Our Secret Moments (Drayton Hills Series)

IT’S BEEN four days since my mind will never be the same again.

It’s been four days since I walked into the football locker room where almost fifty twenty-something year old men were sweaty and shirtless, singing and dancing to one of my favourite Taylor Swift songs.

It was as ridiculous as it was adorable.

I see those trends online all the time, but seeing it in person is another thing. When they all broke apart, realising that we’d been standing there, they all looked so vulnerable, as if they’ve had this mask on pretending they’re big and strong when really they’re just little boys.

I’ve known what the team is like. I knew that the second I walked in they’d use any chance to try to give me the ‘fuck me’ eyes and I ignored them. I stared straight ahead, trying not to make eye contact with anyone who was trying way too hard for my attention.

But when I looked down and saw Connor, my chest felt like it was on fire. He wasn’t doing what anyone else was doing. He wasn’t immediately in flexing mode. He just looked comfortable. Like that was his safe space with his friends. Insanely hot, but comfortable.

That was four days ago and I’m still getting flustered just thinking about it, despite being in the cold produce aisle in the supermarket.

Every Sunday, the girls and I do a weekly grocery shop as well as a walk. We get all the essentials we need and extra picnic snacks, bring them back to our dorm, pack our picnic and we go out again. Each week, when we can remember, we think of a new activity to do. This week we’re going to bring our favourite books as well as practising our crochet. It’s our little Sunday ritual and I love it.

Nora’s mom says it makes us look like little old people, but I couldn’t be happier in the middle of a supermarket while Elle and Nora check and then check the list again before picking up the right fruits.

“What are you looking for, Elle-Belle?” I ask as she stares at the refrigerated fruits, frowning with her arms crossed, basket in hand.

“You know those strawberries that my mom brings over sometimes?” I nod, knowing she is referring to Annie, one of her moms. She has a knack for picking up the best snacks. “I can’t find them anywhere.”

“Maybe it’s because you left your glasses at home, babe,” I say, tapping between her eyes and she laughs before sighing heavily. “It’s just strawberries. We can get some different ones.”

She sighs again. “I know. I just really wanted those ones, but I’m just a mess right now.” Nora appears by our side, eating some of the grapes we’re going to buy. We both give Elle a look, our eyes softening. We don’t have to say anything else before the words start to pour out of her. “I haven’t been home in a few weeks because I’ve got a recital coming up, but I don’t want my moms to come. I don’t think I’m ready for them to see me dance again.”

Even as one of the strongest and bravest people I know, Elle has a lot of difficulty with her confidence. No matter how many times Nora and I try to drill it into her that she’s amazing at everything she does — especially dancing — she’s finding it hard to believe she is as good as she was before the accident.

“You don’t have to tell them if you don’t want to,” Nora says around a mouthful. She swallows. “If I don’t think my show is going to be good, I tell my parents not to come. They end up showing up anyway, but that’s not the point. You don’t owe it to them, or anyone to be at your best all the time and if you don’t want them to see you at what you think is your lowest, then you don’t have to.”

Elle nods, chewing on her bottom lip. “Yeah,” she says quietly before gaining more strength in her voice. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m going to see how rehearsals are this week and make a decision.”

“That’s our girl,” I say, nudging her with my shoulder. “Now, let’s get all this back so we can go to the park for sunset.”

We somehow end up coming back to campus with four different grocery bags and one of them filled with books we got at the Little Free Library around the corner from the supermarket. We exchanged some of our books for some of theirs and now we’ve got a whole new set of books to talk about.

Walking through Estes Park in late September as the sun starts to set has to be one of my all time favourite feelings. We’ve each got a bag in hand, the sun casting a gentle glow on our faces as the purple-pink of the sky starts to set near the mountains.

It’s usually quiet around this time of year, so we don’t feel bad about taking a spot in a public park where the odd dog walker walks past as we set out our picnic blanket and food.

As soon as I’m about to take a picture of our spread — cheeses, grapes, mini subs, crackers and more cheese – my phone screen is engulfed with a picture of my dad.

