Pucked Over (Pucked 3)

“Lily!” My mom grabs my bag out of my hand before I can heave it at the random guy in the kitchen.

“What the hell?” I turn to her, gesturing wildly between them. I realize it’s the same guy from last time—the one who caught me coming out of the shower while sporting morning wood. Shit. My mom’s got a new boyfriend. I wonder how long this one will last.

“This is Tim. He’s a friend of mine.”

“Why are you in your underwear?” I’m still yelling. I feel like my heart is about to slam right out of my chest. It’s then that I realize my mom is wearing her bathrobe. I bet she’s naked under there. Gross.

I’m too old to deal with this. I don’t need to know who my mom’s boning. If Sunny wasn’t talking about moving to Chicago, I’d say we should get an apartment now. I don’t want to be stuck here, witnessing my mom getting more action than I am. I have enough saved up to front first and last month’s rent. I can do it on my own if I have to. My mom’s talking while I’m thinking through a plan to move.

“I didn’t think you’d be home until tomorrow.”

“I told you I was coming back today. It’s on the calendar.” I point to the adorable kittens rolling around in a flowerbed. In red are the days I’m away. Today is marked with a big H for home.

“I must have gotten the dates wrong.”

“Whatever. I’m wiped. I’m going to bed. Nice to meet you, Tom.”

“It’s Tim,” my mom says.

“Night, Tim. Please wear pants in the future.”

“Uhhh…”

I don’t wait for actual words. I take my bag from my mom and carry it to my room. If this turns out to be more than half a dozen dates, I’m going to have to consider my options. I can’t go through another one of my mother’s boyfriend cycles. The guys she picks make Benji look like a damn saint.

***

Over the next week I don’t hear from Randy at all. I’d like to say I don’t perseverate on this, but I do. And I masturbate often to his pretty face. It’s not hard to pull up a pic of him on social media. I creep his Facebook page, but asking him to be friends would take us from casual to something else. We don’t want to do that, so creeping is as far as I’m allowing it to go.

September rolls into October, and the leaves turn a lovely shade of red, followed by orange and yellow. Fall’s an interesting season. It’s beautiful, but all those lovely colors represent leaves choking to death. It’s kind of macabre, really.

I slip back into my normal routine: work at the coffee shop, teach skating lessons, hang out with Sunny when I’m not doing either of those things and she’s available. Now that training is over and the regular hockey season has begun, Miller can’t visit as often.

She’s talking more and more about moving at the end of December, after she’s finished the course component of her public relations program. Internship placements can be done anywhere, and she’s already gone to the program coordinator to discuss options in the States. I don’t know that I’d want to up and move my entire life for another person, but then my relationship experience has been limited.

On the ex-boyfriend front, Benji’s started calling again. I’ve come to recognize the pattern. The longest we’ve ever been broken up in the past is eight weeks—long enough for me to go on some dates; sometimes have meaningless sex I feel guilty about afterwards, and then we get back together. Break up again. Make up again.

I try hard not to respond or encourage him, but I have a box of his crap at my place, and he’s got stuff of mine, including my favorite jeans. Seeing him is inevitable. Benji and I have been through a lot together. It was a lot of years, and he was there when I lost my Olympic dream. In the past that’s been enough to pull me back to him after one of our breakup fights. But not this time. Among other things, now that I’ve had much, much better sex—like, the outstanding kind—my position feels less vulnerable. Still, I’d like to avoid him for as long as I can.

Today I’m pulling eight hours at the coffee shop and rushing to the rink to teach three hours of lessons. I’m on hour number six, and there’s a lag between customers. It makes the day seem that much longer. My feet hurt, and I’m tired. I’m also cranky.

My phone buzzes against my ass, signaling a text. Since I’m sometimes the manager, I won’t get in trouble for checking it, but I try to avoid doing that in front of other employees in case it gives them the impression it’s okay for them to do it, too.