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Then she blew out a breath, set the box of washi tape I’d bought for her on the blanket near her thigh. I’d seen the box in the window at a bookstore in Sacramento. It was Gold colors—black and gold (obvs), but there were also rolls printed with skates and sticks and one that looked like ice.
“Where did you get this?” she whispered, wide blue eyes hitting mine.
I gave into the urge and tugged at one of her curls. “Sacramento. I saw it in the window of a bookstore and thought of you.”
“I-I—” She clamped her lips together, shoulders lifting on a deep inhale.
I’d thought of her.
I’d wanted her to use them and think ofme.
Not go stiff three feet from me.
Not pull away from me, put even more distance between us, faster than I could stop her.
That breath she’d taken slid out in a hiss of air as she jumped to her feet.
“I can’t,” she whispered.
Then she was taking off across the park.
Walking away from me.
Again.
Twenty-Two
Billie Rose
Fuck.
Fuck.
I couldn’t catch my breath.
Icouldn’t.
I was standing in the center of town fucking close to hyperventilating…over a fucking set of washi tape.
Sparkly black and gold. Themed with the Gold logo, but also rolls of generic hockey scenes—sticks, pucks, skates, ice.
Hockey-themed washi tape.
ThatJoelhad bought me.
This big, strong hockey player had gone into a bookstore because he’d seen something in the window and thought of me.
Ofme.
I could count on one hand how many times that had happened.
Okay, maybe two.
Bailey and Dessie were good friends.
But we didn’t exchange gifts that way—mostly because Bailey had been on the struggle bus for too fucking long and had refused help that wasn’t me filling her fridge with food or basically forcing a gift on her. Dessie and I didn’t want to add to that.
So, our gifts were time and teasing and the occasional wine night at one of our places.
