Pull Me Through

An envelope bearing a single piece of paper suddenly feels as if it weighs a ton. As if an unbearable burden -painful memories, lingering resentment and bitterness and mounds of self loathing- are all tied up and bundled together and now sitting in the palm of my hand. His hand writing...his words whatever they may be...all adding to the already enormous amount of regret and guilt that has been eating at me for five years. Immediately bringing back everything that I've been struggling so hard to get past. I'd thought I'd been making remarkable progress; head way in the on going battle against my demons. Finally managing to get past the once horrendously painful heart ache that he'd caused me and the hatred I'd felt towards him and myself for making the choices I had regarding Chace. Seeing my son...witnessing first hand the wonderful, loving home he has..had softened my often harsh and unwarranted opinions on myself for sending him away. Working with a therapist (and having such an attentive, patient and amazing husband that certainly doesn't deserve the things I put him through when I'm in one of my 'moods') had been the key to loving myself again and regaining at least some of my confidence. I had not only begun to 'forgive but not necessarily forget', but to love myself again. To allow myself to be happy with Max. To realize that I do deserve someone that adores me to the ends of the earth and will protect me at all costs.

“He obviously loves you,” my therapist had said, when I'd openly sobbed to her about how horrible I felt for doing what I did to Max. For not only failing to tell him the whole truth and nothing but when I'd had the chance, but for ever getting involved with Ryan's sick and twisted game in the first place. And for how I feared that my own husband would never, ever truly forgive me. That a small part of him would hate and be disgusted with me forever and that every time we got into a fight he'd throw my mistakes in my face. “If he didn't love...if he didn't really want to be with you...he wouldn't be. He wouldn't stick around. He wouldn’t have gotten the help you need and he wouldn't have gone to the trouble he did to get you the chance to meet your son. And never mind all that; he wouldn't have chased you down that day in the airport to stop you from leaving.”

The truth behind her reasonings had slapped me square across the face. And had only served to make my guilt and my self loathing even worse. When Max had picked me up after the appointment (ever his cheerful, playful self with that patented eye crinkling smile), all it had taken was for him to kiss me in greeting and ask how things went and I'd completely lost it. Blubbering about what a terrible person I was and how sorry I was and how I didn't understand how he could be with someone like me. That I didn't deserve someone like him. I didn't deserve to be loved at all. I should just be alone and miserable forever to repent for my sins. He hadn't even said a word. Which...if you know anything about Max...is extremely rare. He doesn't have many strong, silent moments. But that day in the car, he'd simply sat there with both of those strong, powerful arms wrapped around my trembling body and his face buried in my hair as I sobbed into his chest. He hadn't given a shit that everyone that passed by the car not only recognized him but actually stopped to either take pictures, gossip about what was going on or actually had the nerve to knock on the window to ask for autographs. He'd just ignored them entirely (or told the more pesky ones where to go and how to get there) and when I'd finally managed to compose myself, had held my face in his hands and cleared my tears (and my smudged, messy make up) off my face with the pads of his thumbs. His gaze steady and unwavering, those huge, intense brown eyes burrowing into my soul.

And then, as if nothing had ever happened, he'd pressed a tender kiss to my lips and then cheerfully declared, “I'm starving. Let's get some lunch!”

After that, we'd never spoken of my emotional meltdown. Or any others that have occurred afterwards. We'd made a pact to just take things one day at time. Let the healing happen gradually and to not force it. To not dwell on the past and just concentrate on the future. And we've been doing damn good holding up to those promises. We've been enjoying our 'honeymoon stage' and impending parenthood and we rarely talk about what happened in Vancouver. It's the city that brought us together and nearly tore us apart. And the less that gets said about what had happened and the less Ryan gets mentioned, the better.

And now...

“He just can't leave well enough alone, can he.” It's more of a statement than a question, and Chris gives a sheepish, apologetic smile. “I mean, who the fuck does he think he is? Does he really think he can just come along whenever he feels like it and insert himself into my life? The world and my life do not revolve around Ryan Kesler. No matter how much he thinks they do.”

“He doesn't know what it means to give up,” Chris reasons. “With anything. If there's something or someone he wants...”

“I don't know how many times he has to be told that he can't have everything he wants. Especially me. That in my case, no means exactly that. When I walked away from him in Vancouver, it was for good. I don't want anything to do with him. I'm trying to go on with my life. I'm married now and I'm having a baby and he needs to just accept that I'm part of his past. That I'll never be anything more. And that's all his doing.”

“He just wants to talk to you, Sam. He just has a few things that he needs to get off his chest and...”

