The brakes of the old SUV squeak as the tires stop rolling. A definite downside of living in a damp climate—everything rusts.
“You’re sure this is the right place?” my dad asks, turning off the car. He leans over the center compartment to peer at the exterior of the brown house critically, his tone dubious.
“Anthony,” my mom chides, hitting his arm lightly.
“I was just checking.” My dad tugs the keys out of the ignition, then spins them around one finger. “It looks a little…old.”
“It has character,” my mom says, ever the optimist to my dad’s crusty pessimism.
She glances over her shoulder, winking conspiratorially at me crammed in the backseat with all my boxes of belongings.
My chest constricts like it’s being squeezed by a rubber band as I smile back at her.
This is a moment I should have shared with my parents two and a half years ago. Instead, I was selfish and stubborn, insisting that Boston University was my dream school despite being thousands of miles away from home and lacking the free tuition Holt offers to its employees’ children.
All they could afford was one plane ticket. My mom helped me pack; my dad drove me to the airport. They never got to see my dorm room in person, much less helped me move into campus housing. Only visited Boston once, during sophomore year, and it was an uncomfortable visit thanks to my ex.
But this is a new year and a new semester.
A fresh start, and I’m trying to leave all my regrets in the past.
“This is it,” I say. What little of the exterior I can see through the piled boxes on the seat next to me matches the photos online.
Aside from the fact that those were taken in summer, on a rare sunny day. Today is damp, gray, and cold.
But the house is not a dorm filled with underclassmen, thankfully.
And despite the two askew shutters on windows facing the road, unfortunate choice of paint color, and the overgrown bushes on either side of the front door, it doesn’t look that bad.
I was lucky to find this place advertised on a student forum. It’s a four bedroom of all juniors, one of whom is going abroad for the spring. I’m taking her room.
Setting aside my apprehension about living with three strangers, it’s significantly better than living at home with my parents or in a dorm. Plus, it’s only a couple of blocks from campus. A huge bonus since I don’t have a car.
I climb out of the backseat of my parents’ car, tugging the zipper of my down jacket a couple of inches higher so it rubs against the underside of my chin and blocks more of the January wind.
I grab my backpack out of the footwell and heft it over one shoulder, then lift a box out of the backseat before heading toward the front door. Balancing the heavy box while hitting the doorbell with my elbow is a challenge, but I manage.
A smiling girl with light-brown hair cut into a bob answers the door. Since I stalked all my future roommates on social media over winter break, I recognize her instantly. Chloe Ellis.
“Hi! You must be Rylan. I’m Chloe.”
I nod and smile, relaxing some as I register her friendly expression. She seemed sweet when we texted back and forth about the available room, but in person always feels different.
“I am. Nice to meet you, Chloe.”
Chloe steps aside, beckoning me inside the warm house.
“Dakota and Malia aren’t home right now, but you’ll meet them later,” she tells me. “Do you need help carrying anything in?”
“I think we’re good, thanks.” I glance over my shoulder as my mom and dad step into the house, each carrying a box. “These are my parents, Miriam and Anthony. Mom, Dad, this is Chloe, one of my roommates.”
“So nice to meet you, Chloe,” my mom says warmly.
“Hello,” is my dad’s gruff greeting. He immediately goes back to studying the house carefully.
Unfortunately, I favor my father’s more reserved personality. Whenever I try to emulate my mom’s openness, I feel fake.
“Your room is this way!” Chloe spins and heads deeper into the house.
I follow, glancing around as I walk. The first floor is open concept, a kitchen with an attached living room to the left and dining room that’s been repurposed into more lounge space to the right.
Everything is clean and neat, which will make my mom happy. And nothing looks in a state of disrepair, which should reassure my dad some.
Rather than start up the stairs, Chloe walks down the hallway to the right of them. I follow her, take another right, and end up in my new bedroom.
The wooden floor creaks as I cross the threshold.
Cream, bare walls. A double bed pushed against one wall, a desk and a dresser against the other. There’s a closet, which I wasn’t expecting. And two windows, one facing the backyard and the other the hedge that separates this lot from the neighbors.
To my surprise, I love it.
Even empty, it feels much homier than anywhere else I’ve lived since moving out of my parents’ at age eighteen. I can picture myself living here.
“The bathroom is at the end of the hall,” Chloe tells me. “You’ll share with Dakota. Malia and I are upstairs. Both of those bedrooms have their own bathrooms.” Her expression turns apologetic. “Dakota and Emily drew the short straws in August.”
