I take another sip of water, but I’ve downed the contents of my glass. So, with shaky hands, I reach for the wineglass and knock it over in my flustered state.
Aulie jumps back, avoiding a waterfall of red wine that rushes down to the carpet below. “What the heck is wrong with you today? You didn’t get a concussion when you hit your head on the wall, did you?” She puts her hands on my face, cupping my cheeks and staring straight into my soul. A slight dusting of freckles dances over the bridge of her nose, bleeding into the rosy blush of her cheeks. God, she’s perfect.
And I clearly can’t handle my shit.
“Excuse me.” I stand and promptly bolt to the bathroom to collect myself.
What the hell was that?
She’s not off-limits.The thought echoes as I splash my face with water and get a hold of myself.
She’s not interested. I don’t date during the season. I know all this.
Do you, though? Or are you being the wimp you’ve always been?
What I’m not—
And I’m conversing with myself in the mirror. This situation has finally broken me.
Maybe admitting my feelings to Aulie wouldn’t be so bad—if only to save whatever sanity I have left.I weigh the decision to talk to Aulie, turning the knob. A rush of cold air slaps my damp cheeks as I step into the hallway. It’s probably better if I wait until the end of the season to tell her. When my mind can focus and prioritize her.
Willoughby cuts across my path, emerging from Aulie’s bedroom with a small piece of paper in his mouth. “What have you got here, bud?” I ask, bending down and rescuing whatever it is from his teeth.
The text “Aulie’s List for a Suitable Suitor” sits among a pool of slobber.
I shouldn’t read it. It’s none of my business… then again, I’m a known asshole, so…
I hazard a glance at my surroundings, but Emy, Gus, and Aulie are all talking in the dining room a good two rooms away. The only person to judge me for my assholery is the picture of John F. Kennedy hanging in the hallway, a remnant from when Gus and Aulie’s Memere owned the house.
“Ideas live on, am I right?” I joke, before shaking my head—having a conversation with a picture of a dead president probably isn’t much better than having one with myself.
Must be kind, dependable, and loyal.
“Not off to a great start there,” I chuckle.
JFK says nothing.
I would prefer he worships the ground I walk on since I’m bound to become overly attached and want a balanced emotional relationship.
“Well, at least I’ve got that one covered.”
He is comfortable showing affection and expressing his feelings to me.
“There goes any shot in hell I ever had. Should I even read on?”
Again, JFK ponders but remains silent.
Shares the same values about family and children and having them sooner rather than later. I want someone I can grow old with surrounded by a gaggle of loved ones.
“Well, shit,” I say with a swallow. I’ve never really thought about what a relationship with Aulie would look like because I’ve been so focused on the “off-limits” part.
I’m not interested in starting a family for at least the next ten years. I have too much hockey to focus on. Plus, I’m too much of a mess myself. Me responsible for another human should be illegal. And Aulie? I know she has a massive hole in her heart for her family, and she deserves to start her own as soon as she wants to.
If she was interested, and that’s a big, no-way in hellif, it wouldn’t be fair to her if I asked her to give that up. So maybe biting my tongue and saying nothing is the best way to go. There’s a greater chance I’ll ruin a romantic relationship than a platonic one.
Below four, item five sits half-heartedly crossed out.
I want someone I can have wild chemistry with (if that’s not foolish to ask for). I want that soul-crushing, tingling, toe-curling feeling. I want his kisses to destroy me. I want to be utterly wrecked.
