Because ten minutes in an arena hallway with Declan Reid and his criminally disloyal dog had felt more present than an entire dinner with the woman I was supposed to love, or at least love better than this. Vanessa wasn’t doing anything wrong by talking about her life. She had a life. Goals. Stress. People who expected things from her. I knew how it felt to be reduced to the parts other people could use.
And still, while she talked, I caught myself thinking about Winnipeg in February and inefficient affection.
“Jace?”
I blinked. “Sorry. What?”
Her face fell a little before she fixed it. “I asked if you could come to the Scottsdale thing if the schedule works.”
“Maybe. Send me the dates.”
“I did.”
“Right. Sorry. Send them again?”
She took a sip of wine. “Sure.”
No fight. No scene.
Just the small exhaustion of being let down in a familiar way.
By the time I got home, my head felt crowded and sour.
Roman called as I was kicking off my sneakers.
“What?” I answered.
“Charming.”
“I’m busy.”
“You’re never busy when you say you’re busy. You’re usually standing in one sock thinking about opening the fridge.”
I looked down at my one sock.
Damn it.
“What do you want?”
“To ask what is going on with you lately.”
I stopped moving.
Roman’s voice lost the lazy edge. “You’re distracted. Not normal distracted. Different.”
“There are categories?”
“With you? Many.”
I sat on the couch. “I don’t know.”
That was the truth, and it felt strange enough that I didn’t dress it up.
Roman was quiet for a second. “Is it Vanessa?”
“No. Maybe. Not like that.”
“Hockey?”
