The Year We Hid Away (30 page)

Scarlet giggled. “Let’s look at tableware instead. That’s almost as fun.”

* * *

We got back to Beaumont after Lucy’s bedtime. But Hartley and Corey were waiting with champagne and ginger ale to welcome Lucy back.

“Thanks,” Lucy said, accepting a glass from Corey.

“You’re welcome. But I have something else, too. The dean asked me to give it to you.” She took a Harkness ID out of her purse, on a pink lanyard. When she turned it over we could all see that it read LUCY MCCAULLEY on the front, with her school picture.

“It’s just like Bridger’s!” Lucy yelped, putting it over her head.

“That’s what you use to check in to the dining hall.”

“Can we eat there tomorrow?” Lucy asked.

“Hell yes,” I said. “We’ll have to be ready for school a little early. But they have five kinds of cereal, and there’s always bacon.” Christ, I missed the dining hall. It made life effortless.

Hartley popped the cork on a bottle of bubbly and began pouring into my collection of stolen dining hall glasses. “Maybe Andy wants one?” Hartley asked.

“He’s out on a date tonight,” Scarlet said.

Corey looked toward the fire door. “I’m positive I just heard him over there.”

Scarlet frowned, probably hoping that the set-up with Katie hadn’t been a disaster.

Corey raised a hand to knock on the fire door, but something held her back. She turned, with an amused expression on her face. “You know, I don’t think he’s going to want one.”

From the other side of the fire door came the distinct sound of a moan.

“Is he okay?” Lucy asked.

“He’s fine,” Corey said quickly. “He’s, uh…”

“He’s watching the basketball game,” I said, just as another moan could be heard. “And his team isn’t doing that well.” (Big lie there! It sounded as if his team was doing
very
well.)

“Dance party!” Scarlet announced, leaping over to my computer. She tapped the touch pad, and a second later Macklemore began to rap. Scarlet cranked up the volume and began to boogie. “Come on, Lucy! Shake it.”

My girlfriend was brilliant.

But my sister just stood there for a second, looking confused. So Corey got into the swing of things, circling her hips. She swatted Hartley on the arm, too. Watching the three of them, Lucy began to move, shaking her skinny body and bouncing her arms.

Then we were
all
dancing, drinks in hand, on a Wednesday night in December. Macklemore segued into Skrillex and then into Avicii. I watched Scarlet shake out her silky hair. She caught me ogling her and winked. Hartley took his girlfriend’s hand while they danced, to help her balance. Lucy climbed up on the window seat to better see the action. It was silly and glorious. The last few months had made me feel old and defeated. But just then, I felt young again.

Young, and surprisingly happy.

THREE MONTHS LATER

“She had not known the weight until she felt the freedom.”

— The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne

Chapter Twenty One:
Division is Hard

—
Scarlet

“I forgot nine times seven!” Lucy yelled from her bedroom.

Bridger’s hands were currently coated with ground meat, so he did not go into Lucy’s bedroom to help her. “What’s the rule of nines?” he called instead.

“Oh yeah…” came from the bedroom.

“Do you want me to help her?” I asked.

“She’ll get it,” he said. “I need you to paint some ketchup right here on top. I think I’m done with the gross part.” He held up the wooden spoon he’d been using to shove mashed potatoes into the center of the baking dish and began to laugh. “I feel like I just
violated
two and a half pounds of ground meat.”

His laughter was infectious, and my giggles made it difficult to smooth on the ketchup. “Remind me why anyone thought stuffing a meatloaf was a good idea?”

With a grin, he just shook his head, reaching for a paper towel. “I hope she appreciates it.”

“Do you mean Lucy, or your mom?” I asked quietly.

His green eyes looked sad. “Lucy, of course.”

“She will,” I promised.

“I know.” He kissed my cheek on the way to the sink, and I hefted the dish into the preheated oven.

Most nights, Bridger and Lucy ate in the Beaumont dining hall. And when I wasn’t eating with The Katies, or having rehearsal for the folk music group I’d joined, I often met them for dinner. But Lucy had been asking him to make their mother’s stuffed meatloaf, and tonight — a Sunday — he’d finally given in.

Unfortunately, we didn’t have their mother’s recipe. Bridger and Hartley had cleaned out the house before the bank sold it. He didn’t let me or Lucy help. “Not much to save,” he’d said of that sad task. He’d taken his father’s bureau, and a dresser for Lucy, which I’d painted pink one Saturday during Christmas break.

His mother’s meatloaf recipe would therefore remain lost. So I’d chosen one off the Internet. I’d doubled the garlic, though, just as my own mother would have done. It gave me a guilty stab to think about my mom all alone now in our house. She and I didn’t speak. But the more distance I’d put between last year and my new life, the more possible it seemed that I could eventually get past a few of our differences.

Eventually
.

I’d spent Christmas break here, with Bridger and Lucy. And I’d also spent a few days visiting Brian in Boston. “You don’t have to come, if you’re not ready,” he’d said when he invited me. “But you’ll always have a standing invitation.”

I went. It wasn’t an easy few days for us, but I was glad to have done it. My next visit would probably be easier. We spoke on the phone once a week, and had plans to see a classical guitar concert in Boston next month.

From the kitchen counter, Bridger’s phone chimed. “Someone’s messaging you,” I said.

“Tell me who it is?” he asked, his hands in the dishwater.

I picked it up. “Hartley. He wants to know where you’re eating because he needs to ask you something.”

After drying his hands, Bridger took the phone and rung Hartley. “I cooked tonight,” he said when his friend answered.

“
Who
cooked?” I prompted.

“Listen, lady,” he lifted his handsome chin in my direction. “It was me who was just up to my ears in raw hamburger.”

