Sasquatch to the Moon

10: Instagram Mishaps

HÅKON

    That night, with bloody knuckles and a bruised jaw, I finally go home and find his Instagram. I'd been putting it off, he hasn't followed me and I haven't either, I figure he wanted me to break and do it so I'm breaking and doing it.

    So, alone at my kitchen table, half in the dark, eating a small bowl of yogurt and granola, soggy, because my jaw hurts, I scroll through his account. The first photo is nothing much, him and Steph this summer somewhere on the coast of Maine, arms around each other's shoulders. Rocket's wearing a deep burgundy shirt with a rather stunning Hawaiian pattern on it, unbuttoned down far enough that I can see the tan on his chest and the little silver chain he keeps around his neck.

    I scroll down past the comments and to the next one, also this summer, him sprawled out on a beach chair, showing off his long legs and a little too much of his chest under an unbuttoned, similarly garish as the previous, Hawaiian shirt. He's pulling down his sunglasses just a little to give the camera a wink.

    I scroll quicker, stopping on the next one of him with a girl up on his shoulders, she's got short brown hair and a devilish grin much similar to his, so similar that I check who's tagged to see if she's related to him.

    She's not, her name is Kelly.

    High school reunion? It's a caption that leaves it up to guessing and I don't really trust myself to guess.

    I scroll, bumping into a post from a rooftop in Boston, a somewhat fancy suit over his shoulders, a sly smile on his lips, nothing else, not even a caption.

    He's good at this, much better than I am.

    The next one is the back of his helmet in TD Garden, still in a Bruins jersey. The next, another hockey one but he's got his helmet off and is hugging Steph from the side.

    I make it to the next one and stop again, pausing over a second girl on his page, clearly in the lowlight of a bar or something similar, his eyes up and on her, photo blurry as everything was moving. She's got her arms slung over his shoulders, he's got his around her waist. I can't tell if she's small or if he's just bigger than I thought he was.

    I decide it's a little of both before reading the caption.

    Next time wear shoes you can dance in, sweetheart.

    Immediately, I open up her account, scrolling past Instagram model photos down to just under a year ago where she's got one post with him, her arms over Rocket's shoulders in a different part of the city, the same suit on him, same dress on her. His hair is a wreck, a curly brown wreck, and hers is golden blonde and still sleek even after what looks like an interesting night.

    His hand is splayed out across her waist, big with long fingers and strong forearms.

    One night adventure.

    I swipe back to his page, mouth on the lip of my glass, scrolling down barely another row of posts until I find a photo of him hauling a girl on his shoulder over the side of a boat into the water, arm around her hips like he's a wrestler.

    I take in the strain up the side of his thigh muscle and his defined shoulders before reading the caption.

Lady overboard

    My finger slips on the buttons and my heart swoops up into my throat as I scramble to unlike the post that's well over a year old.

    I flip my phone upside down and slide it away from me before I can do anything else that I'm going to regret.