Pathetic.
I stop at the In-N-Out closest to my apartment, and get that double-double, the fries, the shake. It smells delicious, and I can’t help but start in on it as I drive home.
But the more I eat, the less good it tastes.
And by the time I walk into my quiet, empty apartment, I feel sick again.
Probably because I’m hanging my coat on the hook right beside where I hung his jacket two months ago. Because then I’m walking by the couch where he gave me the best kiss of my life. And moving through the kitchen where I whipped up a midnight snack for us so we had strength for the next round, by the counter he’d swept me up onto and thoroughly distracted me…before licking the chocolate spread off most of my naked body?—
“Jesus, Harp,” I hiss, slamming the lid on those thoughts. “It was one damned night.”
Stomach churning, sick with how ridiculous I’m being, I give up on my dinner. I toss it, head into the bathroom and take a shower. It’s short and hot, fatigue sitting heavily on me as I go through the necessary motions. Then I moisturize—because a girl always has to moisturize—and brush my teeth.
Less than five minutes later, I’m in comfy pajamas, the covers pulled up to my chin.
But even though I’m exhausted, I toss and turn and stay awake.
Ugh.
I turn on a show, something boring that will make my empty bedroom (my empty life) feel less empty, and eventually—after a long, long time—it works.
I fall asleep.
Unfortunately, the last thing I hear before I nod off is,
I can’t wait to see you again.
Four
Leo
“I’ve seen more sauce on a fucking burrito, Ricky! Let’s fucking go!”
Sighing…because Ricky is the newest in a long line of nicknames that Smitty has been trying out for me.
Why I can’t just be Leo is beyond me.
But Smitty is a force of nature and if there’s anything about hockey that I’ve learned over the years, it’s that nicknames are sacrosanct…and that the more one protests about the absurdity of them, the stronger they stick.
Since I really—fucking really—don’t want to be Ricky for the foreseeable future, I’m pretending I don’t hear it.
Instead, I wind up and let a shot loose, whipping the puck in Smitty’s direction.
The big defenseman has gotten it in his mind that he needs to practice his tipping skills.
Meanwhile, he spends most of his time protecting the net, not trying to score.
But…Smitty does as Smitty does.
So, I’m taking the shots from the point and he’s trying to tip the puck into the net…to varied success.
“I don’t understand this man,” Gray mutters from next to me.
“Tell me about it,” I mutter back.
“Another!” Smitty yells like some ancient Viking demanding more beer.
I sigh and roll my shoulders, start to wind up?—
