“Do you see yourself there long term?” Stuart asked. Gen chided him under her breath. “What? I’m not saying it’s a bad job.”
The conversation paused for us to cheer for an especially impressive save from Kozlov. Stuart offered me more popcorn, which I accepted.
“I don’t know that it’s forever, but it’s great for now.” I sounded more confident than I felt. In my secret heart of hearts, I was afraid that it really would be my only thing forever. I had dreams that I barely knew how to articulate, and those felt impossibly far away evenbeforeI was pregnant. I didn’t want to put voice to the fear that I’d be doing the comfortable thing always.
“Barry says you’re a talented interior designer,” Gen said. Itook my eyes off the ice, surprised at both the idea of Barry talking about me and him telling his mom I was into interior design.
“That was kind of him.” I supposed he wasn’t lying—I really did love noodling over room renovations and how the right paints, textures, decorations, and light could make a room feelfinished,but he didn’t have much evidence of this beyond the in-progress baby room and my PowerPoint.
I tried my best to make every space look comfortable, even when I dreamed of transforming them someday, but the distance from where I was and where I wanted to be still felt vast.
“He respects you a great deal.” Gen looked straight at me, voice lower and serious. I believed her sincerity, and my stupid-ass hormones would have made my eyes water if Stuart didn’t start exclaiming, drawing our attention to the ice where O’Neil slid the puck up to Barry, who slap-shotted it to the net. It hit the top bar and dropped down—I could imagine my brother screaming BAR DOWN, LET’S GO BABY if he was here.
Gen, Stuart, and I all screamed, jumping up and down while the arena erupted. Gen wrapped an arm around me and jumped with me. While Barry skated past the goal, he pointed in our direction, grin on his face before his teammates skated into him in celebration.
CHAPTER 17
A TEAM SPORT
Barry was gone when I woke up the next morning, his air mattress already folded beneath his blankets and pillow. His keys still hung from the hook he kept them on, and his sneakers were gone from their spot on the shoe rack, so I guessed he was on a run. A text on my phone confirmed it, said he was jogging with his dad before his parents flew home later today.
How Barry had played thirty-one minutes of yesterday’s game and still wanted to run today was beyond me. He was a freak of nature.
I had a rare weekday off, which meant that, after sleeping in, I could finally tackle a few of the smaller projects that were waiting patiently in a line in the workshop room.
I started with putting art prints and pictures into thrifted frames for the baby’s room, then picked up the also-thrifted shelf that was just waiting to be hung up by the back door. I’d already done the hard work of stripping the paint, sanding (this is the part that’ll kill you), and staining the old wood shelf with three routed hearts that someone thought needed a coat of neon green paint.
I hated to hate on someone else’s DIY journey, but my grandpa told me once that painting over hardwood was a sin, and I had to agree with him. He was probably smiling down on me for my efforts.
Fixed-up shelf in hand, I juggled a handful of tools—the drill, the level, a pencil between my lips—and started playing with placement by the back door.
I had just determined where it should go, shelf in one hand, level in the other, when the back door opened, cold air coming in with a red-nosed Barry. He grinned as soon as he saw me and didn’t even take his coat off before reaching over my shoulder to hold the shelf for me.
It pressed his body to the side of mine in a way that immediately made me entirely aware of my nerve endings, my skin on high alert to every place his body was molded against mine.
“Morning,” he said. “I’ll hold, you level.”
I gulped, hopefully not as loudly as I feared, and gingerly pulled my hand away from holding the shelf to take the pencil from between my lips.
“Thanks,” I managed, and nudged his hand up or down until it was exactly in the place I wanted and level. I took my pencil and marked a line on the top of the shelf. Done with the task, he didn’t move for a couple of breaths, and neither did I.
I peered back over my shoulder and found him already looking down at me. His cheeks were pink too, like his nose, and I had the absurd desire to press my warm fingers against his face until he was warmed up.
It was the closest physically I’d been to Barry since finding him again. He stood much closer than this task necessitated, and the smell of him so close reminded me of New York. Of lapping kisses up the side of my neck and little pink hickies left in their wake the next morning.
“You can put it down now,” I said in what might have been my smallest voice.
Barry nodded just barely before lowering the shelf and stepping back. I felt cold all over and like I could suddenly breathe again, which was both a relief and something more concerning, too. I didn’t want him to step away; I found my mind crafting a catalog of fantasies of finding out once again just how good our physical chemistry was, one home improvement project at a time.
I tried to clear my throat, but I think it just sounded more like a growl, so I conjured a cough, which also sounded fake.
“My parents wanted me to tell you bye,” Barry said, saving me from making any more embarrassing sounds. “They adored you.”
“They did?”
“Of course they did. Come on.” Barry took another step back and shrugged out of his coat before toeing his shoes off and stowing them in their spot on the rack.
“Come on what?”
