But when I get home, she’s not in my bed, and that feels like a kick in the balls.

  41

  KIND OF A LOT

  Josie

  Wes said to presume a few weeks ago, but I can’t presume tonight. I can’t presume he wants me upstairs. I can’t sleep either. That’s the problem.

  I never have trouble sleeping—never. But tonight, I’m in my own room for the first time in more than a month. The lights are out and I’m trying so hard to bring sweet dreams my way.

  But as soon as I hear him return to the house and head up the steps, I know he’s looking for me. I know he’s disappointed. Even if I feel him pulling away from me, have felt it since we danced in the living room last night, I don’t want to be another thing that hurts him. I want to help him like he helped me the night we met.

  Besides, I’ve been trying to be brave. I’ve been trying to be bolder. I fling off the covers and push out of bed, pushing open the door right as he’s stepping into the doorway.

  I flinch in surprise, then back up. “Oh.”

  “Hey.” That’s it. A heavy syllable breathed into the night. He looks terrible. Devastated.

  “What happened? Do you want to talk? Did your dad give you a hard time?”

  He grits his teeth then breathes out hard. “Yeah. He said I’m distracted. Coach said as much, too, when he moved me to the second line.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, guilt lancing through me. This is my fault. Wes is distracted, and I know why. Still I have to try to make him feel better. “But that’s where you started the season. It’s not that bad, right? You know exactly what to do there, and you can keep working your way back.”

  But that’s the exact wrong thing to say to an athlete. A step back isn’t fine. He’s wired for excellence, not acceptance.

  “No, Josie. It’s bad,” he says in a hard voice, correcting me sternly.

  I feel stupid all over again. “I’m sorry.”

  He frowns, apologies in his brown eyes now. “Shit, baby. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.” He reaches for my face and cups my cheek, and it feels so good as he strokes my jaw. But it feels awful at the same time because it’s an I’m sorry gesture.

  I’m sorry I’m about to hurt you.

  “I’m a wreck right now,” he says, his voice strained, full of potholes and self-loathing. “But it’s not your fault.”

  Except…is it my fault? That’s what I can’t shake—the feeling that I’m to blame. “Do you think you’re distracted? By me and us and my job search and by what’s going to happen? Is it stressing you out? All the…unknown?” My chest aches horribly but I have to ask these questions.

  He pauses for a long while. In that stretch of silence, his face is honest, brutal even, with the truth in his eyes—the truth is yes. We are a distraction. I am stressing him out.

  But Stoic Wes takes over and erases the emotions on his face. “No.”

  That’s a lie.

  He has another game coming up in two days. Then another after Christmas. They’re important games, especially after the last few rough ones. I could ask him what happens next for us. I could mention the long-distance thing. I could say I want us to make this work. But what can I offer him right now that’ll settle him? Nothing. I’m still in limbo. I don’t know if I’m staying or leaving.

  But I know this—I’m not the one trying to play professional hockey in front of twenty thousand people every other day, with media who breathe down my neck, fans who cheer and jeer me, and a father who gives me a hard time.

  I do know what that’s like though.

  I was raised with it.

  From the comfort of my books, I watched that world unfold as my parents focused on my superstar brother. Gave him every opportunity to succeed. They were right to channel their energy into him—look where he is now. At the top of his game. Growing up, he was the plant that required a lot of water.

  Me? I’m the cactus after all.

  My family barely notices what I do, and really, it’s okay. I’ve always had books and friends. I’ve always done a good job taking care of myself and getting out of the way. My aunt taught me to cook, to bake, to learn, to read. Most of all, she taught me to be independent.

  With a cold, stark certainty, I’m sure I have to do for Wesley what I did for my family growing up.

  Get out of the way.

  With a gentle smile, and I hope, a caring one, I reach for his forearm, rub my hand along the dog and music notes. “But what if you are too distracted by everything that’s happening here? With me? I mean, I’m kind of a lot.”

