But then I think of last night. Of Nate’s voice in my ear, low and certain:“You’resafe with me.”
If I can trust that, I can trust myself.
I clickSign.
The confirmation pings.
I did it.
I stagger back from the table, half dizzy, half elated. My entire future just shifted, and it’s terrifying and thrilling all at once.
Liz finds me barefoot, hair a mess, a lunatic grin splitting my face.
“You okay?” she asks, squinting at me.
“I just signed the lease on the York Avenue space.”
She drops her mug onto the counter with a gasp. “Oh my God. Eden Carver, PT clinic owner. Look at you.”
Her eyes flick to the phone buzzing on the table. It’s Nate’s name that’s lighting up the screen, and she smirks. “New business, hot hockey player blowing up your phone… You’re officially unstoppable.”
I laugh, but the sound catches in my chest. Because she’s wrong. I don’t feel unstoppable.
It feel as if I’m standing on the edge of something huge, with the ground falling away beneath me.
27
THE LAST NIGHT (EDEN, AGE 16)
Ismooth my palms down the green minidress for the hundredth time, nerves bouncing around my stomach. Cassie swore it was the right choice. Short, simple, impossible for him not to notice. I slick another coat of strawberry lip gloss and lean close to the mirror. My mouth gleams, my cheeks are pink.
It feels stupid. Reckless. Perfect.
But tonight is the last night before Nate Russo leaves for training camp, and I am out of time.
I pull the folded paper from my pocket, reading the words one more time.
Nate,
Meet me on the beach after dinner. I need to see you alone before you leave tomorrow. Just you and me. Please come.
—Eden
It looks childish written out this way, a silly note you’d slip into a locker. But it’s the bravest thing I’ve ever done. I fold it carefully—three times—and sneak down the hall into the boys’ room.
The drawers creak softly as I open the one he keeps hisT-shirts in. They are neatly folded, and I drop the note on the top of the stack, my fingers lingering. He’ll find it when he gets dressed.
A shadow moves in the hall. For a second my stomach plunges, but when I peek out, it’s only Leo walking past. His attention snags on me. I slam the drawer shut and brush past him with a mumbled, “Looking for my hoodie.” He studies me for a beat too long, then nods.
Still, my pulse races as I retreat to my room. No one can know. Especially not Leo.
The porch glowsunder string lights, the night air bright with lemon, thyme, and Calabrian chile. Antonio Russo has outdone himself today. Sheet pans of roast chicken with okra and potatoes hit the table, skin blistered and glossy from chile paste, garlic, and zest. A dutch oven of collardsalla Nonnasteams beside it, pancetta and vinegar cutting through the heat. He hums an old Neapolitan tune, cornmeal dust on his forearms from the zucchini blossoms he fried at the last minute, and sets down a bottle of Chianti “for the occasion.”
The grown-ups gather at one end, as they always do, laughing over glasses of wine. At the other end sit Leo, Ryan, Nate, and me.
I slip into my chair, knees knocking under the table. Nate is fresh from the shower, hair still damp, a gray T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, the same one I left my note on. He glances up and our eyes catch for a blink. There it is, so brief I could miss it, the almost-smile he saves for me, a small lift at one corner and a quick light in his eyes. A beat later he looks away and goes back to his plate.
My cheeks burn. I stab at a zucchini blossom that blurs. Maybe he didn’t see it. Maybe I’m imagining all of it.
