Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
After getting her heart broken so badly at such a formative stage, I’m not sure she’ll ever love anyone. I’m not sure she can.
Or if she does, she won’t admit it. Not to herself, and certainly not to me.
She doesn’t stop me when I walk for the door. Or when I open it. I wish I could leave without another word, but I can’t. I glance back over my shoulder to say, “I wish you’d kicked Buchanan Spitz in the balls so hard that he could still feel the tingle of your fury every time he gets a hard-on. Maybe then he wouldn’t have such a death grip on the choices you’re still making today because he’s right here in this room, like a fucking ghost that scares the shit out of you.”
With that said, I walk out. She still doesn’t stop me.
Chapter 27
Joy
I hate Dalton Fucking Days.
I send the text to Hope, expecting her to send back some version of “What did he do?” That’s not how she replies, though.
What happened?
I don’t know. I truly don’t. One minute I was scrubbing the coffee table, completely justified in the fire of my righteous anger, and the next . . .
I think I might’ve . . . sort of . . . kinda messed up. Bad.
It’s the most I can say. I’m too ashamed to admit that a lot of what Dalton said hit shockingly close to home, on triggers I didn’t even realize were still buried in my soul.
I’m at a show right now, too loud to call. My advice? Fix it.
Yeah, sis. If only it was that easy. But this wound is too big, definitely more than an “I’m sorry” situation. I’m afraid it might be beyond repair.
I’m gonna get drunk(er) and think. Love you.
Love you too. Text or call later if you need me. I’m here for you.
She is, and I’m glad for that, but I have some hard thinking to do. And a shower scrubber, some vinegar, and too much soap scum calling my name.
“I’m so glad you were able to come see the boys play today,” Mom tells June, making it sound more like a peewee game than a minor league one.
Watching “the boys play” is the absolute last place I want to be. My head is pounding, my heart is broken, and I want to fight everyone and everything all at the same time. But Mom called this morning and said we were going to support Shepherd even though this should be a boring, easy-win game.
It wasn’t a question, nor a request I could refuse. And I’m sure Hope had something to do with it. I shouldn’t have texted her last night, though her simple instruction to fix it ended up being exactly what I needed.
But it’s also how I ended up here by force, with Rayleigh on one side, June on the other, and Mom and Dad behind us. All that’s missing is Hope, but she’s probably here in spirit.
I didn’t even know Mom had met Rayleigh and June, but I guess they became friendly last night at Chuck’s after I left and Dalton stormed out.
“Me too,” June answers. “I was supposed to fly out today, but moving my flight to tomorrow was no big deal. It even made it a little cheaper.”
I grit my teeth, swallowing down my commentary on why she chose to stay an extra day. I’m assuming it’s because her brother was mad as hell last night, probably ranting and raving about what a bitch I am given his grand exit that left me reeling in a messy puddle of existential crisis on my bathroom floor.
“Thank you again for the ticket,” Rayleigh says politely.
“Of course, honey,” Mom replies, smiling warmly. To me, she asks, “What’re our odds today?”
I watch the two teams warming up on the ice, forcing my gaze across the entire arena and not focusing on the one man I don’t want to see. Still, I already noticed that he’s wearing his lucky socks beneath his knee pads, that he tapped the left and right pipes of the goal and knocked his head against it. I hope that’s enough of a pregame ritual for him because we sure as hell didn’t do a penis parade last night. He’ll finally see that it wasn’t the superstition bringing him good luck, but rather, his own skills and talent. Even if he is an asshole, I can objectively admit that he’s a good goalie.
“It’ll be an easy win with how the Moose have been playing. Shep and Voughtman have been working on their pass drills, Pierre’s slap shots have been unstoppable. On defense, Miles and Hanovich have been pushing forward, trusting that Days has the goal protected. So given the win over the Royals last night, it should be a repeat.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom and Dad look at each other as I finish my completely flat, monotone analysis.