Chapter 9
?
Respect tastes funny. I like it.
Clara
A thousand things tumble through my mind, interrupting my pounding heart and eager perusal of the romance shelves at Sunny Pages. I want everything. But I don’t really. Some of these books I actually, deeply, do not want.
Many of these books, rather.
Because many of these books…are hockey.
Hockey. A scourge on the land, a trend that refuses to perish, the bane of my existence, probably.
My nose scrunches when thehockey, which was not apparent on the cover, becomes apparent in the blurb, and I return the brightly-colored romcom to its place. How dare they be sneaking such things into my literature without clearly labeling it? It’s like smut in YA!
The outrage.
Thehumanity.
Okay, maybe those aren’t perfectly comparable things, but it’s still wrong.
And I’m probably taking too long picking my books. Lukas is probably fed up with me. I’ve yet to decide onanything. Wincing, I bite my cheek and turn toward…a stack of books…in Lukas’s arms.
“Are you grabbing everything I look at?” I breathe.
Peering over the stack at me, Lukas tilts his head. “No?”
I look between him, and the mountain of books. “Are you…sure?”
“Positive. I’m grabbing everything that doesn’t make your nose scrunch in disgust.” He chuckles. “While we’re on the topic of cute nose scrunchies, what in the world didhockeyever do to you?”
Gave me unrealistic expectations for a found family of teammates who actually play like they’re on the same team—and also gave me way too many nastystickandpuckinnuendos. “Nothing.” I lock my hands behind my back and tilt to look at the titles on the book spines. Lukas’s probably holding no less than three hundred dollars worth of romcom paperbacks. The bright rainbow isglorious. I’ve been starved for fluff these past weeks. My poor, whimsical heart has suffered beneath the cruel rule of fantasy far too long.
I cannot stomach another “main character” dying in the first five chapters, only to have them open as a “reborn guardian entity” in the sequel.
I should make a little reading schedule and keep track. I might need more stickers for that, though. Myyay not molestedcalendar has been eating my bunnies. Twenty days, one confusingmay I kiss youthat ended notablywithouta kiss, two friendly hugs, and not a single assault. Many, many happy hoppy little bunnies.
Warmth spreads inside me, and I peer toward the section of the store selling book-adjacent products. Finding stationary and accompanying decorations on those shelves, I look up at Lukas. “May I get some stickers, please?”
He whispers a curse. “Yes, of course.”
“Thank you.”Pleaseis such a secret weapon. I wish it were this easy to satiate my family’s “attention cravings.” It would be so simple to be respectful and polite if the rules were kindergarten effortless. Saypleaseandthank youand, also, you’re allowed to ask questions, because that’s how we learn.
After crying in the car just minutes ago, I would have expected to feel heavier and more exhausted right now, but instead I’m lighter than I’ve ever been.
I have a friend.
A friend whocommunicates—the good, the bad, the ugly—with me.
A friend who listens when I talk about books, and who helps me in the kitchen, and who doesn’t make me feel useless.
Everything is sobrighthere.
I’mhappy. I’m excited. I feel like maybe I’m allowed to be.
For the first time in my life, I’m smiling without fear that someone is going to get mad at me for looking too joyful.
