Unloved: A Novel (The Undone)

The phone ringing sounds as intensely loud as an opposing team’s goal horn at an away game, but I’m filled with more nerves than a hockey game has ever given me.

Archer answers on the first ring.

“Hey,” he drawls, a door slamming in the background. “It if isn’t my favorite kid. How are you?”

An instant calm washes over me, water bathing a too-dry beach.

If it isn’t my favorite kid.

But his words blend, old voices and new. The memory blares through me like electric shock.

Me at nine years old. A private rink practice with an NHL coach.

Saturdays after early skate are my favorites—especially when Coach Ace comes to pick me up, because it means I get extra practice time with him. But today is harder, because my dad is supposed to spend the rest of the weekend with me.

The rest, because he didn’t show up Friday like he was supposed to, again.

“I don’t think my dad likes me very much.”

The words spill out of me accidentally, shame and embarrassment coloring my cheeks. I didn’t mean to say that, but things always spill out when I talk to Coach Archer.

Archer frowns, and I feel like I shouldn’t have said it. But… maybe he should know. I’m not good at being a son.

When the other guys on my team asked me about my dad playing hockey with me, I almost told them about Archer. Sometimes in my head I pretend that Archer is my dad, especially before I go to sleep at night, imagining the picture in the kitchen with my mom and Archer and me, as if my dad didn’t exist.

Still, I blanch a little.

“Don’t tell my mom I said that,” I add, skating to the next puck he’s pushed out for me. “I don’t want her to think she’s doing a bad job.”

“Okay,” Archer says. “Just between us.”

He waits to speak again until I make my next shot, perfect up top, just barely under the bar.

“Great shot, Matty.” He pats my helmet before skating to face me and ducking his head so he can meet my eyes through the cage. Grabbing my shoulders, he says, “And for the record, I think you’re the best of all the kids.”

My eyes widen. “In the whole class?”

He shakes his head. “In the world. You’re my favorite kid in the whole world.”

I can’t help the smile on my face through the rest of our practice and dinner that night. One that Archer mimics, sitting beside my mom.

“Hey,” I say, swallowing down the immediate swell of emotions. “I’m okay—I just finished finals, actually.”

“Yeah? How is that going?”

“Good.” I nod like he can see me, then feel a little ridiculous and smack myself in the head. “I—it was hard, for a bit. But I got a great tutor and I passed. Like, more than just eligibility. I’m a B student now.”

“God, that’s great to hear, kid. I’m so proud of you.”

It warms my chest, healing something that’s been broken in me for far longer than I can remember.

“Yeah,” I sigh, feeling a twinge of nerves pinch at me. What else do I say? What does he want to talk about?

I must feel like a stranger to him now. So I pick the only topic I can, the one thing people like discussing with me.

“Hockey is great—we’re having a killer season. Rhys is back, which, I don’t know if you watch or keep up with us—”

“I always keep up with you, Matty.”

Rubbing at the slight pulse in my chest, I continue. “Well, then you know Rhys got hurt last Frozen Four. And now, actually, the guy that hit him? That Kane kid that was all over the news a few years back? He’s on our team—a defenseman on my line. By the way, I am first line now. I actually made my way there sophomore year.”

I’m rambling—I can hear it, but I can’t make myself stop. Even still, Archer never interrupts me.

Finally managing to trail off, I swallow loudly. “So… yeah. That’s about it.”

That’s about it? Have I ever had a conversation with a human before?

“That’s great, kid. The hockey has always been grand for you, but… What about you, Matty? How are you?”

“Good. I, um, passed my classes.” I definitely already said that. I clear my throat and try again. “I had this really great tutor—but she’s not my tutor anymore.”

“Oh?”

“Not because of anything bad, she… She’s my girlfriend now, actually. She’s—her name is Ro. Or, well, it’s Rosalie, but she goes by Ro. But she’s super smart. Kind of a genius, like Mom.”