“And why the hell are you doing?” I scold. “Why are you running errands for Ryan? Aren't you supposed to be Max's friend? His best friend, at that. He loves you like a brother and you go and do something like this? You know how he feels about Ryan. He'd flip his fucking shit if he knew that you gave me this. That Ryan even had the nerve to try and get in touch with me in the first place. Why would you do that to him? Why...?”

“You know how tight Max and I are. How much he means to me. I wouldn't do anything to hurt him. I was on your guys' sides, remember? When all the shit hit the fan? But I feel a little sorry for Kes, too. He's having some pretty hard times and some issues at home and...”

“All his own doing. His problems have nothing to do with me. I'm dealing with my own issues. I can't be worrying about his and I certainly can't be his goddamn therapist. So...” I hold the letter out to Chris. “...I think you need to take this back to Vancouver with you.”

“What harm is it going to do to just hear him out? He just wants to talk to you. He needs to get some things off his chest. Things he never got the chance to say before. And if you didn't want to ever talk to him again, you never should have given him false hopes. You never....”

“False hopes?” I frown “I never gave him any kind of hopes. False or otherwise. So...”

“He said something about an email you sent him. After you went to see Chace. Something about signing it 'love Sammie'.”

“Are you fucking serious?” I can't help but laugh. “He actually is holding onto that? I bet he even disregarded everything else I said. I bet he didn't even give a shit about Chace. If he'd given a shit, he would have come along and met him himself. But no...” I violently slap the envelope against my palm and then point it menacingly at Chris. “...he fucking sulked and pouted like a little bitch all because he didn't want Max involved. Because he refuses to realize that Max is my life, not him. Because he's a pigheaded bastard and he won't accept that I'm married now and I'm starting a family of my own. Which means there's no chance for him.”

“Look...I know you're pissed off at him and I know that Lappy wants nothing more than to rip him from limb to limb. Believe me, I totally understand why. But you weren't entirely innocent in the whole thing, you know. You played a pretty big part in the entire thing. You didn't have to go along with it. When Ryan approached you, you could have said no. It took the two of you to fuck things up pretty bad. Now it's real sweet and all that that Lappy seems to forgiven you and thinks the sun rises and sets on you....”

“Oh believe me, nothing is further from the truth. You don't know what goes on between us. We have our really awesome days and our really bad days. We're still working at getting over everything. But we're never going to get past what happened in Vancouver if Ryan won't let us. And you...helping him...” I smack him in the chest with the letter. “...when Max is supposed to be your best friend. You know he's going to flip the fuck out!”

“So don't tell him. It's only a fucking letter. It's not like Ryan's asking to meet you somewhere for a hook up or anything like that. He just wants to talk to you. And seeing as you changed all your phone numbers and email addresses and got rid of facebook and all that...”

“That should have been a big enough of a hint,” I grumble. “You think that would have told him to just leave well enough alone.”

“It's a letter, Sammie. Don't make a huge deal out of this. Just take the damn thing and read it and...”

*******

“What the hell's going on in here?” my dad's gruff voice brings an abrupt end to my conversation with Chris, and I snatch the gift bag off the counter just as he steps into the kitchen and closes the door behind him. He's large and intimidating; over six feet tall with massive arms and broad, strong shoulders and enormous hands and piercing grey eyes. And unfortunately, his bite is often much worse than his bite. “Lovers' quarrel?”

“Hardly...” I roll my eyes and frantically stuff the envelope in between the layers of tissue paper. “...Chris was just giving me a present that he bought the baby and a card signed by some of the guys and their wives. Telling me all about his summer and his new girlfriend.”

“You look like you've seen a ghost,” my dad points out, eyeing me skeptically. “You're all pale and sweaty. Shakin' like a leaf.”

“I'm sweaty because it's nearly a hundred degrees outside and even the air conditioning can't work wonders; nonna's had the oven on four hundred for the past couple of hours,” I explain, and use my hand to fan my flushed face. “And you know I feel like complete and utter shit seven days a week, twenty four hours a day.”

“You shake when your blood sugar is low,” he reminds me, and immediately heads for the fridge. “How many times do you have to be told that you need to take better care of yourself? Isn't Max on your ass all the time? Bitching and moaning about how you need to eat better? Practically shoving food down your throat? Telling you to get more rest?”

“He says one thing and does another. He tells me to sleep more and then his seemingly unquenchable need for sex just takes over. He's a maniac, daddy. A nymphomaniac.”