“Fair point.”

He went back to his call. “So if you want to see me, come over.” There was a pause. “Nothing. Just bring your pretty face. No rush. It won’t be ready for an hour.” He hung up.

“Did you see any of last night’s game?” I asked, stealing a crumb of Parmesan cheese off the cutting board where I’d grated it.

“I watched the whole thing this morning, as soon as the video was loaded,” Bridger confessed. He still had the team password, which gave him access to the game tapes. “It was awesome.”

I’d gone to the game in person with The Katies, watching the Harkness men’s team clinch their quarterfinal series against Cornell. Now they were off to the conference semifinals. “When Hartley made that goal through the five-hole, the place went nuts.”

“It’s just wild to see the team in first place.” Bridger took a head of broccoli out of the fridge and unwrapped it. “That’s never happened before.”

“Actually, it last happened in 1982.”

“Stickler,” he grinned. Then he rinsed the broccoli under the sink.

And it killed me. Bridger was rinsing a head of broccoli, while his hockey team was preparing to sweep the conference. He didn’t even appear frustrated. I didn’t know how he could stand it. Watching last night, I’d been bitten by the bug again. Every time Hartley’s team took possession of the puck, I’d wanted to run out and get my skates sharpened.

“Let me cut that up,” I said, nudging him away from the cutting board. “You open the wine.”

“Now we’re talking.”

Hartley came through the door forty-five minutes later, carrying a bag from the cupcake bakery on Bank Street.

“Whoa!” Lucy said, swooping in to relieve him of the bag. “Ooh!” she squealed. “The mini ones!”

“Hold up,” Bridger said, lifting it over her head. “Dinner first.”

“I just want to peek!”

He didn’t budge for a second. “Is your math done?”

She nodded, jumping for the bag.

“Even the division?”

“There wasn’t any today,” she said. “I hate division. It’s hard.”

Bridger chuckled. “Is it?” He lowered the cupcakes. “If we divided those evenly, how many do you get?”

Lucy slid the plastic clamshell out of the bag and eyed it for a second. “Three.”

“Good girl. Now what do you say to Hartley?”

“Thank you thank you thank you!” she said, skittering off to admire the tiny cupcakes in peace.

“Wine?” Bridger asked Hartley.

“Of course.”

Bridger poured it, and then went to check on the meat. “This looks great,” he said, reaching for the hot pads.

“Smells good,” Hartley agreed. “What did you make?”

Bridger chuckled. “You tell me.”

The kitchen area was tiny, so I traded places with Hartley. “You made a stuffed meatloaf? Seriously?” He laughed. “That reminds me so much of middle school. Dinner at your house, after a bantam game.”

“I know, right? Let’s eat it.”

We sat around the coffee table, because the tiny cafe table where Lucy and Bridger usually ate together wasn’t big enough for four. With our knees tucked underneath the table, everybody tried a bite.

“Wow,” Hartley said. “This is so much better than…” Bridger gave him a warning look. “…I remembered,” he finished.

“No,” Lucy argued, chewing. “It’s just the same. Bridger made it
just
the same.”

“That’s what I meant,” Hartley said, forking up another chunk. “It’s exactly the same. The garlic is a nice touch.”

Bridger winked at me, and I smiled. In a weird way, Bridger’s mom and my mom had collaborated on this dish. The two women who’d caused the most trouble in our lives were here at the table, too. I filed that thought away to examine later.

Hartley helped himself to the broccoli, and then pointed his fork at Bridger. “I have an important question for you. But I guess it’s also a question for Scarlet.”

I met Bridger’s eyes, but he gave a little shrug, letting me know that he had no idea what this was about.

“Did you hear about Mike Graham’s concussion?”

Bridger winced. “That looked bad on the tape. But when Orsen came into the coffee shop, he told me Graham was going to be okay.”

“He will be,” Hartley said. “But he’s out for the rest of the season.”

“That sucks. He was your second best enforcer.”

“I’m shorthanded, Bridge. I want you to come to practice tomorrow.”

Bridger’s fork halted halfway to his mouth.

“I know you have obligations. But there are just two conference finals. And then four NCAA championship games. Six games in five weeks. And that’s only if we made it all the way.”

“Which you
will
,” I piped up. “Bridger, tell him yes!” I shouldn’t have spoken up like the pushy girlfriend that I was. But
God
. How many times in your life do you get a chance like that?

“Not sure how that would work,” Bridger dodged. “We’ll talk about this later.” He ate his bite of food and looked away.

I knew he was right — we couldn’t get into the nitty gritty details of Bridger’s family obligations with Lucy sitting right there. But I could see his wheels turning across the table from me.

Do it
, I begged silently.

“I haven’t been on skates for a year, dude,” he said while Hartley washed the dishes.

“It’s like riding a bike,” Hartley insisted, handing him a rinsed plate.

“Okay. But I haven’t been to the varsity weight room more than five times this season. And that’s
not
like riding a bike.”

“I don’t care,” Hartley argued. “We’re going to end up dressing a couple of walk-ons. I’d rather have you.”

“Mike is a defenseman.”

Hartley just shrugged. “You might have to play D. Or someone else might have to. Coach will figure it out.”

Bridger shook his head. “There are so many problems with this scenario.”

“No there aren’t!” I hissed, checking over my shoulder to see if Lucy was listening. But she was flipping channels on the TV. “I’ll cover you, Bridge. Lucy’s been asking me to teach her to play the guitar.”

“Practice can go pretty late,” Bridger argued. “That’s a lot of guitar.”

“Six games, tops,” Hartley said. “Three is more likely. My mom can help out if it goes into the end of the month. She’s got spring break.”