My head sinks into my hand and I go silent, as if I just dropped a bomb on the conversation. A strange urge to hang up hits me, but I managed to hold on.

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice sounding as relieved as I feel.

Archer is the only person who knew my mom, who shares memories of her with me. Blocking him out of my life felt like the right thing when I was spiraling deeper into my grief, desperate not to pull the one person I cared about into the shitshow that was my brain.

But losing that connection, the place where I could talk about her when it eventually felt right, was more brutal than I anticipated.

The way Archer grieved my mom was how I imagined one would grieve the loss of their soulmate.

I remember being so confused and frustrated in the aftermath. The way my dad reappeared, suddenly concerned with my hockey career, or when I was going back to school—trying to pull me out entirely when he knew how much it meant to me and to her for me to graduate. My father never cared about her or me.

When Mom got sick, Archer quit his job and moved in with us. Spoon-fed her when she was too tired. And I’d been so blinded by my own grief and anger that I didn’t see it was because he was so in love with her. Devoted, and then distraught afterward.

I remember the night I found him doubled over in a panic attack because he couldn’t breathe through his sobs.

Had it been acceptable, I think he might’ve followed her. But he didn’t. And I’m realizing he didn’t because of me.

To take care of me. It shouldn’t matter that my dad’s never been a father to me because Archer is here. And he would’ve been my dad, if I’d let him.

“I miss you,” I blurt out, feeling relief just to say it. “Maybe we can… get lunch sometime? If you’re ever near Waterfell. Or even Boston.”

“Name the date and time, kid,” he says wistfully. His voice is just as deep and settling as it was when I was a kid. “I’ll be there.”

“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?”

“Yep,” I say. “I’m not sick, Rosalie. Just nervous.”

“I didn’t know you were afraid to fly.”

I’m not. I’m terrified of meeting your parents—officially, as your boyfriend. But I can’t tell her that, so I stay quiet.

Her slender hand rests across mine, stopping the incessant drumming of my fingers on the armrest. Ro intertwines our fingers and dog-ears the page she’s reading in one of her sexy romance books before checking the flight path on the screen that I’ve been diligently watching the entire time.

“Want to listen to a book with me?”

I perk up at that. “One of your sexy ones?”

“Whatever you want.” She tosses her phone onto my lap. “You pick.”

I decide on the one with the best cover, in my opinion, and Ro is already giggling as I start the first chapter.

By the fifth chapter, I’m flushing bright red.

I nearly jump three feet into the air when the flight attendant asks what I want to drink. Ro can barely stop giggling to order a ginger ale.

“Keep it up, Miss Poker Face While Listening to Sex Scenes on a Plane.”

“That’s a really long nickname,” she laughs.

“Just know, whatever the spiciest thing in this book is, that’s what I’m doing to you in your childhood bed when we get there.”

Her laughter dissipates almost immediately, skin flushing hot as she bites down on her bottom lip. The urge to kiss her is strong, but the urge to tease her is even stronger, so I manage to keep my distance.noveldrama

As we land, I discreetly try to wipe a few tears from my eyes, but Ro catches it easily.

“It’s an angsty one, I know,” she says, rubbing my back as I shove our headphones back into the bag. “The first time I read it, I cried buckets.”

“I didn’t know it was going to get so emotional. The cover is two hot people ripping each other’s clothes off.”

She laughs and nods. “They’re romance novels, not erotica. But I’m really happy you liked it.”

“I loved it, actually,” I say. “Make sure you pick a good one for our flight back.”

The Shariffs live in a modest, dark brown wood bungalow-style home near Solvang, which I’m realizing is a major tourist destination—especially for Christmas.

Our Uber drove us straight through the town, and I was in awe of the eclectic style and unique designs of the entire downtown strip. It must’ve shown all over my face how enthralled I was, since Ro leaned over and whispered, “I promise, we’ll come back and see it at night.”

Now, as we grab our bags from the trunk and send the rideshare off, the nerves catch up to me.

