Page 67 of Empty Net
I look at the floor. "Last season bad."
She does not speak for a long time.
When she does, her voice is careful. "Do Mom and Dad know?"
"About the hip?"
"About any of it."
"No."
"Nolan."
"I know."
"Do you?"
That one lands harder than it should.
I know I should tell them. I know my mother will be hurt that I carried this much without giving her a corner of it. I know my father will get quiet in the way I learned from him and maybe blame himself for teaching silence too well. I know Dana has been waiting for me to call and say something for so long that she answered with finally.
Knowing is not the same as doing.
"I don't know how to start," I say.
Dana's voice softens. "You just did."
I press my palm flat to the counter.
"With me," she says. "You started with me."
The kitchen blurs before I can stop it.
No. Not blurs. My eyes fill. Call it the thing it is. If I am going to make a mess at 11:17 PM in my own kitchen, I can at least use accurate vocabulary.
I am crying.
Silently, because apparently even this part of me has a volume setting.
Dana hears anyway. Sisters have unfair equipment.
"Nols," she says.
I hate that nickname. I have always hated that nickname. I have never hated it less than I do in this moment.
"You've been holding your breath since high school," she says. "I'm tired of watching."
My hand tightens on the phone.
"Say his name."
"I already did."
"Say it again."
I close my eyes. His face in the hotel room. The way he asked me to be clear. His hand turning under mine in the dark. His younger self on bad college film, taking the risky pass because the lane existed.
"Caleb," I say.