  “Don’t say that,” he says, but it lacks his usual…vigor. His usual bossiness.

  “I am,” I insist. “The night you met me I was locked out and half-naked, and you saved me. The next time I lost my short-term rental, and you saved me. Then, you found my list and you offered to do it with me.” Emotions climb up my throat, tightening it in a chokehold. But I try to push past the tears stinging the backs of my eyes. “I’m a lot. You’ve given me a lot. But you need to leave something for yourself.”

  His brow knits. “What are you talking about?”

  I roll my lips together, fighting off the waterworks, then I dig down and say, “Would it be easier if I finish the list on my own and give you a little time to refocus?”

  Time—it’s the one thing we don’t have.

  But right now, that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because Wes is quiet again, chewing on that, perhaps.

  That’s another sign I’m doing the right thing for him.

  Wes is quick and passionate. He doesn’t mull things over. He doesn’t stew. For the first time ever, he’s stuck.

  The man is twisted in knots.

  I have to give him this lifeline. I throw him some more rope. “You didn’t want to dance in the park anyway, and that’s okay,” I say gently, kindly. “The list is a lot too. I could do it with my friends. I haven’t done anything on it with them. Maybe I should.”

  He breathes in deeply, nodding the tiniest amount, absorbing that.

  “And the cocktail-mixing class,” I say, exonerating him more. I wave a hand. “Let’s do it another time.”

  That’s a futile promise, because we don’t have time.

  But he doesn’t correct me so I continue, “Right now, you should focus on hockey.”

  He runs a hand down his face, closes his eyes, then breathes out. For a few seconds, I hope so damn hard he’ll resist my overture. But when he opens his eyes, he grumbles, “You’re probably right.”

  My heart breaks. But I try to keep it together.

  What he doesn’t say next is, “Let me hold you all night. Come to bed with me. Or we’ll figure it out together.”

  Instead, he nods to my room and the bed I haven’t slept in in weeks. “I should let you go to sleep.”

  What I hear is, “I should let you go.”

  42

  THE STEP AROUND SKILL

  Josie

  I’ve spent the last few weeks reading every blog post, watching every video, and gobbling up every article I can find on what to expect in your first pole class.

  But Everly also tells me to expect “cardio and fun.”

  I need the latter now more than ever as I tiptoe around the townhome on Sunday morning. I am quieter than I’ve ever been, and I use my morning person-ness to my advantage. I successfully avoided Wes yesterday by waking early and exploring the city, then hanging out with Eddie and his husband playing mini golf in the evening.

  Today, it will be even easier to avoid Wes since he has a game.

  Once again, I’m determined to escape before he wakes up. I’m dressed in leggings, a sports bra, a T-shirt, and a sweatshirt, and I’ve got knee pads and a water bottle in my canvas bag, right next to the blank book where I keep the list. I’ve even slipped my book charm necklace into a pocket in my bag. I have them both with me today. Maybe because I need to feel close to my aunt.

  I walk quietly past the stairs, half expecting him to hear me, wholly wanting him to call out, “Let me drive you.”

  What a foolish wish. But he loved to drive me wherever I needed in the city. He’s an acts-of-service guy through and through.

  The house is painfully silent. The emptiness tunnels through me as I pad to the door, carefully lift the latch, then grab my sneakers and take off.

  On the porch, I lace up my shoes quickly, ignoring the onslaught of feelings I don’t want to feel. I manage to make it down the front steps before my throat hitches. Tears prick my eyes, but I suck in a breath. I’m wearing my fake lashes to pole classes so these tears can fuck off.

  Down the street, I catch the bus and head to Russian Hill to a dance studio that Everly likes. But even though I’ve done my homework, no amount of prep can gird you to walk into a class when your heart is shattered, and you’re pretending you’re fine.

  Everything hurts.

  Everything reminds me of him.

  Even this.

