brain, usually retrieved right as I'm about to fall asleep.

Although if I had embarrassed myself, at least there would have been enough blood in my brain to grab something to eat on the road. As it is, I don't remember driving to the rink, or picking up Spags. I remember the dimple in Vera's lower lip as she sunk her strong white teeth into the soft pink. I remember the curve of her lashes sweeping down to her cheeks and back up both in slow motion and with the speed of a hummingbird's wings, the heat of her mouth against my skin, against my lips. The "yes" that sat between us unspoken.

I thought about bringing her here, to our old stomping grounds, to our booth, but that was high school stuff. The Robbie who earned just enough money to pay for extra ice time and buy her a plate of fries and a milkshake. She wouldn't mind coming here, I'm almost certain, but I've also seen her photographed in Michelin star restaurants.

She dated that guy on the foot network. The Australian one who looks like he stepped right off a rugby pitch. The same one that made my toxic masculinity rear its ugly head as I realized I'd been silently sizing myself up next to all of her potential romantic partners. While the others might out-earn me, or have prettier faces, fewer scars, a less crooked nose, I was confident I could take them in a fight. I could put them on the floor if need be. But that chef—whatever his name is—would have put up a fight I didn't know if I could win. I didn't like it.

Erik told me it was normal, considering the fact that I was still in love with her. I politely told Erik that if he put his therapist hat on and tried to psychoanalyze me again, I'd report him to the ethics board. Fucker had laughed right in my face and clapped me on the shoulder.

" Tell me more about that, " he'd said, and I'd briefly wished he'd never left Chicago and moved to Quarry Creek. Never sat next to Quinn right behind the boards, or been thrown up on the Jumbotron. He'd done significantly less calling me on my bullshit when he was far away. " Repression isn't good for you, you know. It can lead to all sorts of…backups." His gaze had dropped to my crotch, and he cackled as I informed him I was going to tattle to his wife.

If this is my one chance to give Vera what she's used to, to show her a taste of what we could be as adults or if things had been different, that's what I'm going to do. I'm pulling out all the stops tonight.

I turn on my stool, eyes searching for the booth back in the far corner. It's separate from the rest, behind a half wall and a million potted plants, in a world all its own. It used to be a public phone, often used by the local Amish community when they needed the convenience of modern telephone lines. When the phone was removed, Mol put in a half booth, just big enough for two, or a small party of four. Despite larger tables, better suited to three hockey players and a five-foot-eleven girl, the twins, Vera, and I had taken to cramming into the small space because of the relative privacy.

Once I'd made Vera mine, the twins found a new table. Or, rather, they did the prudent thing and suddenly had plans anytime Vera and I were headed to Checkers.

I'm curious to see who's there now. A couple looking for some privacy from the lunch rush? Teens hiding out during the heat of summer the way I used to? Some harried professional trying to grab a quick bite and slip out the door? It shouldn't matter. I don't have a ton of time to sit and eat, but I can't help the pull to see who's there. Just peek around the greenery and see if I recognize a face.

I hear her laugh first. A spark through my stomach that both thrills and terrifies me. Thrilled because she's here. In our old spot. After agreeing to have dinner with me. And I'm here too, even when I rarely leave the rink during camp. She brought me here in her own way, or the universe did, and I'm so fucking grateful to have an extra moment, even tangential to her presence. I'm also terrified because I feel so damn happy to be near her. I want her here, at Checkers, in our booth. I want her with me always. I can't see a path to make that happen. I'm not sure I care.

I don't realize I'm moving toward the back booth until a voice says.

"Well, Robbie Oakes. Isn't this just like high school all over again?" The woman speaking is blonde, her hair pulled back in a loose braid, and big blue eyes hidden behind round glasses.

She's familiar enough that I place her as Birdie—sorry Bridget—but only because I knew she was Vera's lunch date. I'm not sure I'd recognize this girl in the high collared dress and loafers, although I might have recognized the dress. I think she wore the same one back then.

It's nothing like high school , but I still say, "Hi Bridget. How have you been?"

"I didn't think you'd remember me. I'm doing well, thank you." Her mouth is wide as she smiles, twin dimples in her pale cheeks, and at least she doesn't seem upset that I'm crashing her social time. Even if she thought I wouldn't recognize her. "I have to be getting back to the library, but it was so nice seeing you, Vera. I'd love to meet up again if you have time. I'll bring that book I was telling you about."

"Please." Vera stands and scoots in front of me to hug her old friend. "I'll text you when you're off work."

Bridget reaches into her canvas bag and pulls out a small blue wallet, but Vera shakes her head.

"Don't even think about it. My idea, my treat."

"I can pay for my turkey club," Bridget says. "I don't want to take advantage."

"If you try to leave any money, I'll be forced to reimburse you. I'll slide the cash through the library return slot."

There's a moment of silence as they appraise each other, a battle of wills and pride. Bridget breaks the standoff.

"Thank you. Next time is on me. Robbie?" I think I nod. "Good to see you." She leans into Vera, as if the hushed tone of voice will keep me from overhearing.

