Page 30 of He Has It All (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
Chapter 8
Chelsea
“Ithought you were going to stand me up, so I started without you,” Mom raises her glass with a guilty look. It’s some kind of drink sporting an umbrella and I’m surprised. She’s usually a beer or wine kind of lady.
“Sorry,” I say as I slide into my seat at the beachside restaurant. “Splurging, I see.” I nod in the direction of her drink. What a pair we are, both ready for drinks at the drop of a hat. To be fair, we are at a wedding weekend, so I can’t expect her to be drinking tea the whole time even if she did promise to cut back on the alcohol. I’m worried about her, but maybe I should be worried about myself.
“You look beautiful, Chelsea.” She puts a hand on mine.
“Thanks, Mom. You look great too.” She does, except for that tragic air she has.
“I can hardly believe Maggs is getting married.” Her smile is sad. As usual, even when she’s happy. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to shake that sad look from her eyes. I thought of hiring a professional comedian once after I’d just got back from the Olympics and her seeing me for the first time in months still didn’t erase the bleakness she wore. Sorrow had taken root deep in her soul, carved there permanently on the day she found out my brother Jason, a proud Marine, died in the line of duty. I’d been away with the Olympic team and came home only for three days before I had to rejoin the team in Australia. I wanted to stay with Mom, but she convinced me she would be worse off if she was responsible for stealing my Olympic dreams. If only she knew. I should have told her then, but it was her dreams I was more worried about.
There’s nothing more horrible than disillusionment. I ought to know. Except maybe being the disillusioner.
One more reason the Olympics was a bad experience and a bad idea. My mother takes a healthy swig of her drink, sidestepping the straw. She drinks too much now but I can’t blame her. I’m not sure how she manages to hold onto her waitress job, but she does, such as it is. She still has Dad’s social security to help make ends meet, but it’s a struggle and I‘ve been sending her money until now. But with Maggs moving out of our apartment, I need to make a decision because I can’t afford to stay on my own. Maybe telling her will make her smile—for real. Or put her mind at ease. Maybe it’ll put my mind at ease.
“Speaking of Maggs, since she’s moving out—on to bigger and better things—I’ll need to move too. I’m thinking I should move home.”
Her smile is instant, then hesitant, as if she doesn’t trust her good fortune. This is how desperate Mom is, because she had been proud of me being out on my own.
“If you’re sure, sweetheart. I don’t want to cramp your style.” She waves a hand and picks up her drink again, draining it.
“I’m certain.” Now I am too. I get up and go around the table to give her a hug. She wraps me up in her skinny arms and I vow to help her gain weight, learn to cook or whatever. Make her stop drinking. None of this cutting back shit. Not anymore. No excuses. Even if it means I need to quit drinking too. I swear I will as I kneel on the wood decking of the restaurant next to Mom, holding her, feeling her silent tears and not sure whether they’re tears of happiness or despair.
Fuck. I know they’re tears of despair. Know I need to do something, anything and everything about it.
* * *
Maggsand I arrive at the Siasconset Union Chapel on New Street early, but we’re not the first ones there. Her parents, my mom, and Doc and Mrs. Brown are all waiting, chatting up the minister. We walk in and Maggs, all giddy and happy, runs to the front of the church to give everyone hugs. The happy energy lifts me and when I get there I’m ready to greet them all, ready to stand with my mom and hold onto her, keep her spirits up.
She whispers to me, “Someday this’ll be you too.”
“Stop it, Mom.” I snicker. “Not even close. Don’t you think I need to date someone first?”
“I heard you dated Ryan.”
“Do not even go there.” I need to shut her down because this is a familiar pipe dream of hers ever since I hit my teens and he whistled at me once. Getting an assist from the minister, he asks my name and Maggs introduces me.
“This is my best friend in the world—besides Levi—almost like a sister.”
“You mean exactly like a sister, don’t you?” Mrs. O’Rourke laughs, swinging an arm around my mom. They would be more like sisters if it weren’t for the fact that Mrs. O’Rourke already has five sisters for real. That’s one of the reasons this is going to be one big fat crazy wedding.
Maggs told me Mrs. Brown’s family is also huge. Apparently, Levi has lots of cousins. They have a crowd of neighbors and professional friends attending too. She hasn’t even seen half the guest list because she and Levi lost control of it a month ago. But she doesn’t care because everyone she wants to be here will be here.
When our chitchat dies down and it’s about to get uncomfortable, that point in the conversation where we start to look at our watches or check the time on our phones, depending on which generation we’re in, all wondering when the groom and best man will arrive, the door breaks open and the devil walks in with the handsome groom. My heart jumps and keeps going, banging like a drum roll with no end. Can I be more ridiculous?
Looking down, I smooth my hem, suddenly self-conscious about my short dress. It’s a lime-green-and-black retro geometric-print shift that shows off my legs. Maggs and Allie Pink, my official fashion consultants, said I look dazzling. Not that I specifically asked.
Who am I kidding? My ego took a major shot after the no-kiss dinner date with the man who I can’t stop crushing on no matter how many signals I get to let him go.
“Let’s get started with this show,” Levi says as if we were dawdling and he’s been waiting.
Ryan says, “It’s my fault we’re late.” He’s immediately forgiven and we assemble into our designated roles and places, directed by the minister.
Ryan takes my arm as instructed and the show starts with the two of us following the rest of the bridal party couples walking down the aisle. The delicious smell of him unnerves me, the hard feel of his muscles lined up against my side, the heat of him with his arm through mine and all eyes on us as we walk down the aisle. He whispers, “Why are you so nervous? You’re not the one getting married.”
“I hate being the center of attention. I don’t like everyone watching me,” I say in a fit of honesty, as if my nerves and overwound heart have dissolved my normal filter or any good sense I have about sharing soul-deep secrets about my major weaknesses.