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “I’m used to sharing a bathroom with more than one person, so that sounds luxurious.”
Chloe’s expression becomes even more animated, which I didn’t think was possible. “I want to hear all about what London was like. I’ve never been out of the country and would love to—”
“Oh, honey. This is perfect!” My mom appears in the doorway, beaming around the small room as she stacks a box on the dresser. My dad is right behind her, looking cautious but less concerned than when we first arrived.
“I’ll let you get settled,” Chloe says. “I’ll be upstairs, so just holler if you need anything.”
“Great, thank you,” I tell her.
“I’m going to grab another load from the car,” my dad says, shuffling back out of the room after Chloe.
My mom opens the box she carried in and starts pulling items out. “Go help your dad. I’ll start unpacking.”
I agree easily. I’d never tell her, but I spent last semester living out of my suitcase. My dorm room in Boston never looked that settled either. And I didn’t unpack anything except the essentials staying at my parents’ over break, knowing I was about to move here. Having all my stuff settled—for me—sounds wonderful.
I walk back down the hallway, heading for the front door. I pause when I hear a bang from the kitchen. Chloe said she was heading upstairs, so maybe one of my other roommates is home?
Nope, it’s my father squatting in front of the sink.
“Dad!” I hiss. “What are you doing?”
He startles and stands, a guilty expression on his face. “Checking to make sure there was a fire extinguisher in the kitchen,” he tells me. “Lots of landlords don’t bother following the code and rely on the tenants, even if they’re college students.”
“Is there one?” I ask, because that’s easier than focusing on the lump in my throat.
My dad fussing over the house, my mom arranging my room.
The anxiety I’ve been carrying around, dreading the start of this semester, is slowly being replaced by relief. I’m proud of myself for leaving Boston, for finally admitting I wasn’t happy there. I’m tired of the guilt I’ve felt about choosing Boston in the first place. And a little grateful for it, right now, knowing it’s making me appreciate my parents that much more.
“Yes,” he answers.
“Good.” Straightforwardness has always been my dad and I’s love language. He wouldn’t know what to do with a sappy thank you any more than I’d know how to deliver one. He coaches hockey players and only smiles on special occasions.
According to my mom’s doctor, I was supposed to be a boy, which is how I ended up with my unique name, a variation on the family name they planned to give me. And I might not have been the son my dad was expecting, but we’ve always shared a special relationship.
One I didn’t realize how much I missed until I returned home.
It was easier, when I was thousands of miles away, to put emotional distance between me and my parents in my attempt at total independence.
“Do you need to check the plumbing and the fuse box too, or can we finish unloading the car?” I tease.
My dad chuckles as he bends down to close the cabinet beneath the sink. “When did you get grown-up enough to know what a fuse box is?”
“You should be asking who taught me what a fuse box is, and the answer would be you. Just like we went over how to change a tire and drive stick shift.”
Another gruff laugh. Then, to my surprise, he tells me, “I’m proud of you, Rylan. I know transferring will be an adjustment.”
I force a smile in response, trying to ignore the way the knot in my stomach tightens. I’m glad I transferred, but it doesn’t make starting over at a new school suck any less. “It will be fine. I grew up in Somerville, remember?”
“Of course I do, honey. But that’s different than going to college here. I want to make sure you’re—”
“I’m excited, Dad. It will be great.”
A hopeful statement I’ve repeated to myself so often, it almost sounds genuine now.
He nods, but I’m not sure he believes me. “I set something up…something I need a favor from you to make happen.”
I raise one eyebrow, thoroughly confused. The last favor my dad asked of me was to lift the wipers on the car last week when it was predicted we’d get snow. And he didn’t look nearly this serious then. “Okay…what did you set up?”
“One of my players—”
I groan. “Dad…”
My only interest in hockey is the polite kind I’ve feigned for my father. I sit through watching games with him because I know it makes him happy. But those are professional athletes playing. Hockey involving guys I’ll never meet, not peers.
Wanting to avoid the uncomfortable dynamic of being the coach’s daughter factored into my decision not to enroll here as a freshman, if I’m being honest. And so, of course, I’m starting at Holt while interest in the hockey team is at an all-time high. When I went to the campus bookstore yesterday to pick up my textbooks, two girls were there buying Holt Hockey sweatshirts.
I’m happy for my dad. He deserves the attention and recognition for turning around what’s been a historically terrible team.