  I would have shared the story of this class with him, told him about it, taken some pics. He would have eaten up every detail. But, I guess he can’t have love and hockey, so I go in alone—but I’m not truly alone. Everly’s a welcome sight.

  She’s dressed in a long-sleeved shirt, which surprises me, but maybe she doesn’t sweat like me. She’s stretching in front of the mirrored wall in the brightly lit studio, and she beams when she sees me. “You made it!”

  “I don’t back down,” I say, even though I tried to wiggle out of improv.

  But I soldiered on and did it. Come to think of it, I haven’t backed out of anything on the list. And dammit, man in my life or not, I’m going to finish it. In fact, I don’t need to go to a cocktail-mixing class for number seven—explore a new skill.

  I’m living number seven right now. With my friends. The awareness hits me all at once, and I smile like a giddy fool, tugging on Everly’s hand, pulling her to the cubbies in the corner of the studio as Maeve strides in. Fable couldn’t make it—she had to do some Christmas shopping with her sister. “I have this list from my aunt. Like a bucket list. Top Ten Things I Never Regretted,” I tell Everly.

  Her eyes light up. “You do? That’s seriously cool.”

  “And one of the items is explore a new skill.” I motion for Maeve to join our huddle and gamely, she hustles over. “I was going to do number seven with Wes, but I want to do this one with you two. Can this be explore a new skill for my bucket list of no regrets?”

  “As if you have to ask,” Maeve says, then tilts her head, and I know what she’s thinking—what changed with Wes and why now?

  I swallow down more tears. “I’ll tell you later.”

  For now, it’s time to dance.

  Ten minutes later, I’m walking around the pole. That’s it. Walking. But as Kyla, the instructor, says, “It’s harder to walk than you might think. You want to make space between the pole and your body, and then you can do the step around.”

  She explains that basic move, then asks Everly to demonstrate. In no time, my new friend’s swinging around her pole like a goddess, all muscles and badass attitude, shiny ponytail swishing down her back.

  “Now, let’s try the step around,” Kyla says to the rest of us.

  Sounds easy and looks easy too. But when I try the basic move, gripping the pole with my right arm, then rising up on my toes so I can stretch out my left leg to the side, I’m not sure I can move around the pole without falling on my ass.

  But then…so what if I fall? I stop thinking and I do, swinging around it.

  And…I manage a quarter turn. Actually, that was more like an eighth of a turn, but I’m stupidly excited over this most minor accomplishment, and so is the teacher. “Great start,” Kyla says to me with genuine enthusiasm.

  Those words burrow into my aching, hollow heart.

  Great start.

  As Maeve attempts her step around like she’s jumping off a cliff—since that’s how Maeve lives life—I think of the list. Of the other night by the Golden Gate Bridge. Of my dreams. They don’t have to be anchored to a man.

  Just like that, I can see a new future. One I haven’t planned for or prepped for or researched. But maybe that’s part of me exploring new skills.

  I don’t mean this skill. I mean another one—I’m learning to leap.

  43

  A DAMN FINE BAGEL

  Wesley

  Funny how I never noticed the room under the staircase much before. I barely paid attention to it for the first several months I lived here.

  Now it’s all I see.

  It taunts me. It lures me, and I have to fight the pull. I give her space. I avoid her. I stay upstairs when she’s downstairs.

  I don’t know what to say or do when I see her. I guess this is why there’s a roomie rule in the first place. Because it is complicated when you cross it.

  When things go south—like they did two nights ago—you’re still stuck together, walking uncomfortably around each other.

  But a little while after she leaves on Sunday—I’m pretty sure she’s going to that pole class with her friends, and I hate that she’s not going to be sending me a picture—I get out of bed, get dressed, and head downstairs to make my way to morning skate. The problem is…that door.

  To her room. It’s halfway open.

  I stop in the entrance to it, press my palm against the white wood of the door lightly, till it creaks open. I look inside. My chest aches at the signs of Josie.

