Warmth enters my chest, wrapping around my heart like a heated blanket. It’s Mom, I realize. Giving me her love. Showing me that she’s not judging.
Kourtney touches the strands of hair that used to be pink. “You didn’t dye this because of him, right? You’re not trying to, like, impress him or anything.”
I shake my head, staring at my blond locks and missing the color. “No. This is about me trying to fit in.”
“Who says you need to?” she doubts.
I swallow. “I do.” My lips fall into a frown as that soaks in. “If I fit in, then things will be easier.”
Kourtney’s lips match my own. “I don’t think it’s as easy as that, babes. I wish it were.”
It’s hard to swallow suddenly as I truly see myself. The girl void of color. The one who has to force a smile. “I’m sorry about you and Brad,” I find myself saying quietly.
Kourtney’s smile reappears, but her eyes dim a fraction. “Me too, Win. Me too.” Her hand finds mine. “I’m sorry you fell in love with a married guy.”
I flinch. “I never said I loved him.”
She shrugs. “You didn’t have to.”
*
The Historical Associationdecided to host the gala in Fairbanks’s City Hall, which is one of the oldest buildings in the city limits. Its Greek architecture and large pillars make it look like it should be a museum full of rarities, not local government officials and court proceedings.
Tonight, there is no sign of the people who usually congregate around the historic building to pay fines, deal with speeding tickets, or trying to get special-use permits signed off by the board. There’s a literal red carpet rolled out that covers the marble steps, lights wrapped around the Corinthian-style columns, and temporary police bans posted along each side of the road so cars dropping off big-name people can stop curbside in front of the building.
Even though it seems silly to go all out for an event like this, they did a beautiful job. Everything looks so much more immaculate than usual. Government officials who usually wear jeans and plaid button-downs for board meetings are in tuxedos and cocktail dresses, and there’s not one work boot or flip-flop in sight.
I glance down at myself, suddenly glad that Kourtney forced me to try on the heels. They’re easier to walk in than I thought, considering I’m at least three inches higher than usual, and my go-to shoe choices are flat and hazard-free.
Well, usually. Mom used to say I could trip over painted lines, and she wasn’t wrong. I’d get scrapes and bruises just from walking. Once, I fellupthe stairs. The only good thing that came from that was knocking a baby tooth out of my mouth and getting five dollars from the Tooth Fairy.
I rub my arm as I stand a healthy distance away from the crowd gathering at the front entrance of the building. Janel was supposed to be here, but she couldn’t make it because of some other family event she had tonight. I’m a little sad about not having an ally here and wish I’d told Kourtney she could come when she begged me to be my plus one. I’m not even sure I’m allowed one, which is inevitably why I told her I should go alone.
Now I find myself uncomfortable because I can’t tell if I’m too dolled up or too dressed down. There are varying degrees of outfits as people pour out of cars and walk the carpet, getting photographed by two men at the top of the stairs. One of them we hired to ensure that Thomas and his teammates would get captured for news outlets and their own social media, and the other must have been hired by the association for their own use.
“There he is,” I hear someone say excitedly from a few cars down. A man opens the back door of a black Escalade with tinted windows, and I see someone vaguely familiar step out.
“Mr. Clarkson,” a white-haired man greets, holding out his hand for the man in a tailored suit to shake. “We’re glad you joined us. I’m Charles Westwood, head of the Historical Association.”
I realize after a few seconds of their pleasant conversation that this is the captain of the Fairbanks Fireflies. Which means—
“Thomas Moskins!” a little boy yells out, trying to jump past the rope someone stretched along the staircase to keep locals away from the partygoers. “Can you sign my jersey?”
My eyes instantly find the tall, broad man stepping out of the Escalade after his captain, and I swear my heart flutters for a second like I’m a teenager staring at her first crush.
He looks…different. Good. No, great. If men could be beautiful, I’d even label him that. But the man standing in front of the crowd of people wearing a charcoal gray suit and crisp white shirt underneath isn’t the same one I’ve spent the last few weeks with. This is Thomas Moskins, the hockey star, not the book-loving human being.
This version of him takes up space and makes the air buzz around him. This version dominates the conversations simply by existing, drawing attention from everybody nearby. People stare at him, not in judgment from all the things that led him to be front-page news, but in awe. They’re mesmerized by this larger-than-life figure.
I watch as he walks over to the boy beaming up at him with a marker in his hand. I’m not sure what he says to the young fan, but the boy’s smile grows three times bigger as Thomas bends down, writes on his shirt, and then gives the kid a high-five.
It’s sweet watching him interact with his fans. His softness toward them, especially the children, is another unexpected part of him that I’ve become rather fond of. It isn’t like the closed-off version who masks how he’s feeling when he’s around everybody else.
I find myself walking toward him without thinking, so I force myself to stop and observe from my carefully chosen spot out of the way of the action. I’m here to make sure he shows up and behaves. That’s all.
He’s the one who’s been avoiding me. He’s the one who took my secrets and disappeared with them like they meant nothing.
Calm down, I tell my racing heart.
