Page 69 of Playing it Safe

I should foam roll, eat protein, and review film and do all the things a responsible athlete does before a playoff game. Instead, I drive to Deen's house.

The kitchen table has a jigsaw puzzle spread across it — a thousand pieces, a nature scene with a waterfall. Deen is hunched over the far corner, sorting edge pieces into a line with the focus of a surgeon.

"Hey, cutie." She doesn't look up.

"Takes one to know one." I kiss her cheek, then sit across from her. I pick up a piece and roll it between my fingers without looking at it.

Deen sorts. I sit. The wall clock ticks. From the living room, I hear the low murmur of a talk show that one of the other residents watches every afternoon. The house smells like the garlic bread they must have had for lunch.

I love this about my sister. She doesn't require conversation. She doesn't fill silence with questions, observations, or the anxious chatter of someone who needs to be useful. She just does her puzzle and lets me exist beside her, and the pressure in my chest eases by a fraction.

Five minutes. Ten. I fit two edge pieces together, then push them toward her. She inspects them, nods, and adds them to her border.

Then she looks up. "Where's Cameron? He said he'd take me to Game 4."

The fraction of eased pressure reverses. My throat closes, and my eyes sting, and I set the puzzle piece down carefully because my hands are shaking.

"We had a fight," I say.

Deen studies me. Her face is calm and open, as it always is — not because she doesn't feel, but because her feelings don't perform for anyone. "A big fight?"

"Yeah."

"About what?"

I try to figure out how to explain it. The geography. The family obligations. The things I said about his family that were true, and the way I said them, which was cruel. "About where we're going to live," I say. "When hockey is over."

Deen nods, absorbing this. "Did you say sorry?"

I press my lips together. "I don't ... I don't know how."

Deen looks incredulous. "You open your mouth and say it. That's how sorry works, Briar."

I laugh, and the sound comes out wet and broken. She's right. She's completely right. The simplest possible answer to the hardest question I've been asking myself all day. I've been sitting here trying to figure out the strategy, the angle, the perfectly worded speech that will fix what I broke, and my sister just gave me the answer in eight words.

You open your mouth and say it.

The thing is, I’m not sure that sorry is enough. What good does it do? His life is in New England, and mine is here with my sister. One thing I do know for certain is that I’m not equipped to manage a long-distance relationship. I can barely handle a series of away games without stroking out over my sister’s safety.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. Deen returns to her puzzle. She doesn't push. She never pushes. She said what she had to say, and now the waterfall needs her attention.

I pick up another edge piece and try it in three spots before it finally fits. The click is satisfying. I stare at the growing border and think about the season ending. About summer. About the long stretch of weeks when I usually do nothing but visit Deen and grab ice cream.

"Season's almost over," I say. "I'll have a lot of time off this summer."

"Mm hmm."

"Maybe we could do something. Go somewhere." I try to sound casual, but my voice is still thick from crying. "You want to go to the beach, DD? We could rent a place for a week."

Deen fits a piece into place without looking up. "I like it here."

"I know, but it might be fun to —"

"I like my house." She looks up at me. "I like my friends. I like it when things are normal." She tilts her head, studying me with the same assessing look she gave Cameron the first time he showed up at her door. "You should go to the beach. You look tired."

I press my lips together because if I open my mouth right now I'll sob again.

"Bring me a seashell," Deen says, then picks up another puzzle piece.