  The white sweatshirt I bought her the night we met is tossed on the bed. The black scarf she left behind hangs from the closet door. Pillows are arranged in a whole new way on the window seat.

  I lift my nose in the air and draw a big inhale. I can smell the remnants of her cinnamon scent. On the bureau, there’s a pad of blue paper, like the one she used to leave me notes on.

  My chest hollows, and I press my fingers against my temple. I wish I had the courage to grab that paper and write her a note. But what would I even say?

  I’m sorry?

  I miss you?

  I’m a mess?

  That’s all true, and she knows all that, so I tear myself away from her room, trudge to the kitchen, and yank open the fridge.

  But it all looks so boring.

  I flip my middle finger at the prepared food, then trudge down to the garage, peel out quickly, and stop at a nearby bagel shop for a pineapple smoothie and a toasted sesame bagel. That’s a damn fine breakfast.

  An hour later, I’m dead focused on the rink during morning skate, passing to Asher, Hugo, and Alexei. Shooting on Max. Flicking the puck under a low bar, then racing behind the net and slapping the disc under it again and again. Practice makes perfect. Muscle memory. Discipline.

  Midway through, Coach blows the whistle and calls me over.

  “Bryant, why don’t you get out there with Winters and Weston?”

  He gestures to the other end of the rink. Naturally Christian is here, since he never misses practice. Chase is too. “But that’s…first line,” I point out so helpfully, like Coach doesn’t know the intricacies of his lineup.

  “I’m aware. You’ve got great chemistry with the second line. Chemistry doesn’t come overnight on the hockey rink. You’ve got to get out there and work with them.”

  He points to me and I turn back around, flying toward the other two guys. I’m not sure what to make of this direction, but I am sure it’s not my place to question it. I run the drills with Christian and Chase until we’re done thirty minutes later.

  In the locker room, Asher tips his chin toward me as he laces his shoes. “You want to grab some dinner after the game tonight?”

  “Maybe,” I say with a shrug.

  He stares me down. “Dude, what’s with you? You’re not your usual self.”

  I could deny it. But instead I scratch my jaw, shrug, and say heavily, “Yeah. I know.”

  He seems to give that some thought, nodding a few times, but when we leave a couple minutes later, he claps me on the shoulder in the corridor. “Remember, it’s a game. Just have fun. That’s what you got to do at the end of the day.”

  Then he offers me a fist for knocking. Since you don’t leave a teammate hanging, I knock back. Asher has the right attitude. He always has. He has an easy way about him and a carefree attitude, and it works. My stomach twists, and I don’t normally put myself out there, but impulsively, I ask, “How do I do that?”

  “Stop trying to be perfect. Just get out there and play.”

  It’s good advice. Truly it is. After I go home and nap in the deathly quiet house where I miss Josie more by the hour, I return to the rink. I do my best to focus on just that.

  Fun.

  Hockey used to be fun once upon a time. Then it became work. Then it became pressure. Then it became performance. Then it became the relentless pursuit of perfection. But during the last few months, I’ve learned how to have fun again, thanks to Josie.

  The woman I let go.

  44

  A GREAT START

  Josie

  Everly was right. Pole class is cardio, and I’m a sweat-soaked monster when we leave, but I don’t care as we dart into a nearby café for lunch.

  After we order, I clear my throat and return to the great start. “So I was thinking…I really do want to stay here, and I don’t have a job. And it might take me a while to get one. But I’ve saved up in the last few months because I didn’t have to pay rent.”

  Everly’s expression is thoughtful while Maeve’s is dead curious. Both wait for me to keep going though.

  It’s okay to sit with discomfort. It’s okay to do the hard thing.

  “And I want to stay here even if…” But my voice catches, and all my emotions well up into my throat.

  “Oh, sweetie, what happened?” Everly says, rubbing my shoulder, like she’s the big sister I don’t have.