“How?” I ask tentatively. But then again—this is my mother. She figures everything out. Her mind-reading powers are next level. I shudder at the thought.
“It was obvious,” she says. “She was trying hard to be upbeat. And she’s not someone who has to try hard. She’s naturally cheerful. I asked if everything was okay and she said it was great—just great, absolutely great, totally great. She said the same when I asked how you were doing. The three ‘greats’ made it clear. Then she had to end the meeting.”
Mom gives a sad smile, and it’s like a vise to my heart knowing I did that to Skylar. I made her…fake it. Was she faking the dancing a little while ago? Or is she just trying to fake it till she makes it through the breakup? I feel worse, knowing this. I say nothing, because I’m not really sure what to say except—I’m a selfish dick.
“So why did you break up with her?” she asks calmly. I was not expecting calm. Not after the“Did you know?”barrage of texts.
I draw a deep breath, hunting for the guts to tell her the truth, when she says, “Because you’re afraid.”
Thank fuck. She gets it. Relief floods me. I scrub a hand down the back of my neck, admitting it as I say, “Yeah. Can’t let the team down, you know? I really don’t want to do that.”
“Ford,” she says, gentle and caring, so I keep going, unspooling everything inside me.
“That’s the thing—I worked so hard to get where I am. To stay where I am. To fight for everything. I made a mistake the other night in the game, when Long Neck John was trying to strip the puck from me. I didn’t focus, and that’s how this whole stupid hit happened.” I gesture to my midsection. I debate telling her the full truth, but then—I’ve come this far. I let the rest out. “And honestly, I was kind of distracted with Skylar. She was there and she was all I could think about…”
Mom squeezes my shoulder sympathetically, then ruffles my hair. “You’ve always expected the best from yourself.”
“Exactly. You understand, right? I couldn’t let the teamdown. I couldn’t take a chance on continuing to be distracted this season. There were reporters who speculated I should’ve retired last season, when I was thirty-five. Thirty-six years old in the NHL…just like when I was twenty-four and people said I wouldn’t last. But I did last. I’m still here, and this is going to be my best year. I have to do it with no distractions.”
I’m winding myself up. My ribs ache a little with each word, but I need to say this through the pain. “I’m so glad somebody gets it.”
She ruffles my hair again, nodding like she truly sees me this time. It’s a relief—finally talking to someone besides my dog. It feels like something in me is loosening. The tension, maybe.
She sighs. “But sweetheart. That’s not what I meant.”
My brow knits. “What did you mean, then?”
“What I meant is—you’re afraid of getting your heart broken. You’re afraid of being replaced. And you’re terrified of truly opening up to another person, like you did with Brittany,” she says, leveling me with a sharp but thoughtful stare. “Because what if they leave you? That’s what distracted you. That’s what scared the living hell out of you.”
My mouth opens, but then I snap it shut. I should tell her she’s wrong. But the thing is—she’s not.
She’s completely right, and I didn’t even see the truth that was right in front of my eyes.
No, man. You did. You were just afraid.
After I draw a soldiering breath, I turn to her and shrug, helpless.
“Did you know I have no idea how to fix things?” I look down. Then I force myself to say the hardest part, “Or if I even can.”
35
I’D EAT THEM TOO
SKYLAR
I’m finally ready to drag myself out of the house. I can’t hide any longer. And really, I don’t want to.
Maybe Ford didn’t put me first, but I fully intend to putmefirst. That includes my business. I put on the blazer I bought for my first meeting with him, grab the tote I nabbed that day too, and head to the door so I can meet with a new client—one I gained from the gala. A woman named Carmen Santorini wants me to redo her home office with an upcycledGilded Agevibe.
I’m just a little excited.
I’ll be early, but that’s okay. I’ll grab a coffee and be ready when she is. Then, I’ll catch a ride with my friends to Ford’s parents’ house for the podcast where we do the “after.” That won’t be easy, but my friends will be there, so I know I can handle it.
As I’m heading to the door, though, my phone buzzes with a text. A flurry of hope ignites in me. Maybe it’s Ford. But that’s too much to ask for. He hasn’t reached out since the night he dumped me. I haven’t seen him either, besides that day when he emerged from a Lyft. I’ve onlytexted to confirm I’d be doing the live stream at his mom’s house to show how it looksafterits makeover—and that was a group text with him and his mother. He didn’t reply.
I toggle over to my messages as mid-morning sun streaks through the living room window.
Adam: My flight landed early! Literally just slid into a car now. Is the dog bed ready?
