I head off toward the old barn at the farthest end of the property, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my coat to fight off the November chill.
Too brokenhearted and hurt to appreciate the awesome views of the mountains and frost-covered lake in the distance, I keep my head down and trudge onward.
Ever since Summer left, my head’s been full of nothing but her, and my stomach has been twisted up in so many knots, I can barely eat. Even my mom’s homemade lasagna, which has always been a favorite of mine, has held no appeal.
Summer made me feel things I have no use for feeling. Made me desire things I never thought I’d want. A wife. A little house of my own overlooking the valley. Kids. Maybe a dog someday. Something with a wagging tail and floppy ears that we would laugh at.
But I can’t let myself think about Summer right now. Just the very thought of her affects me, causing a stir of deep longing to pulse through my veins. There’s work to be done this morning, and I’m not ready to face all that I’ve lost at such an early hour.
I need more coffee for that. Or maybe one of those strong cocktails called a mind-eraser, despite it being barely eight in the morning.
When I reach the old barn where we store equipment, I let myself inside and am greeted by the familiar smell of diesel fuel and leather.
It’ll be a busy day today, and first on the agenda is changing the oil on the snowblower. I’m grateful for the mindless work. Something to do with my hands will be good.
I haven’t seen Graham yet this morning. He started his workday early, so it’s not like I’ve been flat-out avoiding him. Although after he texted me last night saying we should talk, I was too stunned to reply. Graham isn’t the talk-it-out type, so whatever is on his mind is sure to be serious. And I don’t think I can handle anything else serious right now.
After locating a pair of vise-grip pliers, I get to work removing the thumbscrew. I’m not very far into my task when the heavy barn doors open, and in with a gust of wind comes Graham.
“There you are.” He frowns, coming closer.
“You found me. I’m taking care of Big Bertha.”
He nods, his frown fading. It’s the nickname we affectionately gave our snowblower. She’s a beast, one of the last things Dad bought for the property before he passed. We all love this snowblower.
Once the screw is almost free, I set an empty paint can beneath the machine to let the old oil drain into, then remove the screw all the way.
“You wanted to talk?” I nod to Graham, who’s still watching me, obviously with something on his mind.
My brothers haven’t said much since Summer took off. Maybe it’s a guy thing. They didn’t want to pry. My mother and grandfather had no such qualms, though. They both questioned me repeatedly about what I’d done. They both assumed I’d somehow screwed things up with her.
If they only knew the truth. I asked Summer to marry me that last day. But even that wasn’t enough to get her to stay. The pain of her rejection still stings deep inside.
Graham takes a seat on an empty stool beside me. “You need to go home, Logan.”
I roll my eyes. “This is home.”
“Not for you, it isn’t. Not anymore.”
I watch the last of the oil drain into the paint can, and then pull out the dipstick to be sure the reservoir is good and empty.
“You’ve got a shot most people would kill for. You can’t fuck that up. This will always be your home, but not right now. You’ve got what, five, maybe ten good years to play hockey?”
I replace the dipstick and tighten the thumbscrew. “Yeah, I guess.” An average NHL contract is five years.
“Exactly. Then that’s what you need to be doing.” Graham’s tone leaves no room for negotiation.
Silence settles around us as I grab a quart of motor oil and twist off the top, then begin slowly pouring it into the machine.
“Unless you’re telling me you don’t like playing hockey anymore, and you’d rather hang around here listening to me bark out orders all day?”
I shrug. “Never said I don’t like hockey.”
“That’s what I thought. And I doubt you want to spend your time reroofing the barn or harvesting the garden?”
“It’s honest work.”
“It is. But does the idea of listening to me bitch about the cost of new fermentation tanks appeal to you?
I chuckle. “Not exactly.”
“Then go back to Boston. Your team needs you.”
I consider his words. “And what about you guys?”
“We’ll manage. Just like we always do.”
With the oil topped off, I wipe my hands and turn to face Graham. “You really want me gone that badly?”
He scoffs. “Of course not. I want what’s best for you.”
There’s a sincerity to his words.
“And when you retire, move back here, if you like. Build yourself a nice house on that ten acres on the other side of the river.” He points his chin in the direction of the acreage I’ve had my eye on.
I nod. “That might be nice.”
Graham agrees. “It would. It’s a prime spot. Far enough away from Mom and Al to be private, but not so far that you can’t easily swing by for a homecooked meal.”
He has a point. But thinking about my future . . . about a future without Summer by my side? It’s not something I can let myself do right now.
“One other thing,” Graham says, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. “When you get back to Boston, stop with the fighting. That’s not what Dad would want either.”
I hang my head. “Okay.”
Graham clutches my shoulder and gives it a good hard squeeze. “We’re all proud of you, kid. You know that, right?”
“Thanks.” I break into a smile because sometimes it’s just nice to hear those words. Lately, I’ve felt like everything I touch turns to shit.
A warm feeling rushes through me. The other thing that’s surprising is the fact that these encouraging words are leaving Graham’s mouth.
“Damn, dude, I didn’t think you had it in you.” I grin at him.
“Had what?”
“The patriarch thing. Giving advice. Filling in for Dad. Those are the most words I’ve heard you string together . . . ever.”
He chuckles. “Well, who the hell knows? Maybe I’m rising to the occasion. Maybe we all will.”
That’s a nice thought.
“What about Mom? How’s she doing?” I ask, knowing she confides in Graham more than she does the rest of us.
He pauses to consider his response. “She has good days and bad days, just like anyone else. But she’ll be okay. We all will. One day at a time, right?”
“I guess so.”
I toss the empty motor oil container in the trash can and fire up the snowblower to make sure it starts. After letting it run for a minute, I shut her off.
“Should we head back?” I ask.
Graham doesn’t seem to be in any hurry. “There’s one other thing. What happened with you and Summer?”
I inhale sharply at the mention of her name. The dull ache in my chest gives a painful kick. “Not talking about that.”
The wounds are still too fresh. It hurts too much. And I doubt that her rejection of my proposal will ever stop stinging.