Crack In The Ice - Chapter 33: Chapter 33

After a while, Owen says he needs to go home. I take his cue and we leave together.
When we get to our street, I hesitate in front of my doorstep. Owen tells me his offer still stands, but I decline.
I'm surprised to see Elliott on the couch when I open the door.
"You're home," I say.
Elliott silences the TV with the press of a button. "Yeah. Took the day off."
"Right."
"Did you eat yet? I was thinking about making some dinner."
"Mh. I need a shower."
"Right," he says. "I can get started on the food while you do that."
I nod, before slipping away.
I take my time in the shower. I know I'm doing it on purpose. Stalling. I can hear Elliott moving around in the kitchen when I come out of the bathroom. I get dressed quickly, then scroll through my phone for a few minutes until I start to feel stupid hiding away in my bedroom like a kid.
When I come into the kitchen, Elliott is taking a steaming casserole out of the oven.
"Smells nice."
He smiles. "Thanks. It's Scarlet's recipe. Chicken and veggies casserole. Thought it might be good with your diet during the season. Though I don't really know what kind of diet you're on."
I look around the room. "She around?"
Elliott frowns. "Scarlet? No, she's at her parents'."
"Mh."
"Set the table while it cools a bit?" He asks.
"Sure."
He hands me clean plates and cutlery from the washing machine and we set the table for two in silence. When we're done, he brings the caserole to the center and we sit across from each other without a word.
"It's good," I say after swallowing my first bite.
"Thanks." Elliott gives me a small smile. "Heard Dean's turning into a bit of a chef."
"Yeah. He kind of developed a new talent. Gets experimental and everything sometimes."
"In a good way or a bad way?"
I smile. "Good, usually."
Elliott smiles too, nodding.
"Maybe..." I clear my throat. "Maybe you should come over some time. So he can show you."
My brother looks at me.
It's been five years and he never came to my new place. Nor Calgary in general, for that matter. Five years, and neither of us even mentioned it.
"Yeah?" Elliott says.
"Yeah." I shrug. "Dean really likes showing off his cooking. He goes out of his way to learn people's favorite dishes and deserts."
"So he bakes too?"
"I guess."
"Scarlet says she can cook any dish you like, but deserts are a different skill."
"Wouldn't know, honestly," I say. "Suck at both."
"Me too."
"This is really good though," I point my fork at my plate.
Elliott chuckles. "This and breakfast are the only things I can make."
I smile. "You always did manage to make your pancakes turn out like mom's."
Elliott stops moving for a second, almost like a glitch.
That's when it hits me that this is the first time I've mentioned our parents in casual conversation in front of him. Since they died.
That thought leaves a strange taste in the back of my mouth.
We've been so estranged that Elliott hasn't even had the chance to witness my progress in therapy. The last conversation we had about this was a cry for help from my part. With absolutely no follow-up since.
We're both really good at giving each other space. We're just not so good at breaching that space every once in a while.
Finally, his lips twitch with a tentative smile. "I can try to teach you the trick if you want. Some day."
There's a pang in my chest, but it doesn't suffocate me like it would have a few years ago. It's not the sharp pain of a knife scraping a new wound, more like the ghost pains of a healing scar.
I can even smile at him and mean it. "I think I'd like that."
That seems to make him happy.
We eat together. There are moments of silence, each less awkward than the one before, all more bearable than they once were. We talk too, through two more servings each. It's mostly light conversation. Elliott manages to mention Scarlet at least three more times. When we're done, he says he doesn't have any desert and I promise it's fine.
He stands with his empty plate in hand, heading for the kitchen counter.
"Can I-"
He stops and looks at me.
I lower my gaze down to the table and feel Elliott slowly sitting back down.
"Can I talk to you?"
"Yeah," he says. "About what?"
"I just." I purse my lips. "I need to tell you something."
I glance up to see him school his features into a carefully neutral expression.
"Well, actually. I don't need to. But I think I want to. I think... I wanted to tell you for a while, but... We don't really..."
Elliott nods, slowly.
His face remains calm and neutral, but it doesn't look natural. It's a trained expression. A tense sort of calm.
I remember how Olie barely even blinked after I told her. How Dean quickly swept any worries after a stretch of gut-wrenching tension. How Owen already knew, for years.
