Page 86 of The Puck Bunny

She turns away, pretending not to cry, trying to hide her tears. “It’s my own fault. I always have expectations—a side effect of my optimism that can bite me in the butt at times, but it’s always worth it.” She sniffles then meets my eyes.

“Or, rather, it always has been worth it until now,” she says. Then she opens the door and dashes outside. The car pulls into my driveway. giving a wide berth to my Lamborghini.

It’s unfortunate that I couldn’t sell the car. Like everything about my past L.A. life, it’s not that easy to get rid of. Jett had it shipped here once I moved in. Now it sits like a giant 3-D representation of my selfish past and doubles as a thousand-watt jolt to my guilty conscience every time I look at it.

CHAPTER 26

SARA

“It’s a nice sunny Sunday, isn’t it?” the driver, a young man with an eager smile, says to me.

A good excuse to throw on my sunglasses before I smile at him in the mirror which is all I can manage. Pulling out my phone, I call Billie Mae. There’s not much time, but the ache is eating me alive and I have to say something to someone. Like what?

Like, I’ve been such a fool? Like, why didn’t I believe him when he said this wouldn’t go anywhere? Like, why did I believe myself when I said that was fine?

Because I’m an idiot—otherwise known as a hopeless romantic—and too full of unbridled hopeful optimism.

Normally, I’m cautious enough not to test myself, but, this time, this one time, I had just enough bravery in me to give it a shot. It all started with that terrible puck bunny incident. Combine a big bully jerk making a girl cry with a couple margaritas and I turn into the avenger. The Puck Bunny Avenger. So brave I thought I could do some avenging for myself.

Well, it didn’t work for me, but maybe, just maybe it’ll work out for Mindy.

Billie Mae answers her phone after I finally hit the call button.

“It’s early,” she says. “What time are we meeting at the Garden?”

Crap. I’d forgotten. The hockey game. “Oh no.” My tears start leaking again.

“What is it?”

“I can’t go. You take my family.”

“What the hell is going on? Tell me.” She sounds panicked and we’re turning down our street, so I talk fast.

“I went home with Quinn and had my big-O-virginity-crushing-dream come true and now we’re done. Never again. It’s all over between us.” If there’d ever even been an us. I realize there wasn’t and a fresh spout of tears streams down my cheeks.

The driver looks in the rear view and I put up a hand to stop him from being concerned or, heaven forbid, asking me what’s wrong.

“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. I thought you knew—”

“I did, but it still hurts.” The car pulls to a stop. “I gotta go. I’ll call you back later. I just got home.” I end the call with a stab before she can ask because I don’t want to tell her I’m just getting home from Quinn’s and about to try to sneak into my house unnoticed. Fat chance of that. It’s past eight a.m. and Dad’s always up by six.

When I walk in, Dad is standing at the kitchen counter pouring coffee and asks, "What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

I try to be brave, but when he calls me sweetheart, I burst into tears and collapse into his arms.

He holds me and rocks me in his arms like I’m five years old again. He says, “There, there. It’ll be okay. Everything will be fine, sweetheart.”

I cry harder.

He gives me a tissue from his pocket—unused thank God—and I get myself under control enough to blow my nose.

“I don’t know what the problem is, sweetheart, but I don’t think it’s something I can make go away like I did when you were a kid and that neighborhood bully threw a rock at you and hit you in the arm and we had to get you stitches.”

“You remember that?” I wipe my eyes and separate from him, feeling silly, and he lets me.

“Of course I do. I remember lots of things. Don’t like to talk about most.”

I nod. “You’re right about this problem, Dad. It’s something I need to deal with on my own.” I exhale then blow my nose again.