“I don't need to hear that shit,” he growls, and rummages through the contents of the refrigerator. “Bad enough knowledge of your sex life is staring me in the face every time I look at you. Think it's the most pleasant, heart warming thing in the world to see your baby girl pregnant?”

“You're just pissy you're going to to be a grandpa before you hit sixty,” I retort, and he glares at me over his shoulder.

“I'm just going to go outside now,” Chris suggests, and slowly and cautiously makes his way towards the patio door. “You remember what I said? About...?”

“About what?” my father inquires, as he emerges from the fridge with a pitcher of orange juice in one hand and one of my nonna's famous cannolis. “What did you say that she needs to remember?”

“Some of the guys are coming into town to surprise Max,” the lie rolls easily off my tongue. “Chris just wanted to give me a heads up when people start showing up on my doorstep next week. It's a surprise, daddy. So...” I place a finger to my lips. “...shhhh...”

“I'll 'shhh' you,” he grumbles, and uses his hip to close the fridge door.

Chris stares pointedly at the gift bag as it sits on the table. In return, I scowl at him, use an index finger to make a slitting motion across my throat and then nod towards the backyard. He gets the picture; yanking open the glass door and stepping out onto the deck.

“Eat this,” my father drops the cannoli in front of me on the counter and then snags a glass from the drainboard next to the sink and fills it to the brim with orange juice. “And drink this. I don't want to hear any lip from you, understand me?”

“Yes, sir!” I snap off a sarcastic salute, and he points at the island. “So are you and Max besties now?” I ask, as I slide onto one of the stools. “I see you two getting along out there.”

“He's a good kid with extremely good intentions when it comes to my baby girl. I may think he's a complete asshole when he's out on the ice...”

“That's because you're a closet Boston fan living in Leafs Nation,” I reason, and bite into the sweet Italian dessert. “And now you're in Montreal and you can't admit to liking the Bruins unless you want some of the Canadiens to whup your ass. Not to mention you're still sore over Alex Burrows biting Patrice Bergeron and Max's 'chomp my finger' trolling moment.”

“I wanted to strangle both of those little bastards with my bare hands. Your husband is a shit head on the ice. A first class shit head.”

“Tell me something I don't know. But I prefer the term 'agitator'. He loves to get a rise out of people. Lives for it. And he doesn't give a shit what anyone says about him.”

“Well regardless of how much I hate the hockey player side of him, off the ice he's a pretty decent kid. Just wants to do right by you. Take care of you and the baby. A father can't ask for more than that when it comes to his daughter. Someone that loves her to the ends of the earth and worships the ground she walks on and would defend her to the death. That's what you got there. A good, solid and dependable man. Can't say I'm too thrilled about how things started out or the fact you got pregnant and married so soon...”

“It's called a bridge, daddy. Build one. Get over it. It's done.”

“...but I don't have a problem with him being in the family. Helping give me grandkids.”

“Ryan helped make you a grandkid and you want to hang him up by the balls in the middle of town square,” I point out.

“Don't even compare the two,” he snarls. “Don't you even dare. There's no goddamn comparison. Max is a stand up guy. He's in love with you and wants to spend the rest of his life with you. Do good by you and the baby. Ryan....” he blows a puff of air out of his nose and shakes his head. “...don't you even get me started on him. You know what I think about someone like that? What kind of man he is? Taking advantage of a little girl and lying through his teeth and suckering her right in with his bullshit. Promising her the fucking moon and never following through. Tossing her out to the curb when she got pregnant and not taking care of his responsibilities. That kind of man is the...”

“...scum on the bottom of mankind's shoe,” we finish in unison.

“You and your little friend there better not have been talking about him. You better not have been cooking up some kind of plan. Better yet, he better not be getting any funny ideas about trying to get close to you again.”

“I want nothing to do with Ryan,” I assure him. “At all.”

“Does he want something to do with you?” my father stares at me pointedly. “Huh? Does he? Because if I find out that he's trying to cook some shit up to get close to you...”

“Ryan's as good as married and has a family. He's moved on, daddy. Just like I have.”

“Samantha...don't piss on my shoes and tell me it's raining. Don't...”

“It's the past. I want nothing to do with him and he wants nothing to do with me. Let it go, okay? It's time to just move on. For all of us to just get past all of this. It isn't going to do anyone any good living in the past. Trust me, dad. It's over. Long over. Ryan means nothing to me. And he never will ever again.”

“Good,” he gives a nod of satisfaction. “But if I ever catch wind of him trying to even contact you, I swear to God...” he playfully tousles my hair and then heads for the patio door. “...I'll fly to Vancouver and tear him apart with my bare hands.”

I wouldn't doubt it.