Looking at Elliott, I feel the familiar dizziness, the coil in my stomach. But I also know Owen and Olie are home, just next door. I am welcome there. I now in a week I'll be back home in Calgary, with Dean, who knows and doesn't care.
I'm fine.
I'll be fine either way.
"I'm gay."
Elliott looks like he's been zapped.
"Did you-" He clears his throat. "Did you just say you're gay?"
I frown. "Yes. I'm gay."
Elliott stands up again and takes his dirty plate to the sink.
He turns around, leaning against the kitchen counter. "Are you serious right now?"
I don't know what to say. Mostly because I'm not sure exactly what he's asking.
Elliott runs a hand through his hair a little too roughly. "Jesus Christ, Eli," he breathes. "Learn to set the fucking mood."
"What."
His eyes widen. "The last time you sat me down and told me you needed to talk to me was to tell me you were depressed and needed to see someone. You have any idea what went through my head when you told me you wanted to talk just now? After five years of barely hearing from each other?"
My lips part, but I have nothing to say so I close them again.
"Shit, man, I thought you were going to tell me you've been suicidal or something. But gay?" His throat releases a breathy sound of half-relief, half-indignation. "Gay's fine, Eli. Jesus Christ, you scared the loving shit out of me."
"Sorry, I- That wasn't my intention."
I try to play this scene out through Elliott's prespective. The last real conversation we had was about my mental health. We had some moments after, but then I moved and we haven't exactly been acing the communication thing. We don't really know what's going on in each other's lives.
He knows I have a therapist, but we don't ever discuss how that's going. And I didn't even know he had a girlfriend until I heard it from someone else.
"I just thought dinner was going fine, so... it might be a good time," I say. "I didn't really know how to tell you."
Elliott looks at me through the hand currently rubbing down his face. Slowly, he walks to sit back across from me.
"Can I ask how long you've known?"
I shrug. "Always, I guess."
That seems to surprise him.
"I know we don't really..." He breathes in slowly. "I'm sorry if I ever made it hard for you to tell me. In any way."
"No. I mean..."
I plan on telling him what I told Dean. What I told everyone, even myself.
It was mostly me. I was the one holding myself from saying it. I was the one who convinced myself I had reason to be scared.
Instead of saying that, though, something else comes out.
"There were jokes and stuff, but nothing I never heard in the locker room before."
Elliott nods and his complete lack of a defensive reaction makes me realize that yeah, it was mostly me, but it didn't come from nowhere.
My fears didn't exist in a vacuum. They built on years of 'jokes and stuff', in and out of the locker room. Off-handed comments, innuendo-infused language, and sports-linked expectations. And maybe yeah, it was mostly me, but it wasn't exactly unfounded.
I just told my brother and he said it's okay, but the mere thought of coming out to my team, my agency, people in town, the world - that gives me a stomach ache.
Now that I have told my best friends, one by one, and all three assured me in their own ways that it changes nothing, it's strange to remember a time when the thought of telling them made me feel like I would pass out. But I still feel like my life might end if everyone else knows. All the guys I once shared a locker room, and the girls I've talked to back in high school, and the teachers who told me how far they hoped I'd go.
It's like there's a line separating life before people knew and life after, and I can never see the other side from behind that line.
"It wasn't really you specifically," I say.
"You don't have to explain. Like you said, we're not really... We haven't been exactly each other's go-to person."
"Yeah. I guess not."
"We should probably... I mean, maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to make a better effort to... Like, talk," he says.
I nod.
Elliott looks at me. "Is there... Is there anything else on your mind?"
I shake my head, looking down at the table. But I can still feel his eyes on me.
"I just..." I'm surprised by the sound of my own voice. It's not as steady as I'd like it to be. "I never really planned on telling anyone. Ever."
When I glance up, Elliott is nodding.
"At least not until I was done with hockey," I continue. "Like, for good. Done and retired. Completely."
Elliott frowns, but doesn't interrupt.
"And I guess... I've sort of realized... I'll never..." I gulp. "I'll never get to tell them. Mom and dad."
Elliott presses his lips together, still silent.
"It's like... They died before they could know... everything. Like they never knew a whole part of me. And now they never will."