"Remember the thing we were talking about? First, things happen for a reason, even if we don't know why. Second," Her eyes dart to mine as if she's afraid I'm going to push my way into their conversation. "History only repeats itself if we don't learn from the past."

I have no idea what those cryptic messages mean. My traitorous little brain hopes it has something to do with me. With this relationship we're pretending to rekindle.

It only occurs to me after Bridget is gone and Vera sits back down that I'm still standing at the end of her table like a cement pylon. I slide into the recently vacated booth, folding my hands on the Formica tabletop.

"Checkers," I say as she smooths her hands over her lap. "I should have guessed."

Vera's eyes dart away from mine. "I couldn't not come say hi to Mol."

"Of course not." But you could have taken a different booth.

"We didn't want to take a table someone else might need when there's only two of us."

We both lean around the plants to take stock of the almost empty diner. Two men sip coffee at the bar counter, three empty stools between them. A family with three kids that all look too young for school sits at one of the big silver tables. No one is paying any attention to us back here.

"I should have known you'd end up back here. Can't stay away from your girl." Mol winks at the two of us, and Vera's face flushes. "Fate bringing you back together after all this time."

I don't blush because Mol's right. I didn't even have to know Vera was back here to be drawn into her orbit. I felt her. Like the hesitation at the top of a roller coaster, the suspended moment before the free-fall, or the feel of the air right before it rains. A swollen quiet that pushes against the skin until each drop takes shape.

"Yes," I say as the diner owner slides enough food in front of me to feed an army.

I drizzle the little pot of honey over my fries and push the little white bowl of bread and butter pickles over to Vera. A small smile plays over her lips. A fork. I should have asked for a fork so she can… she pinches one slice between her index finger and thumb and brings it to her mouth, eyes closing as she chews. Mol deserves a two-hundred percent tip for the way she slips away unnoticed.

"Mol seriously has the best pickles on the planet. I can't believe she remembered."

I revise my number to four-hundred percent when Mol calls back, "wasn't me honey."

Vera's eyes snap to mine and I pick up a French fry to look unaffected. I wonder if she can see the way my bones are rattling inside my skin. I wonder if I want her to see the effect she has on me.

"You?"

I nod. Although I'm not sure it counts as remembering if I never forgot. What would Vera think if she knew I've been ordering an extra side of pickles with every meal since I first packed up and left this town and this woman behind? Probably that Erik was right. The fucker.

"I guess some things don't change." Her laugh is low, hollow. "Or maybe they do." She leans back in her seat, red vinyl creaking as she crosses one leg over the other. "You remember my affair with bread and butter pickles. You touch me like you never stopped…" Her throat clicks as she swallows and Mol needs to call Bruce and Gary to come look at her HVAC because it's too hot in here for her unit to be working right. "But you don't smile anymore. You're my Robbie, the one I remember, but you're not. You're someone new, too."

"People change," I say, devouring the sight of her dark brows pinching together, the small lines that furrow between them. I shrug because it's that or admit that I'm still hung up on her. I still think of her every minute. I'm not ashamed, not an iota, but I don't know if she'd want to hear my confession.

"You don't smile anymore, Robbie. Not after game winning goals, not in interviews, not in any photos. I've seen you at the start of each game, glowering around the rink with your hand over your heart. You kiss your palm and you point at the camera and anyone else would smile, flirt, something… but you don't. You just press your hand over your heart and skate away again. Every single time."

She's kept up with me, the way I have with her.

All these years.

She watched me play.

She listened to me talk.

She sought me out. Maybe she doesn't even realize she did it, but it still counts. My heart turns over, my stomach coiling up into a knot.

"What changed?" She's looking at me with an expression I can't read. Pity, maybe. It burns like acid.

You. I want to say. You happened. I lost you. Maybe this time I should. I should tell her that when people say you don't forget your first love, they should have said it was because the loving never stops. Because years later, I remember the shape of her mouth and the vibrations of her soul. Because my dad taught me from a young age that we protect the things that are precious, the things that matter, and she has always been what matters most. More than I needed to keep her, I needed her to be happy.

"People don't recover when they lose half of their soul." It feels as if the words force their way out of my throat, each one leaving it raw, bloody.

Whatever I expected Vera's reaction to be, her recoil wasn't even on my radar. In theory, I always thought maybe she felt the same. Our connection had been too deep, too real, to ever be one-sided. On bad days, I wondered if the loss must haunt her the same way it haunts me. On good ones, I hope that she's found happiness even if it's not with me.

"Don't," she whispers and I should stop, I know that, but I can't put the words back, can't stop the flood. It's like trying to mop up Niagara Falls with a handkerchief.

"Losing you changed me, Vera. It broke my heart—"

"Stop." Her hands cover her mouth and then slide back as if to block her ears too, to stop my confession. "You don't get to do that."

