Page 142 of This is a Kissing Book

“There’s nothing to say. She’s ancient history.”

“Photos surfaced of you two hugging.”

A memory clicks into place. “We ran into each other before the rooftop party. She ambushes people. Plus, that was when you hated me. It meant nothing.”

“Right. When I hated you.” She hefts her bags.

“Jules, please⁠—”

She snorts. “I was right. You’re a chucklechump.”

Laughter erupts out of me like a shaken soda can. The sound is completely inappropriate given the circumstances, but I can’t help it.

She opens the front door. “Oh, and from now on, I’m Miss Lindley to you. Or Juliana. Actually, you can call me anything but Jules. Julia, Juliette, even Yulia will do.”

The hurt and hostility in her tone stop my laughter cold. I know exactly when I chose Jules. Fell in love with her. The name made her mine.

And now she’s taking it away. Leaving.

“Jules—”

“Miss Lindley,” she corrects sharply, then steps into the hallway.

The door closes with a soft click that sounds like the end of everything.

I don’t sleep. Instead, I sit on my couch staring out at the city lights, my thoughts alternating between static and replaying every moment of my time with Jules. The memory montage plays like a “best of” highlight reel—her laugh, appreciation when I indulged her chocolate addiction, the way she felt in my arms at the lake house, the trust in her eyes when she told me about her father.

She is everything to me. More important than my hockey career, the high of winning a game, and the hope of hitting the Stanley Cup someday.

I screwed it all up. My jewel—because that’s what Jules means to me, something rare and precious—and I let everything fall apart.

The next morning, Bīriņš shows up at my door with coffee. He launches into a recap of the game and then goes still, taking in my appearance with a wrinkled brow.

“Do I really look that bad?”

“It’s the perfect sunny day for a final ride in the boat before I put it away for the season, but a soggy gray cloud hangs over you.”

I let him in and collapse back onto the couch. “I messed up, Bīriņš. Really messed up.”

He settles into the chair across from me, his usually animated face solemn. “What’s up?”

I tell him about Jules, about the lies, about how I chose fear over honesty and lost the best thing that ever happened to me. He listens without judgment or teasing—a first—occasionally nodding or making sounds of understanding.

When I finish, he’s quiet for a long moment, then he lets out a laugh.

“Not exactly helpful, bro.”

“No, I got it. When I got citizenship here, I learned all about your forefathers. Your great-grandfather or whatever, especially.”

The guys will forever be amused that I am indeed related to Abraham Lincoln.

I correct, “He was my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather.”

“You know what your boy Abe said about a house divided?” he says with his Eastern European accent.

I raise an eyebrow. