Changes

“Thank you so much for doing this!” I exclaimed as I hopped into his large SUV and threw my bags into his backseat, “I know that the airport is the last place you want to spend your off-day.”

Jon dropped into the driver’s seat and simply waved off my praise, “It’s fine, Allie. I wasn’t doing much today, anyway.”

When I had first called him in the airport, I expected him to hang up on me or merely ignore my calls. But instead, he’d answered with a cheery tone, made a quip about Buffalo’s dullness, and agreed to meet me at the curb. I had tried to limit the surprise in my voice, but I couldn’t. It had been hours since our encounter at the airport and Pat hadn’t even told his best friend about what had transpired. It made me question the sincerity of his claims. Pat didn’t necessarily like talking about his personal life or issues. But all of those closest to him knew that when it involved girls or love, Pat was like an open book—tracking down friends for advice and filling up voicemail boxes.

The fact that he hadn’t done this—resorted to his frantic advice-search—meant one of two things. Either he already had a game plan for his next move, or he really didn’t care. And I strongly hoped for the former.

The click of the SUV’s engine snapped me out of my whirling thoughts—which I silently thanked him for, because my thoughts were headed in a poor direction. “Still,” I insisted, “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

He shrugged and let out a chuckle, “Pat would’ve killed me if I didn’t help you out, anyway.” I hummed indifferently and willed the corners of my mouth to stay upward, as more negative thoughts clouded my mind.

At the moment, Pat couldn't care less if I was stranded at the airport or had to pay a hefty taxi fare. He was probably out with the guys, throwing back countless beers and plucking underdressed girls from the crowd. Pat had claimed that his bed had been puck-bunny-free all summer; but now that I had rejected him and left him standing in the airport, I was sure that'd change pretty quickly. I could picture it perfectly: Pat and the guys stuffed in one booth, each with a girl tucked underneath their arms and too many beers sloshing in their stomachs. As soon as his tolerance for alcohol started dwindling, he'd whisper some compliment against her skin and then, invite her back to his house.

I quickly shook the thought from my head and cringed, letting out a long sigh and running a hand through my hair. As soon as I turned my head towards him, his dark eyes were locked on mine, raking slowly across my face. An itchy heat climbed up the back of my neck and sprouted onto my cheeks. I couldn't handle his heavy stare, eventually turning towards the window again.

Unfortunately, a few moments later, he recaptured my attention; his deep voice breaking the silence that had settled between us. “Shit, Al,” he huffed, “Just tell me what happened.”

My gaze flickered back towards Jon, registering the determined look in his eyes; and then, to the crowds of people lined up along the curb. Jon was demanding a lot from me. Telling him what had happened would require plenty of time, energy, and emotional stability. And the people surrounding us were merely giving me more anxiety.

I focused my gaze back on Jon, “First, let’s head home.”

He nodded and faced away from me, pulling away from the curb and merging into the speeding traffic.

Within 15 minutes, we were pulling up to Jon's apartment building. He maneuvered the car into his designated spot and quickly slipped out of the door, snatching my bag from the backseat before I could even unbuckle.

“Hey!” I squealed, fumbling with the seatbelt and door-handle simultaneously, “I can carry my own bag!” I spilt out of the door and immediately started jogging to catch up with his long strides.

“I know,” he replied simply, sending me a chaste glance over his shoulder, “I just don’t want you to run away from me.”

I huffed loudly and threw my hands into the air frustrated, before catching up and falling into stride with him. He switched my bag into his other hand—the one furthest from me—and sent me a teasing smile. I rolled my eyes at him and continued to march into the building, “You’re annoying.”

“I try.”

In silence, we boarded the elevator and rode up to his floor. While I was trying to piece together the entire story in coherent thoughts, Jon was probably trying to figure out what had happened—making up insane scenarios in his mind. His face was contorted slightly as he thought hard, his gaze set on the metal doors before us. I kept my eyes trained on my feet, inspecting the pedicure I had gotten recently.

When we finally arrived at his floor, he strode towards a large door at the end of the hallway, fumbled with his keys for a moment, and finally pushed it open with his shoulder. He walked into the front foyer and placed my suitcase into the nearby coat closet. I stepped in behind him and kicked my flip-flops into the corner, next to his array of different running sneakers.

“Make yourself at home. Living room’s on the left,” he instructed me, before scampering into the adjacent kitchen. The clang of opening and closing cabinets echoed through the otherwise silent apartment, before he called out again, “Want anything to drink?”

“Vodka,” I answered, wandering into the room left of the foyer. The living room was spacious—with a large sectional positioned in center, facing a sleek flat-screen, and an overstuffed recliner pushed into a corner. The furthest wall was decorated with several frames, each holding different variations of the same jersey adorned with his last name in large, white lettering. From each collar, the corresponding medal was hung. However, the last frame differed from the rest, occupied by a single picture of Jon. He was clad in his white Blackhawks jersey, with the Stanley Cup held over his head in triumph. Thick arms were wrapped around his torso, and led my eyes to the face of his line-mate and best friend. Pat’s face was overcome by an ecstatic smile; his dimples prominent on the apples of his cheeks; his blue irises trained on the photographer and appearing brighter than ever.

“Great picture, eh?” Jon walked into the room, tearing my attention away from the picture. He tossed me a water bottle with a teasing smirk.

I momentarily pouted at the bottle, before taking a seat on the couch. I twisted off the cap and gulped down nearly half of it. After placing it on the coffee table before me, I placed my hands in my lap and turned towards Jon, who had taken a seat on the opposite end. “I’m ready,” I stated, “Ask away.”

He was silent for a moment, choosing his first question wisely. “What happened?”

I rolled my eyes at his broad question, “Way to be specific, Jon.”

He mimicked my eye-roll and playfully threw a pillow at me, “Come on, Barnes. Just start at the beginning.”

I let out a frustrated sigh and prepared myself for the monologue I was ready to spew out. Once I started, I would have to finish. Not only for my listener, but also for myself. Hearing the entire story would help me understand it better and hopefully feel better about my decisions.

“Here, goes nothing,” I muttered before launching into the story—starting from the moment I landed in Chicago at the beginning of the summer to the moment, just hours before, I left Pat standing in the airport alone.

And finally, at the end, I looked up to meet Jon’s gaze. Expecting a disappointed glare, I was surprised to find his eyes soft and full of pity. I shook my head and opened my mouth to tell him to quit it; but instead, a large sob sounded from the back of my throat. I understood why he pitied me, why his dark eyes were sad.

Because in an attempt to do the right thing, I had completely destroyed the only right thing that I had left.

♢♢♢♢

Suddenly, I was jolted awake by the obnoxious vibration of my phone, indicating that someone was calling me. I immediately sat up from my sprawled out position on the couch and swiped my phone off of the coffee table, glancing at the illuminated screen. Pat’s name appeared across the top. My eyes widened and I quickly glanced at the opposite end of the couch.

Allie was curled up into a ball, her knees brought up to her chest and her arms wrapped around herself. My gaze flickered between her and the screen, as the memory of what she had told me flooded my thoughts. A feeling of guilt washed over me. I felt that I was betraying her by talking to him. But I needed both sides of the story before I could formulate any type of opinion on the situation.

Cursing myself for being in the middle of them, I jumped over the back of the couch and slid across the hall, into the kitchen.

“Hello?” I answered, moving further into the room and taking at seat at the island.

A sigh sounded over the line, “Hey.”

“Hey,” I greeted him cautiously, “Is everything okay?”

“No,” he sighed again, “But that’s not the reason why I’m calling.” I winced. I was used to Pat coming to me with his problems, practically begging me for answers and advice. But not this time. My silence urged him to continue, “Allie’s flight landed a few hours ago, and I just want to make sure she’s okay. Can you check up on her for me?”

An image of her sleeping form on my couch seeped into my thoughts, “Yeah. I can do that.”

“Thanks,” he murmured, before falling silent again.

It enveloped us for a few moments, an eerie silence that was extremely rare in our friendship. Pat always had something to say, something to poke fun at, something to boast about. But he stayed quiet, the only sound being his soft breaths and sighs.

It lasted for minutes, until it finally became unbearable. “Anything else?” I prompted, my voice sounding strange in the eerie silence.

“No,” he answered quickly, “I have to go.” With murmured goodbye, he promptly clicked off and left me staring at my phone in defeat.

After a few moments of staring at the darkened screen, it illuminated again with a new notification.

Patrick Kane (6:34 PM): Cup Day party tomorrow… I’ll let you know how it goes

♢♢♢♢

A loud, obnoxious bang sounded throughout the silent halls of my house; and another one quickly followed. Groaning, I stuffed my face deep into my nearest pillow, in an attempt to block out the unwanted noise. However, the bangs only grew more thunderous and close together, following quickly one after another. I fumbled with another near pillow and pressed it onto the back of my neck. But the bangs still cracked against my ears, ringing throughout my bedroom. Whoever stood on the other side of my door was relentless—and completely ignorant to my dire need for a couple more hours of my bed.

After a few more moments of consistent banging, I threw my pillows angrily at the wall and swung my legs off my bed. Without allowing my sore eyes time to adjust to the morning brightness, I pushed myself up and stormed towards the front door. My feet slapped against the wooden floors of the hallway; my boxers were messily twisted around my hips; my unruly curls stuck up in every which way; and my bare torso was cold in the morning breeze. But as I kept my eyes trained on the white wood of my front door, none of this mattered. Placing a hand on the doorknob and flicking the lock, I quickly ripped open the door.

"God dammit, Pat," Erica huffed frustrated, "That took long enough."

My jaw tensed and my eyes narrowed, "It's seven in the morning, Er."

She pushed past me, kicked her shoes into the corner, and strode further into the house—indicating that she was going to stay for a while and that I wouldn't be returning to my bed any time soon. "It's also your Cup Day," she called over her shoulder, "And the Stanley Cup will be arriving any minute."

I closed the door softly and followed her into the kitchen. She floated around the room easily, starting a fresh pot of coffee and digging out any edible food from my refrigerator. I slipped into a bar stool and rested my head against the cool countertop for a few minutes, before finally lifting it in her direction.

"Where's everyone else?" I questioned, my voice raspy with exhaustion.

"You've got five minutes," she supplied easily, "But I can stall and get you ten."

I thanked her quietly and slipped off the stool, retreating towards my bedroom slowly. Once my door closed behind me, I shed my boxers and padded towards the shower, starting it and turning the dial all the way. The scalding water burned my skin, prickling against my shoulders and slowly regaining my attention from the plague of thoughts that had consumed it during the night.

Though I had just answered Erica’s obnoxious knocks like I had just been awaken from a peaceful slumber, I hadn’t. I had spent the entire night tossing and turning in my sheets—unable to get the feeling of Allie’s lips off my own and unable to close my eyes without seeing her bright blue ones, staring up at me as I proclaimed my “love” for her. Sleep was out of the question; it was never going to come. So, for eight hours, I lay sprawled across my pile of sheets, inhaling the lingering scent of Allie’s skin and allowing my thoughts to slowly eat away at my sanity.

Obviously, I needed to call someone—anyone—for some advice. It wouldn’t necessarily help in the long run, but it would’ve allowed me to calm my thoughts enough for a few hours of undisturbed sleep. But I didn’t have anyone to call. Everyone was going to react in the same way: disappointment. They all thought that Allie and I would complete our cliché love story; and they’d all be disappointed when we didn’t. Everyone would give me the same advice. To keep my head up, not give up. I’d gotten enough of that crap from a witness at the airport.

“They all run,” he’d stood up and clapped me on the back, “But the ones that really love you, turn around. She’ll come back.”

I had rolled my eyes at him and huffed loudly, “She always runs. She never comes back.”

After that, I’d stomped out of the airport to my idling car. Ignoring the yells of annoyed taxi drivers, I’d slammed my door shut and sat for another thirty minutes. I stared at the steering wheel, a numb sensation crawling up from my toes and beginning to engulf my entire body. My heart pulsed in my ears; my jagged breathing the only audible sound between each thunderous thump.

My burning skin brought me out of my thoughts again. I quickly twisted the dial and shut off the water, stepping out into the steamy bathroom. I wrapped a fluffy towel around my waist and stood in front of the mirror, wiping away the condensation with my palm. The skin on my arms and shoulders radiated, a glaring red overcoming my usual pale skin. Dark bags shaded the underside of my eye-socket and my lids drooped across my irises.

Stepping into my bedroom, I heard loud chatter in the kitchen, along with the clang of pots and pans. The corners of my mouth turned up slightly—the evidence of my first smile in the past day. If anyone could, my sisters would cheer me up immediately.

I changed into a pair of clean cargo shorts and a plain, black t-shirt, before making my way towards the loud cackles of my family.

Walking into the kitchen, I was immediately wrapped into two pairs of arms, belonging to my two youngest sisters.

“Patty!” they shrieked in my ear, rambling on about someone that they saw recently or about how one of their friends wanted them to pass on congratulations. After a few minutes, their talking ceased and they both peered up at me.

“Isn’t Allie supposed to be here?” Jackie questioned, looking around—as if Allie was sitting quietly in the other room or was jokingly hiding behind a corner. I wish, I thought.

Erica’s stare burned into the side of my head. “She left yesterday,” I pouted childishly, attempting to hide my quivering voice, “Work related.” My sisters both nodded before untangling themselves from me, which I used as an opportunity to change topics and greet my parents.

After milling about the house for a while, the Stanley Cup and Conn Smythe finally arrived—along with their own staff of camera crew, directors, and PR agents. The rest of my day was spent following directions from nameless organizational persons, posing in an hour-long photo op, dashing from venue to venue, and reciting a few gracious speeches. All while, keeping a forced smile spread across my lips.

When we finally arrived back at my house, the only thing I wanted to do was retreat to my room, shed my clothes, and dive into my comforter. But obviously, everyone else had different plans—as evidenced by the large, white tent and countless crazed party-planners in my backyard. I was merely instructed to change into a suit and return in under 30 minutes.

♢♢♢♢

As the last stragglers of the party finally departed, the clock on my phone indicated that it was almost 1 o’clock in the morning. Everyone had come, shared their congratulatory words, partied, and left. I welcomed everyone with a bright smile and an opportunity to take a picture with the Stanley Cup. A warm, summer breeze kept the evening cool, even as the dance floor started heating up. Liquor was passed around in bottles—the open bar being fully taken advantage of—and champagne flutes were handed out consistently by high-class waiters. Everyone was satisfied and happy, including myself, but I still caught myself searching for that familiar flash of tan skin and light brown locks.

It didn’t help that each person questioned her absence. They were so accustomed to seeing her by my side or tucked underneath my arm with a bright smile, that it was odd to see me alone with merely a liquor glass clutched in my hand. They all had to cock their heads slightly and ask. “Where’s that sweet girl Allie?” I cringed nearly every time, until the numb feeling started to overcome me again. “She’s always near you somewhere.”

Fuck off. I wanted to say it, and I almost did. But I didn’t. I merely grabbed another full glass of the nearest liquor. And allowed them to peer around for a moment longer before they finally realized that no, the pretty girl that I usually had around wasn’t in attendance. She wasn’t here.

