Chapter 5 Tonight I Skate

Charlotte

I walk home with the bags of actual groceries, biting into my fingers, and trudge through the snow toward the house. My arms ache, my toes are numb again, and the porch light is on, which is never a good sign. That means Dad’s awake. He’s sprawled on the couch with the television blaring, an empty bottle tipped on its side by his foot and another clenched loosely in his hand. His eyes flick to me the second I open the door. “Where have you been?” he snaps. I lift the bags, holding them up like proof. “I went into town to buy some things for dinner tonight and lunches for tomorrow. I thought you’d be hungry.” He snorts and slams the bottle down on the coffee table hard enough that it rattles. Beer sloshes over the rim, darkening the wood. “Yeah?” he says. “I was in town. Didn’t see you there.” Probably because the first and only stop you made was the pub, I keep that thought firmly inside my head. I shrug instead and step past him, careful not to let the bags bump into anything. “You must have just missed me. Are you hungry?” He grunts and turns back to the television, volume ticking up another notch. I take that for what it is—a win, as far as these things go.

The kitchen is cold and smells faintly sour. I set the bags down and start unloading, lining things up on the counter as I go. I was careful and strategic. I got dish soap and a cheap sponge because the fridge needs a proper clean before I trust anything in it. I also got butter, toilet paper, a bag of apples and some bananas for lunches. For dinner, I got a pack of chicken thighs and a few vegetables, nothing fancy, but enough to stretch. We can survive a day or two on this. My shift at the diner tomorrow will cover the rest. I fill the sink with hot water and scrub out the fridge shelves, fingers stinging as I work. I wipe everything down, stack things neatly, and start cooking. The rhythm helps. Chop. Stir. Season. It’s easier to focus on food than on everything else. Charlie comes in just as I’m plating dinner. He’s trying to hide it, but I see it anyway. The way his shoulders sit a little straighter. The bounce in his step that he smooths out the second he spots Dad upright on the couch. “And where the hell have you been?” Dad snaps without looking away from the screen. “Both of you just run around causing trouble these days. This was meant to be a fresh start.” His words slur together. “Sorry, Dad,” Charlie says easily. He doesn’t explain. He knows better. Sometimes explanations give Dad something else to grab onto. I slide a plate in front of Dad and another in front of Charlie. I catch Charlie’s eye over Dad’s shoulder and mouth the words silently. Did you get in? Charlie nods once. Just once. Then he grins and gives me a quick wink before grabbing his plate and heading upstairs. I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding. I knew he would. Charlie is too good not to make the team.

Dad eats like someone who hasn’t decided whether he’s grateful or angry, probably the latter. He complains about the seasoning, says the chicken is dry, yet still finishes the plate. When he’s done, he slumps back against the couch, eyelids drooping. Within minutes, he’s snoring, mouth open, the television flickering over his face. I clean up quietly, washing the dishes and wiping the counters. I leave Dad where he is. He’ll sleep there tonight. Upstairs, Charlie’s door is cracked open. I knock softly and step inside. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, jersey folded neatly beside him like something precious. “Well?” I ask, keeping my voice low. His grin breaks wide. “I got in.” I smile back, honest and full. “I knew you would.”

“They let me join practice straight away,” he says, words tumbling over each other now that he’s started. “I mean, I wasn’t officially on the roster yet, but the coach watched me skate and said I could stay. I played a few drills and scrimmaged. Lotty, they’re good, but I can keep up.”

“I know,” I say.

“And I made a friend,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. “His name’s Blake. He’s the captain.” I get a weird twinge in my chest at hearing that. It’s sharp and brief, so I ignore it. “He gave me his old stick,” Charlie continues, eyes bright. “Said it was better than the one I had. Can you believe that?” I can. Somehow, I can. “That’s amazing,” I say, and mean it. “You deserve it.” Charlie finally winds down, exhaustion catching up with him. He kicks his shoes off and flops back onto the bed, still smiling. “Thanks, Lotty,” he murmurs, already half asleep. “For what?”

“For everything.”

I don’t answer him. I pull the blanket up over his shoulders and turn off the light.

When the house finally goes quiet, I sit on my own bed and wait. I count Dad’s snores. Watch the minutes tick by, and when I’m sure he’s out for good, I stand. I pull my skates from the bottom of my box. The leather is cracked, the laces are frayed, but they still feel right in my hands. They are mine. Well, they were Mum’s, but they’re mine now. A small piece of her I get to keep for myself. I might get new ones one day when I can afford them, but I will always keep these. They’re special. I slip on my jacket and shoes and creep down the stairs past Dad. I ease the door open and step back into the cold. I let my vision adjust to the dim night sky, and then I let a deep breath out. Tonight, I skate.