A box.
It’s not perfect. Somebody drew on it with marker, but it’s about the right size, like a cigar box.
I dump out some old hockey cards of mine and then examine the empty interior. I want to let Wes know that I’m with him. When he gets this, he’ll understand. This was always our way of saying how much we care. I’m embarrassed that I haven’t done anything like this for him in a long time, either.
The last time a box had traded hands, he’d sent it to me at Lake Champlain, the week before we moved in together.Jesus Christ. The truth rolls through me like an icy breeze off Lake Ontario. It was I who broke the chain. Not him. Me.
I’ve just spent the last couple of months feeling like I was the one who tried harder in our relationship, and he was the rookie. I thought that doing a few extra loads of laundry made me better at the whole thing.
Not so much.
Though I can still fix it, right? I know what to do.
But minutes pass while I stare at the tidy, empty corners of the box, wondering what I have left of myself to put in here. There was a time when all our troubles were small enough to fit inside a box this size.
Defeat chases my confidence around and around in my head while I come up with ideas and then quickly discard them. A gag gift won’t cut it this time. And I’ve already given Wes a lifetime’s worth of Skittles. I need to give him asign.
It needs to be a big deal. And it needs to fit in the box.
Right.
I’m almost ready to give in to despair when the answercomes to me. And it’s so fucking obvious that I let out a laugh right there in the empty room.
Pulling out my phone, I tap my sister’s name.
“Jamester!” she says. “Did you watch? Omigod—”
“Jess!” I cut her off. “Go to the mall with me? I think I need your help.”
“Um…did you really just ask for my help? I must alert the media.”
“Shut it. Are you free or not?”
“Pick me up in fifteen.”
I jump into my shoes and yank open the bedroom door, only to find my mom standing on the other side, her fist poised to knock. “Can I borrow the car? It’s really important.”
“Of course,” she says without hesitation. “Let me grab the keys from my purse.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
WES
We win our second consecutive road game. But while everyone else piles onto the bus in high spirits, I just slouch in my seat, stare out the window, and wear what Blake has officially dubbed my Downer Donny frown.
I’m allowed to be down, though, because I still haven’t heard from Jamie. I don’t even know if he watched the interview— he hadn’t responded to the text I sent him after it aired. I covertly messaged both Cindy and Jess after Jamie’s radio silence, but they both answered that they “weren’t sure” if Jamie had seen it.
I wish I didn’t have to go back to Toronto tomorrow. All I want to do is hop on a plane to California and see Jamie, but I know management will kill me if I do. Frank told me this morning that my interview drew in a crazy amount of viewers. The team’s media department has been flooded with more interview requests, and Frank wants me in Toronto during this next stretch of home games. I need to be “available” in case he schedules any press conferences. I don’t see why that matters, because I don’t plan on talking to any more reporters, notunless it’s about hockey. My personal life is officially off the table for the foreseeable future.
“Knock it off, Donny.” Blake punches me in the shoulder, then proceeds to place his thumb and forefinger on either side of my mouth and literally turn my frown upside down.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“You should be. You’re bumming me out, and you know I’m not happy unless I’m happy.”
I stare at him. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”
“Naw. I’ve said dumber.”
