Page 5 of Checking It Twice
“Are you dating anyone?” The shift in her tone is subtle but unmistakable. Hope mixed with maternal concern.
I take a long pull of my beer, buying time. “Not really.”
“What does ‘not really’ mean?”
It means I’ve been going through the motions with women who don’t matter, trying to prove to myself that I can move on. It means I wake up most mornings feeling like I’m performing my own life instead of living it.
“It means no, Ma. I’m not dating anyone.”
The silence stretches long enough for me to hear her disappointment through the phone.
But the truth is, there’s no way in hell I’m ready for that.
“Honey, you can’t let what happened with Hannah—”
“We’re not doing this.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended, but I can’t help it. Every conversation eventually leads back to her. To the engagement that became the town’s favorite tragedy. To Luke, my former best friend, who’s probably warming her bed right now in the house we picked out together.
“Mitchell, you have to move on. It’s been six months.”
Six months, two weeks, and three days. Not that I’m counting.
“I have moved on.”
“Then prove it. Come home. Show everyone you’re fine.”
But that’s the problem. I’m not fine. And everyone back home knows it. They’ll look at me with those pitying eyes, whisper behind their hands about poor Mitchell Drake, the NHL player who couldn’t keep his high school sweetheart happy. They’ll ask careful questions and offer well-meaning advice, and I’ll have to smile and pretend it doesn’t feel like getting punched in the gut every single time.
“Ma—”
“Your father’s already planning the pond hockey game for Christmas Eve. Evan’s bringing the kids. Your sister’s pregnant, Mitchell, and you haven’t even seen her yet. We need you here. Not just want. Need.” I think about Maddie being alone for Christmas while Ryan’s overseas, how Mom’s probably trying to fill that gap with extra family time.
The guilt hits like a body check to the boards. My family doesn’t deserve to pay for my mess. They didn’t choose Hannah over me. They didn’t betray twenty years of friendship for a woman who was never really mine to begin with.
But going home means facing the whispers. The questions. The careful way people will avoid mentioning Luke’s name while simultaneously watching to see if I flinch.
“I’ll think about it.”
“You’ll do more than think. You’ll pack your bags and get your stubborn behind home where you belong.”
I can picture her standing in the kitchen I grew up in, hands on her hips, that look on her face that used to make me and my siblings confess to crimes we swore we wouldn’t admit to. The woman could guilt a confession out of a saint.
“Fine. I’ll be there.”
“Good. And Mitchell?”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe bring someone with you. Show the town that Drake boys don’t stay down for long.”
The line goes dead, leaving me staring at my phone and wondering when my life became a country song.
Bring someone. Right. Because nothing says “I’ve moved on” like showing up with some random woman and pretending we’re something we’re not.
I move to the couch, sinking into the cushion with my beer. I scrub a hand over my face, trying to erase the exhaustion that’s been sitting behind my eyes for months now. My mind drifts back to today, to that conference room and the way the afternoon light caught Clare Johnson’s dark hair.
I think about the way she looked in that black dress—professional but still managing to make my brain short-circuit. The way she handled the guys’ banter without missing a beat, sharp and quick and completely unimpressed by any of us. The way she looked at me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention, like she was trying to figure out what was wrong with me.
Clare’s smart. Sharp. The kind of woman who could handle small-town gossip and my family’s well-meaning interrogation.She’s also completely off-limits, which somehow makes the idea even more appealing.
