Wishing you well.
Talk soon.
All these random email sign-offs pop into my head, but none of them feel quite right.
“Dude, quit overthinking this,” I scold myself.
Del appears in front of me. “What’s that?”
“Nothing,” I mutter, staring at the screen.
He points at my phone. “You’re supposed to power that down, Teej.”
“I know, alright. Give me one second.”
I tap out the first thing that comes to my head.
TJ
Taking off here. Say hi to the chickens for me. And enjoy rewatching my highlight video. I’ll text soon to check in!
Was the exclamation point too much? It feels like it was too much, but there’s no going back now.
Chapter 21
Lucy
“Act cool. Act natural. This isn’t weird at all. Being at TJ’s house … without him. To check on his chickens.” I slam the door to my car and dart a furtive look over my shoulder like I’m some sort of undercover operative. I check my posture. I’m hunched like a turtle ready to bury its head in its shell.
“Pull it together, Lu.” I stand up straighter, even as the wind howls all around me. “And stop talking to yourself,” I add, realizing full well I’m being ridiculous. “I’m a writer. I always talk to myself.” I roll my eyes at the conversation I’m carrying on with me, myself, and I. “Okay enough.”
I suck in a breath and cast another glance toward TJ’s quiet street. I left Cashmere Cove at two, before the River Foxes game started, but Daisy’s Inn is a solid thirty-minute drive from Green Bay. Factor in the snowstorm that hit when I was about halfway, and my thirty-minute drive turned into an hour and fifteen-minute harrowing commute. The River Foxes game is now well underway in Buffalo, and everyone who lives in this neighborhood is glued to their TV or has made the trip east to catch the action in person. Or so I’m assuming. It’s deadsville around here.
I tuck my chin deep into my coat and hurry to TJ’s back door, clutching my bag to my side. Honestly, I could use a turtle’s shell right about now. Wisconsin winters are brutal.
On his back stoop, I bend and run my mittened finger under the mat. The photo TJ sent me of himself crouched right here flies to the forefront of my mind. Nobody should look that goodpointing at the corner of a doormat, and then there’s TJ, effortlessly cool.
I fumble with the lock and manage to shove the door inward. It’s dark, and thanks to the winter storm, the afternoon sky is a murky gray, so there’s not much daylight coming in through the windows. I flip on the overhead light in the back entrance and let my eyes adjust. My gaze snags on a notebook next to the ceramic key bowl.
Dear Lu,
Make yourself at home. There’s food and drinks in the fridge. Don’t feel like you have to get right back on the road to Cashmere Cove. What’s mine is yours, so feel free to stay awhile. Thanks for helping out with the ladies. I owe you one. Go River Foxes!
TJ
Okay. How cute is a handwritten note? I grab the notebook and reread his message as I walk into the living room. The sad-looking table-top Christmas tree in the corner is still undecorated. I wonder if TJ’s not really the Christmas-y type. It’s strange, considering the man doesn’t seem to do anything at half-strength, and yet the Christmas tree is decidedly unfinished. I could ask him about it. It seems like something friends would know about each other.
I’ve been walking this fine line where TJ is concerned. Trying to figure out what’s appropriate friend behavior. I’m significantly out of practice. His text messages on Friday felt flirty. I chalked it up to TJ’s personality. I’m pretty sure the man flirts with anything that has a pulse. The way he square danced with me should not have turned me on, but it definitely did. Still, that’s a me-problem. It’s not his fault. I need to tread carefully, or I’m going to wind up hung up on TJ Wilson.
I set my bag on the couch and notice the remote. I power on his TV. I promised him I’d watch the game, and I’m a woman ofmy word. Friends watch other friends play sports. It takes me a few attempts to figure out what buttons do what, but eventually I get the River Foxes game playing. The score at the bottom of the screen reads Green Bay River Foxes, 28, Buffalo Cavalry, 3.
I do a little jig, happy to see the River Foxes taking care of business. I watch as the skinny guy from Buffalo stands back from a long line of other, less skinny guys. The skinny guy runs up to the line and kicks the ball. It sails in a high arc above the field and lands way at the other end.
Everyone from the River Foxes ignores it, so I figure it must be out of bounds. The camera pans to a group of River Foxes players jogging onto the field. I recognize Anton Bates, the player the camera currently has in focus. Behind him is TJ.
I will neither confirm nor deny my body’s instant reaction at the sight of him. Suffice it to say, my eyes drink him in like a kid chugging down a juice box. All of him. All at once. I’ll never admit this to him, but I watched his fifteen-minute highlight reel five times in full since he sent it to me. It’s impressive watching him on the field. He’s like a man on a mission, and I’m totally here for it.
Right now, he’s wearing his helmet, so I can’t see the lightning bolt in his hair. Pity. He’s grinning and clapping his hands. Hands that were on my waist and spinning me around the square dance floor less than three full days ago.
