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“I do,” she presses. “We’ve tried every route but that one. The one where you try to have an honest conversation?—”
“Honesty is not always the best policy,” I interrupt. “And I did try to talk to him.”
“When?”
I open and close my mouth. She knows about Joel. She knows meeting him reinvigorated my efforts to get Knox to sign the divorce papers. And they’re fair papers. I don’t need money from him. I don’t want any more contact. There’s nothing to split, no combined assets. Just two people parting ways.
Not that he sees it that way. He sees me as the villain of his story. Some monster he’s got to keep locked away so no one else can get hurt by me.
Maybe that’s a noble way of looking at it.
He could just be doing it out of spite.
“I’ll try again,” I mumble.
“Great. The Titans will probably be at their practice rink this morning.” She chuckles. “You could always ask your fiancé.”
I groan.
For all appearances, Joel and my relationship is hot and heavy. A fast-moving freight train that cannot be stopped. And it is… sort of. Minus the fact that when he asked me to move in with him, I declined. Said I wanted to live apart until the wedding made things official. And that I’m keeping him a bit at arm’s distance in other ways, too.
It’s not that I don’t love him, because I do. Joel and I clicked. But my space is sacred. I’ve got books to write, and I cannot bedistracted by handsome hockey players who just want to get in my pants all day.
That could be an exaggeration. I don’t know.
But I’m not finding out, because Joel lives in another building, precisely three blocks in the opposite direction from Beth. He comes over to visit. He occasionally spends the night. But not for very long. He doesn’t even keep a toothbrush here.
Weddings are supposed to be that pivotal change, right?
I write—and read—about heroines who are swept off their feet, madly in love, and the wedding just kind of makes things official.
I’d just prefer Joel and my wedding to be the start of our story. Not the end of it. Not like with…
“I’m hanging up,” Alaina says. “Let me know how it goes.”
“Yeah.” I hit theendbutton and toss my phone onto the desk, once more focusing on the abandoned typewriter.Why did I buy a pink one?
For the hundredth time, I resist the urge to pick it up and chuck it out the window.
Instead, I sit. I place my hands on the keys and take a breath.
If I’m going to confront—no, sorry,converse—with Knox, I better get out my aggravation on the page. Even if it’s not for a story, I can crumple it up and toss it out later.
But what I end up writing instead… is the story of how we ended up married in the first place.
6
MANUSCRIPT
CHAPTER 1
Ispend my sixteenth birthday in the hospital.
We were on our way to Dad’s summer hockey intensive—he took a job as the assistant coach for the ten and ups—when this weight pressed down on my chest. I couldn’t breathe. My heart raced, but no matter how hard I gasped, nothing brought air into my lungs.
The last thing I remember is my dad’s shout.
And then I wake up in the hospital bed, a monitor attached by cords to my chest, another clip on my finger reading my blood oxygen. It’s quiet before I open my eyes.
