Page 141 of This is a Kissing Book

The words are clipped, cold. This isn’t the woman who whooped as she swung on the rope swing or fed me pieces of watermelon while I counted her freckles popping in the sunlight.

This is someone I don’t recognize.

The worst of it is she hardly looks at me.

She moves toward the door, bags in hand, and every instinct tells me to block her path. Instead, I let her pass, following her to the front door like a puppy.

She pauses, hand on the doorknob, but doesn’t turn around. “Where were you tonight?”

Like when the buzzer sounds to signal the end of a period and the puck streaks toward the net, I realize a moment too late what this is about. “I was at work. Playing hockey. For the Ottawa Outlaws. We lost to Chicago five to four. I scored a hat trick, but it wasn’t enough. I’m a professional hockey player, Jules. Have been for over six years. The summer internship was me trying to avoid disappointing my father for a few more months before the season started.”

She turns around slowly. Recognition flickers across her face. Followed by comprehension. And then, devastatingly, confirmation.

“I know,” she says quietly.

“You know?”

“I was there tonight at the arena. I watched you score all three goals.”

The words hit me like when Crofton slammed me into the boards. She was there. She saw everything—the crowd chanting my name, the celebration, the version of me that exists in the spotlight.

“Jules—”

“So those 'fans' who were lurking around the gallery building that night weren’t random weird people. They recognized you.”

I nod, feeling smaller with each word spoken. “Yeah.”

“Mistaken identity versus hidden identity,” she says, and there’s something sharp in her tone that cuts deep. “There is quite a difference.”

“I should have told you⁠—”

“When? When you mentioned you weren’t officially on the payroll? When we were talking about our hobbies? Interests? College? Surely you played while there. When you just shrugged and said something about your father owning Meridian and wanting to pass it on to you?” Her voice rises with each question. “That’s why you didn’t need to be paid. You just have oh-so-much money.”

“It’s not about the money⁠—”

“It is when you’re twenty-five thousand dollars in debt because your father was a jerk and the guys he wronged don’t want to forget about it, saddling me with his obligations.”

She’s on fire, but my defenses rise. “As if you haven’t done anything wrong,” I shoot back.

A heaviness like freshly poured cement settles between us, thick and immobilizing. We’re both carrying secrets, both guilty of deception, both standing in the wreckage of whatever trust we built.

“I stole gel highlighters,” she sniffs. “And maybe some Post-Its from the supply closet at Meridian.”

“Is that it?” The text from Drecken burns in my pocket. “I was told that you forged your diploma.”

Jules goes very still. Then, she leans against the door as if exhausted from the weight she’s had to carry. “In my original application, I added a few little embellishments to my resume. But I’m passionate about art history, and according to my professors, an exceptional student.”

“What about graduating?”

She meets my eyes directly. “Yeah, I claimed I have an art history degree. I didn’t finish because I had to take care of my ailing father. Alone.”

The word alone reverberates inside like a tuning fork, leaving silence in its wake. While I was playing division one hockey and complaining about my privileged problems—my roommate ate all my pizza rolls!—she was caring for a dying parent and sacrificing her own dreams.

“And what about Iva?” she asks, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“Iva?” The name feels foreign in my mouth after months of thinking only about Jules.

“Don’t play dumb, Linc-y.” Iva’s pet name feels like sludge in my ears.