Prologue
Two years ago . . .
“Can’t I just go back to the hotel room?” I ask Lucas, my husband of three years, as he holds open the door to a dimly lit bar he’s dragged me to and motions for me to follow him.
“How is it going to look if my wife doesn’t join me?” Lucas answers, unimpressed with my question, throwing a hand up to his colleagues that are taking up a corner booth all the way in the back.
“Honey, I’m the only wife going. All the other wives are back in their rooms.”
“Yes, well everyone else’s wives aren’t supportive. I need to show them that you support me. You know how important family is to the executives at my company.”
“Fine,” I answer with a silent huff as I internally roll my eyes. No sense in getting him hung up on myattitude. While I love my husband, I don’t love having to trail him like a lost puppy. He had a work commitment in Toronto this week, and somehow,I got roped into coming with him. Instead of being at home, in my own space, reading through my new favorite series while enjoying some me-time, I’m stuck with a bunch of overgrown frat boys and their annoying wives.
“Besides, all the other wives are gone. They either have children to take care of, or are pregnant.”
And there it is. It wasn’t bad enough that five out of the seven of his colleagues we’re meeting at the bar made comments about the fact that I had yet to give my husband a child, but nowhehad to bring it up as well.
I should have known one way or another that kids were going to be brought up tonight. If it wasn’t kids, it was going to be why I didn’t change my last name after we got married. Two topics that seem to be ever present these days.
Maybe if everyone knew that I was already taking care of a child, an adult child—a.k.a. my husband—they wouldn’t be asking me when I’m going to pop out children. Maybe they should be asking him how the bills get paid, or how his lunch seems to always be made every morning, or how his laundry is always pressed and ready to go. I mean, really, the guy has an MBA and works for one of the biggest consulting firms in North America, you’d think he’d know how to work a vacuum . . .
Lost in my own rant, I didn’t realize I’d been unceremoniously deposited at the bar by Lucas before he went and joined his colleagues at the back of the room. Again, why did he bring me here if he was going to let me sit here alone?
Sometimes I wonder how I ended up married to a man like Lucas. I married the exact type of man I said I would never marry. When we first met he was sweet, attentive, and encouraging. It was easy to fall in love with him. But lately he’s the complete opposite. I almost don’t recognize the man I married only three short years ago. Like him, I got my MBA after getting a bachelor’s degree in English Literature and a minor infinance. Sure, I’ve always loved numbers, but I never wanted to work in the field—it wasn't my passion. My parents only agreed to help with my tuition if I conceded to “not waste my time and get a useful degree.” Suffice to say they are both married to their jobs as well-respected business consultants in Vancouver.
My real passion is literature. What Ireallywant to do is help people fall in love with books as much as I have. Growing up, I always pictured myself working in a local library by day and writing by night. I wanted to put my literature degree to good use, not my MBA.
“Miss? Miss, can I get you anything?” the bartender asks as he waves a hand in my face.
“Oh my . . . Sorry, I guess I got lost in my own thoughts,” I say, feeling my cheeks get red. “I’ll take a whiskey sour, please.”
Looking around, I spot Lucas, still in the corner booth being loud and obnoxious with his colleagues. You would think a bunch of thirty-year-olds would be better behaved.
“Here you go, Miss. Anything else I can get you?” he asks as he puts down my drink.
“No, that’ll be all. Thanks.”
Sipping my drink, I look around in boredom, wondering when I’ll be able to slip out and go to bed. By the way Lucas and his colleagues are acting, I have maybe one or two more drinks to wait before I can escape without notice.
Saving me from having to spend the next thirty minutes slowly sipping this whiskey sour as I contemplate how I got to this point in life—abandoned at a bar in a city I don’t know—my phone starts to ring. Looking down, I feel a smile instantly break across my face.
“Levi,” I say. Immediately, my mood gets better. Whose mood wouldn’t be when their younger brother, or pseudo-younger brother calls.
“Hi, Hannah. Are you busy?” he asks in a quiet tone, making me frown. As the youngest, he has five older siblings, plus me, making sure he was as spoiled as can be. I’ve rarely heard this tone from him.
“What’s wrong?” I ask immediately, sitting up straighter. “Everything okay there, Little Jones?”
“No one calls me that anymore. Things are good, moving fast.”
“Shouldn’t you be packing?” If I’m not mistaken, according to the sibling group chat, he’s leaving our hometown of Vancouver for Calgary anytime now. He got drafted by the Calgary Rockies, and even though his first ever NHL training camp as their star rookie isn’t for another couple months, he already has a place to live lined up and everything.
“I can’t believe I’m starting my rookie season with the Calgary Rockies in September. As of tomorrow afternoon, I will officially be a Calgarian,” he answers, almost shyly.
“I know. Is that why you’re calling me?”
“I don’t know anyone on the team. I’ve never spent much time in Calgary either.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. Aren’t there like three or four new young guys this year? I thought this was a rebuilding year? I’ve been to Calgary, and honestly, I’d move there in a heartbeat if I could. You’ll love it,” I say, wishing I could be with him to give him a reassuring hug.