Elliott's throat moves, tense, looking like the words are stuck there and he's struggling a bit to get them out. For a moment, I think he might actually not.
"Mom and dad loved you, Eli," he almost whispers. "They were so proud of you. Nothing could change that."
I sniff. "You can't really know that, can you? And neither can I."
When I feel a single hot tear roll down my face, I turn away a bit to wipe it away.
"I do know," he says. "I know because it was obvious. And you need to know that too."
"Dad-"
"-was so fucking proud of you," he immediately cuts in after my voice cracks. "He said it almost every day. Who you are wouldn't have changed that."
I sniff, wiping away more uninvited tears.
"Jesus," Elliott breathes, his voice sounding a little shaky too. "I can't say it would be perfect. It never was when they were with us, it probably wouldn't be if they had stayed with us. But they loved us both."
When I turn to look at him properly, his eyes look shiny and red around the rim.
I bite my lip. "I know they did, but-" I sniff, "-they didn't know. So they didn't really know me."
"Eli," he says it almost like a little plea. "They loved you because you're... driven, and smart, and focused. They also loved you when you were an annoying little shit, or a moody teenage dumbass. Being gay wouldn't have changed any of that."
He lets out a long breath, wiping his own eyes. "I get it. I do. Before they died, I was a compeltely different person. I think about it all the time. What they would think of the way my life turned out. How I turned out.
"And you're right. We'll never really know. Which sucks. But what we need to know is that they were always there for us when they were here. Even when they were mad or disappointed. And we need to trust that's how it would always be."
I let him hold my gaze in his, chewing on my bottom lip.
"Five years ago you said you weren't good at this guardian shit," I say.
Elliott frowns. Then nods.
I shrug. "I don't think I ever really gave you much of a chance to try. But for what it's worth. I think you're doing all right."
He looks surprised. In an unguarded way I'm not used to.
"I know it must have sucked for you," I say. "Just. You know. In the spirit of making a better effort to talk more."
"Right." He nods. "Well. In the spirit of making a better effort, then. I also had something I wanted to tell you."
I wait.
Elliott's left hand rubs his right arm near the shoulder and it occurs to me he looks nervous.
"I know you didn't get a chance to get to know her much, but." He reaches into his jeans pocket to fish out a small, velvety black, square box which he sets on the table between us.
It takes me a moment to process.
"You're proposing to Scarlet," I say. It's not a question, but a statement.
Elliott nods.
"You really like her."
"I love her," he says. The way he says it makes something jump in my chest. It's calm, almost casual. Like he's as sure of it as he is about the fact the sun sets on the west. Like both those things are just as natural.
"She's been..." He smiles. "I feel like I can really talk to her about everything. She's amazing. But... I was hoping you two could get to know each other more before I asked."
I nod, feeling a familiar sensation crawl up my spine. It's not quite shame, but very much like it. I feel like a bit of an idiot. While we've been avoiding each other, my brother has been making plans to propose to a woman I have not made a single effort to get to know.
It downs on me that Scarlet, the bartender, will probably become Scarlet, the sister-in-law. Eventually. Probably soon.
It also becomes clear why Elliott said he understood what I was saying. My parents never met Scarlet. And they never will, just like they'll never know me in full. Because they'll never know either of us in full. That's the tragedy of losing our parents so young. They won't be here to see the people we become.
The only family either of us has to approve of partners is each other. Which makes my reaction right now even more important.
"If she makes you happy you should go for it," I say.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Elliott smiles. It's strange. It's not one of the open, careless grins of the Elliott I knew before our parents died. It's still a genuine smile, but it's more hard-earned. And it contrasts somewhat with the red wetness on his eyes.
I clear my throat. "Would you... Would you like to come watch the All-Star game? With Scarlet, I mean."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. Dean and I aren't staying for long, so. If work isn't a problem, I mean."
"We'll be there."
"Good."
He smiles again and I return it.
"Should probably finish clearing the table," I say.
He lets out a breathy laugh. "Probably."
"I got it if you want."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Gonna take a shower then," he says, standing up.
I pick up my empty plate and take it to the sink, along with the glasses and cutlery. Just as I'm rolling my sleeves back, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
It's Owen.
The texting bubble pops up, disappears, then shows up again before his reply comes.