Letters to Nowhere #1 (Completed!)

Letters to Nowhere: Part 3

January 29

Mom and Dad,

Grandma left to go back to New York today. She's spent ten days giving me a crash course in financial independence and how to order room service. She also gave me a couple books on grief and grieving. I'm currently reading about the stages of grief and very excited to hang out for a while in stage one—denial.

I'm sorry I freaked out about staying at home but I'm making up for it in other areas, like gymnastics. I've gotten on a daring streak and I think I'm making Bentley nervous. You know how he is about technique and drills. He doesn't yell and push like Coach Cordes. Sometimes I think I've become dependent on that kick in the ass and pushing myself to the max with Bentley requires a higher level of internal drive.

It's going to be weird living with him, isn't it? For some reason, I have visions of him technically analyzing everything I do, like counting my steps when I walk from the table to the fridge, like we do for our vault runs. Or maybe he's going to watch everything I eat and criticize my diet. I've heard stories about coaches who do that. At least I don't have a Lucky Charms and chocolate addiction like Blair.

I'll write you again with an update after I get some time to assess the situation.

Love, Karen

                                                    

***

"The movers offered to drive your parents' car over here, but I told them to leave it at the house for now," Bentley said, watching my face carefully.

After the weirdly personal afternoon with the lawyer and Grandma nearly two weeks ago, we both reverted to our normal, impersonal coach/gymnast relationship. I broke the spell briefly by not objecting to the car being safely out of sight. The car I used to drive to the gym and to Blair's house if my mom didn't need it. We hadn't decided on a car for me yet. My dad had wanted me to practice more on our family vehicles. 

Coach Bentley led me inside his town house and up the stairs. He turned the last knob on the right and I sucked in a breath as the door swung open. I knew what I'd see, I knew what I'd have to face, but it still hit me hard.

            Coach cleared his throat as if anticipating a tearful moment and wanting to worm his way out of it. "There're still a few boxes in the garage and on the bookshelves. They wouldn't fit. Your room at home must have been . . ."

            I lifted my eyes to meet his—brown and unreadable—before striding into the room. "Bigger. My room at home was much bigger."

            "Right." He swung his arms back and forth; the bulk of his biceps from years of ring and high bar routines prevented a normal human range of motion, making this moment even more awkward.  

            My bedroom furniture was only about a year old. When I turned sixteen, my mom decided I needed something more mature than the white wicker set I'd had since before preschool.

            I tossed my gym bag onto the bare mattress of my full-sized platform bed and tried not to inhale the scent of home that still leaked from its pores. "I should probably get ready for practice."

            Coach Bentley's face snapped back into place, the familiar, serious, down-to-business expression returning. "I've got a booster club meeting at the McKays' house in a few minutes. Jordan can drive you to the gym when he gets home from school."

            Even after hearing this well over a week ago, I still couldn't picture him as a father, let alone a father of a teenager. He never raised his voice. Not even when we really pissed him off. How can you parent a teenager without ever yelling?