I sniffed it. Freshly washed.
I opened the closet door to hang it up and a little piece of paper blew out into the foyer. I unfolded it, only slightly curious and didn’t recognize the clean, easy to read handwriting.
Hunter,
Sorry I haven’t texted you today. Everything went great! I can’t wait to tell you in person. Guess what? I already have another job. I’m gonna wait tables at the Lodo grill and work on my thesis. I’m looking forward to hiking tomorrow.
I can’t call you ’cause I face planted in the mall and lost my phone. Just wanted you to know. I’m a little worried since it has that picture you sent me. Hopefully a bum found it and threw it in the river?
Anyway, see you tomorrow.
Holly
I glanced at the door and then down at the floor. Had she put this here yesterday? Why the closet? But then I closed the door and saw how it could have slid under the threshold of the apartment right into the closet.
But what did it mean?
I read it through again.
It had to be a crock of shit. Lies she’d made up in order to try to cover her tracks. Because, obviously the phone hadn’t ended up in the river. And all that other shit? She’s the only person I’d ever talked to. Besides, the story had referenced the strawberry ice cream. That was the nail in her coffin.
Dead.
To.
Me.
The next fewdays passed in a blur. Surprisingly, the fallout from the story died down quickly. I did a few interviews set up by the team with some real sports reporters and they spread the word that I was happy with my contract. And when the goalie for the Avalanche announced his retirement, attention shifted to him.
I walked through the days like a robot. This wasn’t like me. I hadn’t even felt this way after my divorce. At least that break up made sense. This one rankled. It mocked me. Taunted me.
After a week, I was notified by the pitching coach that they wanted me to meet with a sports psychologist. Nothing to do with what was really bothering me. They wanted me to work through any residual issues I had from that last game. From my sloppy pitch.
Hell, I’d practicallyforgotten that.
The only good thing I had going these days was a norm for me. My workouts were intense, long and efficient, and my diet perfect. The physical had never been a problem for me. Apparently, it was the other crap.
I’d had my first appointment with the psychologist today and he wanted me to focus on the people, the aspects, of my life that lifted me up. My family, my friends. We were going to work on acceptance. Some of the shit made sense, but most of it irritated me.
I slammed the door to my mustang and shuffled onto the elevator. I might have pushed too fucking hard this morning. Which pissed me off. I’d ice.
Ice was always a good idea.
I hit the 33 on the panel and rubbed my shoulder. A little after five, I wasn’t surprised when it stopped in the lobby. People were coming home about now. People who worked in offices. Cubicles. The doors swung open and a plastic looking woman confidently stepped on.
Her perfume about knocked me out.
When I realized she was staring, I glanced in her direction.
Oh F-u-u-u-ck No! Star Martin.
“Hey there, Lover boy.” A smarmy smile curled her lips. Her brows rose and she dug into the bag she was carrying. “You can give these back to your girlfriend. Tell her thank you for me.”
She held out a worn and tattered cloth brown book. Looked like a journal of some sort. And a cell phone.
Holly’s cell phone.
I’d already been told not to say a single word to this woman. Not about the story. Not about the date. Not about anything.
