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I slumped back in the driver’s seat, tired beyond words. Had I blown it with Izzy for no good reason? Would we still be together if I’d only listened?
I clenched my fists hard and thumped them down on the wheel. No. No, we wouldn’t be. Life wasn’t like that. We need to talk only ever meant we’re over.
But, still, what if?
What if it hadn’t?
CHAPTER 22
IZZY
Lola’s place was tiny, barely space to stretch out. Her bedroom was smaller than a good-sized closet, and when she folded out her sofa bed, her living room disappeared. Her kitchen was a tiny nook off to one side, a dollhouse-sized fridge and a postcard-sized counter. How she did any cooking, I couldn’t imagine. Probably, she didn’t. She mostly went out.
I lay on the sofa bed watching her in her bedroom, doing her makeup at her vanity. She did things with her eyeshadow I’d never thought to attempt, dramatic swoops and washes of color. She’d missed her calling, I thought, doing HR. She should’ve been an artist, a painter maybe.
“He’s so thoughtful,” she said, trailing gold above her lashes. “We went to this restaurant on our second date, and I loved the sauce they had, this spicy horseradish. I was gushing about it, how good it was, and you wouldn’t believe what he did on our next date.”
I made a grunting sound, nodding go on.
“He made us this picnic, and— oh! That’s him now.” She snatched up her phone and her whole face lit up. “‘Can’t wait to see you,’ then a whole line of hearts. Isn’t he the sweetest?” Lola leaned in to inspect herself in the mirror. “Don’t you hate how some guys won’t say what they’re feeling, like if they don’t show it, we won’t know they have feelings? Yeah, well, guess what? Feelings are like assholes. Everyone’s got ’em, so why hide ’em away?”
I burst out laughing. “Why hide our assholes?”
Lola frowned at her reflection. “I think I mixed up my sayings.”
“I’ll say you did. Please keep your pants on.”
“You know what I mean, though. If you love someone, say it. Send them ten hearts on text if that’s how you’re feeling.”
I tried to think if Spencer had ever sent me a heart. He wasn’t much on emojis, or really on feelings. He had them, I knew, but he wasn’t much good at naming them. He’d laugh if he was happy, yell if he was mad, but if you came out and asked him, Spencer, how are you, he’d sort of grunt back. Okay, I guess.
Lola’s face fell. “I’m being a jackass.”
I laughed. “No, you’re not.”
“No, no, I am. You’re fresh off a breakup, or whatever you’d call that, and I’m sitting here gloating over ten stupid hearts.”
“I’m not so small-minded I’d want you sad too.” I tried to sit up, but the sofa was old. Its springs folded under me and I sank into its depths. “Besides, me and Spencer were never a thing. Not like you and your man. We were messing around and I got carried away, and now it’s over. And, uh…”
“And what?” Lola glanced back at me, over her shoulder. I tilted my head back and closed my eyes. I’d hoped a time-out might help, some distance from Spencer, but all I could think of was how he was doing. He’d lost his last game. His shot at the cup. Coming that close then losing had to hit hard.
“Don’t call him,” said Lola. She wagged a finger at me. “He’s the one needs to come crawling to you. He’s in the wrong, and it’s him who dumped you. You need to give him time to realize what he’s missing.”
“It’s not that,” I said, wriggling free of the sofa. I rolled to one side and swung my legs off the edge.
“It’s not what? You don’t want to call him? Don’t think I don’t see you checking your phone.”
I’d reached for my phone, but I pulled my hand back. “I feel bad that he lost, but that’s not the problem. It’s not that I miss him. I’m not even mad. I mean, I was, but not anymore.”
Lola cocked her head. “Then, what is the problem?”
The problem was, I kept picturing us as a family, me and Spencer and our little girl or boy. I’d had a dream last night where it was a girl, and Spencer was trying to dress her in leggings, laughing as she squirmed and kicked herself free. It had felt so real, her giggles, his laughter, her short chubby legs chopping the air. I’d woken up crying because it was so perfect, and kept on crying because it wasn’t real. Maybe it could never be. Would Spencer even want that?
“I don’t know,” I said.
Lola frowned. “Sure, you do. What aren’t you telling me?”
I dug back through the years of my friendship with Spencer, trying to think, had we ever talked about kids? Having them? Wanting them? Did he even like them? He’d done a few wishes, the ones for sick kids, where they wished to meet Spencer and he came to visit. He’d even brought one of them on the ice at a game, and coached him through slapping the puck past the goalie. But had he liked that, or was it part of the job? Had it been his idea, or had it been Nelson’s?