My heartbeat immediately picks up, knowing that if he’s calling I have to answer immediately. I hate that our relationship has gotten to this – that I have to feel anxious every time he calls.

I excuse myself, walking further away until I get to a bench as I hear Elle and Nora bickering about moving spots so the lighting is better. I answer the phone and as always, I have to make the first move.

“Hi, dad. I’m glad you called,” I say into the phone, resting it against my ear as I look out to the frosted mountains where I spent most of my summers and winters as a kid. I wonder if my dad remembers the time he, mom, and I went for a hike and were fully convinced we saw James Marsden trekking down.

“Are you?” He just loves to make things difficult.

“Yeah…?” I say, my voice heavy with concern and uncertainty. “What’s up?”

My dad never calls unless there’s been a problem or he suddenly remembers he has a daughter who only lives an hour away from him. Mostly, I don’t mind. But seeing the relationship my friends have with their parents, I’m a little envious that my dad doesn’t call just because. He doesn’t call because he’s randomly thinking about me, or if he’s stumbled across one of my baby pictures.

“Checking how the semester is going,” he says simply. I hear him typing in the background. Of course he can’t take a few minutes out of his day to call his daughter with no distractions. Work always comes first.

It’s also coming towards the end of September, so I’ve been in school for over a month now, but he doesn’t know that apparently.

“It’s going okay. My grades are good and I’m alive, so I guess everything is great. How are—”

“Great,” he says, cutting me off. I take a deep breath, trying my best not to get upset or angry. “Well, I wanted to ask who is the person who is emailing me about attending a football game? You know I don’t do that.”

“Oh, it’s just Coach Mackenzie. You remember him, don’t you? He was asking me about it when—”

“Why were you talking to him? You’re not on the football team.”

Deep breaths are doing nothing for me right now.

“Well, if you could let me finish my sentence, maybe you’d understand,” I bite out. There is nothing but silence on the other end. It’s rare that I ever snap at my dad like that. “I’m writing the newspaper and blog for Titans Daily. The opportunity came up in class and no one wanted to go for it. I thought it would look good on my CV.”

I’m bending the truth a little, trying to make it seem like this is a choice. This is supposed to be a power move of some sorts. A new era. A new challenge.

“Well, there’s a reason no one wants to do it. Nobody cares about college football, Catherine.”

“That’s the thing. I’m going to change it up a little,’ I say, waiting for a snarky response, but I don’t get one. this is my chance. “I’ve planned out a few things and—”

”I’m sorry, Indira is calling me into a meeting. We’ll talk another time, darling. Love you.”

“I love—” The cell ends and the ache in my chest deepens. “I love you too,” I say to nobody.

I walk back over to the girls, painting on my best face as they lay down on the blanket staring up at the sky. When they see me, Nora leans up on her elbow, frowning at me.

“Why the long face?” She asks. I lift up my phone as an answer. “Papa Fables giving you a hard time?” I nod. “Jeez, what is it with parents today?”

I shrug, taking a seat next to them, pulling my crochet needles and wool from my bag, resting them in my lap. Elle sits up too, crossing her legs.

“He’s just busy,” I say, shrugging again and looking out onto the sunset as if it’s not a big deal. I don’t know why I’m still making excuses for him.

“It’s a Sunday afternoon. What could he possibly be busy with?” Nora asks, sounding more upset than I am. Sometimes I think she feels everybody else’s pain more than her own and she takes on that extra load. Maybe it’s an acting thing. I don’t know.

“Pilates?” Elle suggests and the tension in my body immediately starts to smooth out as I laugh at the idea of my dad doing any kind of yoga.

When Nora’s initial anger simmers down and she joins in on the laugh, I try to push all the negative feelings aside and just enjoy my time with the girls. As much as my dad can get under my skin, I’d be damned if I let him enjoy the things I love the most — my best friends, sunset, crocheting and books.

Sometimes, I feel like I need nothing more.