I’m less than thrilled for me.
But if Holt is anything like my last school was, there’s not much overlap between interest in mathematics and sports. I’m hoping most of my new classmates won’t care that my dad coaches the hockey team. If I get really lucky, maybe they won’t even know Holt has one.
My dad scratches his chin, his expression a mixture of sheepish and stern. “One of my centers failed Statistics last semester. He needs to pass that class to graduate. I talked the professor into a retake after the season ends, which keeps him eligible to play as long as he follows through on the prep. He’s smart, just unmotivated. And doesn’t take a damn thing seriously. I needed a tutor who won’t take any bullshit.” The brown eyes I inherited warm. “You can handle Phillips.”
“Dad, I haven’t even started my own classes here yet. I’m not sure I can—”
He nods. “I know, I know. But it’s only for one hour a week. The university has a tutoring program you’ll get paid through. And…” He rubs his chin again. “I might be old, but I’m not senile yet. Despite my best efforts, I’m aware my boys attend—if not host—most of the parties on campus. I know you don’t study every hour of every day. It might be good for you to branch out and meet some new people. Phillips, in particular, is a real social butterfly, from what I hear behind the bench. Boys think I’m deaf.”
I snort, then sigh.
This is undeniably a low point, having my dad worried enough about my social life that he’s recruiting his players to help me make friends here.
Uncomfortable proof that he and my mom are more concerned than they’ve acted since I returned to Somerville. I was sparing in the details I shared about the break-up with Walker last year. There wasn’t much to say and even less that wasn’t shameful. Walker was simply the last strand holding me in Boston. And as soon as it was snipped, I realized it was a string I should have cut a lot sooner. At least he had the decency to cheat on me before the transfer deadline.
Looking back at the first two years of college, I don’t have much to show for it. I got good grades at an excellent school. I dated a guy who turned out to be a waste of time. Convinced myself his friends were mine, until they promptly deserted me after we broke up. London wasn’t the special experience I was hoping for, either. More like moving my melancholy to a new city. The closest friend I made was another American student, Jess, and I’ve only talked to her once since leaving Colorado. She invited me to visit her family’s place after the holidays.
I left Somerville at eighteen thinking I needed to, to grow. Now I think that maybe the location doesn’t matter as much as my willingness to explore.
My dad is still waiting for an answer, and I’m not sure what to tell him. He’s trying to help me, and I want to help him. It’s the least I can do, after how understanding he and my mom have been about me reversing my stubborn decision and transferring.
But…my plan was to steer as clear from the hockey team as possible. Avoid being labeled as the coach’s daughter and whatever stigma comes with it. Committing to tutoring a player will make that impossible.
“I can’t be the only math major at this school, Dad. There must be someone else who can help.”
His expression falls a little bit, lines of worry webbing out from the corners of his eyes. “I wouldn’t be bothering you with this if I didn’t think you were the best option, honey.”
I study my dad more closely. Most people would miss the hint of desperation threading through the words; I don’t. I can read my dad better than most. Maybe because we’re similar in so many ways.
And I realize this is about more than me making friends or earning some money.
“What year is he?” I ask.
“He’s a senior.”
“And a center?”
“Yes.”
My dad’s hockey career ended after a college injury. He took a job coaching at Holt when I was five as a way to stay close to the sport that was his first love. I saw the disappointment on his face at the end of each hockey season until I turned eighteen. He’s chased a championship for sixteen years. This season is his best chance of getting one. The team has only lost one game—a feat that’s basically unheard of in college hockey and that’s receiving a lot of attention even at the Division III level.
What my dad isn’t saying? He thinks he needs this player to win.
And he doesn’t ask for empty favors. My dad supported me leaving Washington to attend what I thought was my dream school. Whatever small part I can play in his dream of getting a trophy, it’s the least I can do.
“Statistics?” I ask. I got an A in Stats freshman year.
“Yes. And one hour a week. That’s it.”
“Okay,” I agree.
“Thank you, honey.”
My mom appears, her forehead creased with confusion as she looks at us standing in the kitchen. “What are you two doing in here?” she asks. “Isn’t there still a bunch of stuff to carry in from the car?”
“Working on it,” my dad and I say at the same time.
He glances at me. Winks.
There’s a flicker of warmth in my chest, appearing like the strike of a match lighting. It feels good to be in sync with my dad, to know I’m helping him.
But I spend the next ten loads trying to forget what I just agreed to.