Do what? Tell her the truth? Bare my soul? I have nothing to lose. I love Vera Aster Novak. I loved her at twelve, and at seventeen, and now I love her at thirty-three. I don't know when it started, probably the day we met, but I do know it will never end. I will love her through forever until the sun absorbs the earth and whatever is left of our physical form is blown into the tiniest of atoms. Those pieces of me will still exist solely to love Vera Aster Novak. Whether she feels the same or not.

"You left me. You ended things with me." Her eyes flash fire. "I didn't break you Robbie, you broke me."

She isn't saying anything I don't already know, and yet her words are a gut punch. My lungs deflate. I'm not rewriting anything. She doesn't know. What I'm saying has gone right over her head. Yes, I'm the one who ended things, but it's because I saw no choice.

"I was leaving," I remind her. That doesn't mean I stopped loving you. Doesn't mean my heart didn't shatter, too.

"I'd have gone with you. You said no."

I'm not the villain, I swear I'm not. We were just two kids who were in too deep. I knew she would have followed me. Part of me wanted her to. She'd have left school or poured everything into a long distance something with me. With a boy who barely had time to blink or breathe between his school and the juniors practice schedule. She'd never have gone abroad, or walked for Cooper, or moved to L.A. She'd have followed me across the country, keeping track of my stats until I convinced her to marry me and knocked her up, or she grew to resent me and came back here.

I don't regret making the choice I did. I don't regret making the hard decision so we both could make something of ourselves. She said she understood why I said no. Clearly it wasn't true. I have to make her understand. It's not that I didn't want her with me. It's just—

My phone rings.

I'm tempted to ignore it, to pretend I don't hear the chime or feel the buzz against my thigh, but it stops and restarts with such viciousness it's practically daring me to let it go to voicemail a second time.

"You should get it," Vera says, sagging against the seat behind her. "It's fine. This conversation was over anyway. It's nothing we didn't both already know. I guess I'm still tender."

My phone rings again and Spags' name scrolls across my phone. It was probably him on the call right before this one, too. It's also five minutes past when I needed to leave to be back at the rink on time.

"Vera." If I answer this call, we both know she's going to slip out of this booth and hightail it away from me. I won't be able to chase her down, gather her into my arms, and make her hear me. "I'm sorry."

For the way this conversation is ending. For the way our relationship did sixteen years ago.

"You have to go, don't you?" It's a question and an answer all rolled into one. Yes. I have to go, but I'm coming back. Tonight. This conversation isn't over.

"Vera."

"I'm sorry you didn't get to finish your lunch, but hockey always comes first." She slips out of the booth, standing at the end of the table, and I try not to let my gaze linger on the smooth length of her thighs under the world's shortest sundress. The last thing this conversation needs is my inappropriate and inopportune thoughts. I have the sneaking suspicion that if I reach for her, she'll disappear like smoke in the breeze.

"Vera."

"It's okay, Robbie. I promise. It's all stuff we already knew. I shouldn't have lost my temper." She tucks her hair behind her ears and my eyes can't help following the line of her throat. "I'm okay, and I'll see you tonight for dinner. Kay?"

"You still want to?"

She studies me, like I'm a message written in ancient hieroglyphics. Then she smiles.

"Yes," she says. "I still want to."

I fucked this all up. I know I did, but at least she'll let me try to set it right tonight.

Mol drops a cardboard to-go box on the table along with my check. I glance down the line items as I reach for my items and shake my head.

"Mol, why am I being charged for your new windows?"

"Because you shattered my front glass playing street hockey during the summer of '02. Cost me a fortune getting those replaced." My eyes narrow at Mol, who is doing her best sweet-old-lady impression.

Susannah Marsh's fifth birthday party had taken over the block that weekend, and to avoid the dozens parked cars and the miniature horse that took an instant dislike to the bright green tips Vic had dyed into his hair—it tried to rip the strands out with its blunt yellow teeth—the Varg's, Vera, and I had been forced to move our game to Checkers' parking lot.

There had indeed been a rogue shot that took out the glass front door and most of the little vestibule. It had been impressive in its speed, if not its accuracy, especially since it hadn't been me or either of the twins who'd been the proud owner of that slap.

I hold my black card out to Mol and drop my wallet down on the table.

"That shot was Vera, and everyone knows it." Or they do now . It was a well-guarded secret for years.

"Yes, but she tried to cover the cost today, and we both know you're the kind of guy who pays for his girl."

I am.

"You remember the maple syrup incident?" I can't resist asking, and when Mol's mouth drops open in shock, I throw my head back and laugh. "Yep. Who'd have thought little Vera Novak capable of that?"

This time Mol laughs, too. "Who'd you think paid for my new floor?" She cackles, hair quivering under the fluorescent lights, and I can't help my own smile.

"So between the roof a few years back, the new floor, your new kitchen, the air system, and the windows…." The new siding, paint, neon…

"If not you, then her. You two practically own this place with all the work you've both financed. My darling investor team."

I practically float out the door and back to the rink. Because I'm not sure if Vera's realized it yet, but I have. She's slowly, but surely, setting down new roots. Like maybe she plans to stay awhile.