Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Or, I thought it had.
For me it had.
“I can’t,” I finally said, and shut the box on the necklace, setting it to the side. My fingers itched to slide it around my neck, to wear something he’d chosen especially for me. But why put my heart through all that pain?
“He tried, though, right?” Mila asked.
“Yes,” I said. “He’s called. Texted. But all his messages…”
“They don’t say the words you’re searching for?” Mila finished for me.
“Exactly.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “You know how long I’ve loved him, Mila. And for a little while, it felt so damn real between us. Maybe I would’ve been fine with just what he gave me, but after what happened…after realizing I was just a bookmark holding the spot until the real main character in his life came around, I couldn’t stay with him.”
Mila slipped her arm around me and tucked me into her side. “You’re doing that thing where you’re not giving yourself enough credit.”
I shrugged, leaning against her, relishing having my best friend back. “If I was what he really wanted, like long-haul him and me against the world, he wouldn’t be texting me I’m sorry. He’d say…”
“That he loves you,” Mila finished for me again.
I clenched my eyes shut, holding back tears. “Yep. And he hasn’t. That’s fair. I can’t force him into that. I know that. And, with a shit ton of time and soul searching on my end, I’ll be able to go back to being friends with him.” I loved him too much to cut him out of my life forever. “I just need a little time to heal.”
“That has to be hard when he’s texting you and sending you gifts,” Mila said, and I nodded. “Maybe you should tell him to give you space to heal. Be direct.”
“Maybe,” I said, sighing.
But I couldn’t help the fear climbing up my throat. Because if I did ask him for space and he gave it to me, then that meant it was well and truly over. And I wasn’t sure I could survive slicing the last thread of life that connected me to him.
“You were one hundred percent right,” Mila said from where she was cleaning one of the gallery’s windows. They were spotless—thanks to our efforts the last week—but the closer we got to opening, the more nervous energy bubbled out of her. “This place is the absolute dream,” she continued, stepping back to admire our hard work.
I paused where I’d been sweeping the stained concrete floors, and looked up to smile at her.
“We were lucky to find this place when we did,” I said, admiring the high beamed ceilings and the walls that were now adorned with over a dozen prints, most of them mine.
A small flatscreen TV hung behind our owner’s counter, the Reapers playing game five in the Stanley Cup finals. Every time I paused my work, I looked up to check the score, unable to help myself. The volume was low, but it filled the space with a sort of painful comfort I couldn’t explain.
The Reapers had become family to me over the last six months, regardless of Maxim and my troubles, and it felt right for the games to be running this past week while Mila and I worked to get the gallery all set up. We still had a ways to go, but I couldn’t deny the joy in my heart at seeing our dreams come together.
I just wished the other piece of my heart, the one with Maxim’s name branded across it, could heal so I could fully apricate all we’d accomplished.
“Ouch,” Mila said, eyes on the screen.
Maxim had just missed a shot and the commentators were ripping on him, saying he must not have brought his lucky charm to the arena.
A knife slipped into my heart.
“That’s not your fault,” Mila quickly said, crossing the space to stand next to me. “Ignore them.”
I huffed a laugh. “That’s what Maxim told me to do when that article came out.”
Mila tilted her head as if to say he wasn’t wrong.
“Mila,” I groaned, having had this conversation a dozen times. “I couldn’t have stayed there with him. You know that.”
I walked to our little storage closet and put away the broom, eying the magazine sitting open on our owner’s counter. It had released yesterday, the photos I’d taken of Maxim filling a six-page center spread in Sports Illustrated. With his and Langley’s encouragement, I’d submitted those photos with his full release before everything had crumbled between us.
“I know,” she said, following me as she leaned against the counter. “Trust me. I would’ve bolted too. That article was brutal. And Maxim should’ve opened his mouth before you left, not after.”
I nodded, then shrugged. “It’s fine. I couldn’t expect him to fall for me the way I had him. And I’m just proud of myself for having enough self-worth to get out while I could.”