On the porch stands Ro’s mother, olive skin and dark curly hair cropped to her shoulders, dressed like a modern-day hippie. Beside her, in a wooden rocking chair, sits a man who I can only assume is her dad.

He’s a weathered man, a full head of gray hair and a darker beard. His body looks like he’s tall when he stands, and he might’ve been muscular at one point, but now he’s thin and frail. He smiles at Ro more slowly than her mother does, but seems no less enthusiastic to see his daughter.

I hang back, letting her greet them alone first.

“Mom,” she sighs, slumping into her tall, slender mother’s arms. They hug for a long, long moment, and her dad eyes me briefly.

Smiling like a loon, I keep my distance, sweating in the California sun.

“Hey, Dad.” She smiles, fluffing his hair lightly and bending down to hug him in his chair. Slowly, he wraps his arms around her in return, holding her tightly to him.

“Ro,” he croaks. “Who—?”

“I brought my boyfriend, actually.” Ro gestures for me to join her. “Mom, Dad—this is F—”

“Matt,” I say, cutting her off. “Nice to meet you both.”

Usually, it’s Freddy. I prefer that only Ro calls me Matt or Matty—with the exception of Archer. But I know how much easier Matt will be for her father to say. I want him to feel comfortable around me. I want him to like me.

And I haven’t had much luck with that in the father department.

“So nice to see you not on a screen, Matt,” Mrs. Shariff says, squeezing her husband’s shoulders. “Let’s go inside and eat. I’m sure you’re both starving.”

I grab our bags and dump them inside the foyer, out of the way, but quickly return where Ro and her mother are helping her dad out of his chair.

“I can walk,” he says, speech sluggish.

“Go ahead,” I say to my girlfriend and her mom. “I’ll help you in, Mr. Shariff.”

“Don’t need help,” Mr. Shariff grumbles while grabbing my arm and using my body like a crutch.

I was right, he’s tall, and grumpy—though that seems to be a trait he’s reserved for me.

“Where do you wanna go? Kitchen table or the couch?”

He doesn’t speak at first, just eyes me skeptically.

“Or I can dump you right back outside and let you start over.”

His hand grips me tighter and I think he’s angry at first, before I realize he’s… laughing. He’s laughing so hard he’s about to fall over, so I wrap my arm around his waist to steady him.

“Kitchen,” he says, smiling now as we walk slowly into the house together. I settle him in his seat of choice. Ro flutters around him and her mother like she can’t quite decide what to do.

“Ro said you play hockey?” her mother calls as she continues stirring a large pot on the stove.

“Didn’t say whether you’re any good,” her dad huffs, a glint in his eyes. Ro explained to me that sometimes he speaks easily, the words flowing. Other times he struggles to get a one-word response out.

“Yes, ma’am, I play hockey for our school. But I’m actually signed to play for Dallas after graduation, in the NHL.”

“Oh, that’s amazing,” Mrs. Shariff says, reaching for something behind Ro, who stops her and grabs the stack of bowls for her. “Your parents must be so proud.”

The ache that is permanently etched into my chest throbs a little. Ro walks around the table to stand at my back and squeeze my shoulders.

“Yeah. My mom passed a few years ago, but she was very proud of me.”

It comes easier now—a wave of grief—but there is something beautiful about allowing myself to speak so openly about her. About the loss of her.

Ro shifts the conversation away from me, for which I’m grateful. The reprieve is enough to settle me into their dinner routine, stomach growling as they set a bowl of curry in front of me and a smaller cup of rice.

We eat and laugh and talk across the dinner table, and then move to the back patio where we eat and laugh and talk some more. Ro’s mother tells stories of her in her youth. Her dad holds her hand, scratching her palm and fingers as she lays her head on his shoulder.

Watching Ro with her parents is eye-opening.

They baby her and she grumbles about it, but she softens under their attention. And she’s so fucking beautiful. I want to keep her here, comfortable, away from the shit at school and Tyler and my fucking past. I want her to be able to be like this. Always.