“You know what I mean.” My arms are shaking, but I ignore the pain. “Oliver is…he’s Oliver. Larger than life. Everyone loves him. He could have anyone he wants.”
“And, apparently, he did.” Jackson’s voice is gentle, not mocking. “But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t also want you.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? The guy goes out of his way to acknowledge you every time he sees you. You said it yourself—he’s been trying to reconnect.”
“Because he’s being nice.”
“I think he wants to be your friend again. The question is, do youwanthim back in your life?”
I open my mouth to change the subject, the current topic becoming too heavy for my liking, but something in Jackson’s expression stops me.
Do I want Oliver back in my life?The answer rises from somewhere deep, a truth I’ve been burying under layers of avoidance and rationalization. “Yes,” I whisper. “I do.”
The words leave my mouth, and I’m free-falling, stomach dropping as the ground rushes away. But my shoulders feel lighter than they have in years.
Jackson’s eyes crinkle at the corners, his teethflashing white as the corners of his mouth lift high enough to create that one dimple on his right cheek. “Was that so hard?”
“Yes. Incredibly.”
“Well, get used to it, because here’s what’s going to happen.” He finally releases his position, sitting back on his heels and pulling me up with him. The Twister mat lies forgotten beneath us. “You’re going to stop running. You’re going to stop convincing yourself you don’t deserve good things. And you’re going to take one tiny, manageable step toward reacquainting yourself with Oliver Jacoby.”
“What kind of step?”
“Find him on Facebook and send him a friend request.”
I gape at Jackson as if he’s proposed we go skydiving without parachutes. “That’s your plan? A Facebook friend request?”
“It’s low stakes. Nonthreatening. You don’t even have to say anything—just click a button.” He pulls out his phone and waves it at me. “Come on. I’ll walk you through it.”
“I know how Facebook works, Jackson.”
“Then you know it’s easy. One click. That’s all.”
I look at the phone in his hand, then at my own laptop sitting innocently on my desk.One click.Such a small but terrifying act. I can’t keep running forever, though. Jackson is dating his teammate; we’ll be crossing paths even more now.
“Fine,” I say, the word escaping before I can second-guess myself. “I’ll do it.”
Each step toward my desk feels like walking the plank. My pulse thunders in my ears as I lift the laptop lid, wincing at the Ice Queen’s blog still glowing on the screen. One quick click banishes her words, and I find myself staring at Facebook’s familiar blue banner instead.
Jackson’s shadow falls over me, the smell of his pine-scented deodorant announcing his presence before his arms appear in my peripheral vision. His palms make soft thuds as they land on either side of my laptop, boxing me in between his forearms. “Type his name,” he instructs. “Oliver Jacoby. J-A-C-O-B-Y.”
“I know how to spell his name, Jackson.”
“Just making sure you don’t ‘accidentally’ misspell it and give up.”
He knows me too well.
The cursor blinks in the search bar, patient and unassuming. Such a simple action. Type a name. Click a button. Change everything.
I type: O-L-I-V-E-R J-A-C-O-B-Y.
His profile appears immediately, because why wouldn’t it? It’s not like there’s anyone else around these parts with that name. It’s so…unique. The profile picture shows him in his Barracudas jersey, helmet tucked under one arm, with that devastating grin plastered across his face. Even compressed into a square of pixels, his face hits me with the same impact as those glossy photos they plaster across newsstands.
“There he is,” Jackson says, entirely too cheerfully. “Now click on his profile.”
I do as I’m told, and we’re greeted with photos of hockey victories, team bonding moments, and one particularly adorable shot of him holding someone’s kitten. His “About” section lists his major (sports management), his hometown (Westbrook), and his relationship status (single).