I groaned and checked my phone again—just in time to watch the numbers flicker to 1:00. Sighing, I swirled the liquor in my glass. Time was my enemy. Despite my earlier desires, I didn’t want to retreat to my bedroom. Sleep would never come. I’d merely stare at my ceiling and allow my thoughts to consume me, until the sun streamed through my windows again.

I didn’t want to go back inside. Erica was the sole guest left and awaiting me in the kitchen, claiming that I needed help cleaning. I rolled my eyes as I looked around me. Dirty glasses were stacked in each corner, garbage cans were overflowing with dirty plates and food, and spilt liquor dribbled from tabletops to the floor. Good job, sis. I didn’t want to talk to her about what happened; I didn’t want to talk to anyone.

I stared into my glass and took sips slowly, the burning liquid settling in my stomach. Suddenly, I heard the harsh sound of heels against the wooden floors, my eyes floating up to meet Erica’s.

“Fine, don’t come inside,” she huffed angrily, “I’ll come to you.” She stomped over to my perch on a table and climbed up next to me, snatching the glass out of my hand. When I reached for it, she tossed the rest of the liquid down her throat and slid the glass away from us. “Alright, now, I’m ready.”

I merely glared at her. She widened her eyes in response, “C’mon, Pat!”

“What do you want from me?” I groaned.

“Just tell me what happened,” she prompted, “Why did she really leave?”

I murmured some words to myself, before shaking my head, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

She rolled her eyes at me, “Seriously, Pat?” She slid off from the table and stomped back inside, the kitchen door sliding shut loudly behind her. I rolled my eyes and snatched up the bottle of Grey Goose beside me, pouring another two fingers into my glass. She’d yell at me tomorrow morning—or even before she left my house. But I didn’t really care. I needed a few minutes of peace, in order to prepare myself for another horrendous, sleepless night.

Suddenly, the kitchen door slid open again and I groaned internally. Before she left, she was coming back to yell at me, to try and get me to talk about what happened.

Instead of putting up with it, I quickly slid off the table and started towards the back of the tent. It opened up on the shore, the dark water glimmering from the moonlight and crashing against the stony bank. As I started to kick off my shoes, I heard the dreaded sound of heels again. She was seriously following me and—

“Hey!”

The sound of the familiar voice cut through the warm, summer air effortlessly—cracking against my ears and causing me to whip my head around.

My eyes immediately connected with her signature light blue ones. A breath of a gasp escaped my lips as my eyes widened, scanning down her figure. She stood in the middle of the dance floor, rocking back and forth on her wedges. She wore a white sundress with an cinched waist, perfectly accentuating her delicious curves. The white contrasted greatly with her tan skin; and a deep v-neck plunged into the channel between her breasts, exposing a vast expanse of her smooth skin. My tongue automatically reached out and wet my crackled lips.

“You can’t run,” she spoke up again, “That’s my job.”

My lips spread upwards. But my feet remained firmly planted where they were.

“I’m sorry, Pat,” she sighed, “I really am.”

I merely nodded, unable to voice any of the thoughts whirling through my mind. “I shouldn’t have left,” she continued, “But I came back. I always run, Pat, but I never come back. That’s how I know that what happened was real. What happened was supposed to happen. And I’m sorry that I didn’t listen to you. You said it first, but I didn’t listen. I was scared. But I’m not anymore. I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?” I heard my voice speak up, faltering slightly.

“Ready to give us a chance,” her pink lips spread into a smile, “Because I think I could love you, too.”

I let loose a large grin and placed my glass onto a nearby table, “Then, what are you waiting for?”

Without missing a beat, Allie kicked off her heels and ran towards me. As she neared me, I opened up my arms wide and she let out a musical laugh that floated above the sound of the waves. And before I knew it, she launched herself into my arms, wrapping her toned legs around my waist and winding her arms around my shoulders.

“I love you,” I whispered into her hair, pressing a firm kiss against her head, “Always will.”