Page 77 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
I frown. “She said it was when she came up to visit for Thanksgiving last year. Apparently, she was going to give it to me and then decided to sell it instead. He said he sold it to Oliver Ruiz. And since you said earlier that you’re named after your grandfather on your mom’s side, I have to think you’re the only one local.”
“I did buy a bracelet like that,” he says.
I open my mouth, but he keeps going.
“I gave it to my mother for her fiftieth birthday.”
I don’t… I don’t know what to do with that.
My expression must be a mixture of shock and hurt, but I can’t seem to wrestle my feelings back under control. While my mother has been rather frivolous with our family history, only managing to hold on to that piece because I was in love with it and the history attached to it, I crave it.
I need to know everything about where I came from in order to figure out myself. Right? That’s how it works. Because otherwise, I have no idea who I am.
“Sydney,” he whispers. “I’m?—”
I shake my head. “I can’t talk about this anymore.”
I sip the cocoa. It’s spiced with flavors I’ve never tasted in it before, but it’s good. It seems to warm me from the inside out, and for once, that’s not an effect of alcohol.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes.”
His expression falls. “Finish it and I’ll take you home.”
twenty-two
oliver
We ride back to her brownstone building. She seemed to feel a little better after the hot cocoa—my abuelita’s recipe, which she always made for us to cheer us up. But now, as I sit on the bike with the extra helmet in my lap, I have the strangest urge to follow her.
“Sydney,” I call.
She stops mid-step, but she doesn’t turn around.
“What’s the quote?”
“‘It’s better to have loved and lost than never loved at all.’”
My heart skips.
After a second, she continues up the steps. She pulls keys from her pocket and unlocks the front door. Even with her stuff still in Penn’s car, which is pretty lucky. I wait until the light turns on in her third-floor apartment. Only then do I rev the engine loud enough for her to hear. Like some fucked-up goodbye.
I speed toward my family home on the other side of the lake. It’s late, but they won’t mind. Abue lives with my parents and two younger siblings, both of whom are still in high school.
My brother plays soccer, while my baby sister is a master at the violin.
As soon as I enter the familiar neighborhood, my homesickness kicks up in full gear. I flip the kickstand down and hang my helmet on the handle of my bike, then head up the worn concrete walkway.
“I’m home,” I call out.
The first to greet me is the damn dog. She jumps on me, her tongue flicking out to lap at my face. I lean down to accommodate her, rubbing her silky brown fur. Abue comes around the corner next, her expression warm… if not a little concerned.
Her greeting to Sydney wasn’t exactly what I expected either.
“Twice in one day,” she observes. “I hope things aren’t serious with that girl, Gabriel, because rage is an ugly emotion for one to display so young. You look skinny. Let me fix you a plate.”
I shake my head and follow her deeper into the house. My mom shrieks when she sees me, jumping from the table where her and my father play cards every night, without fail.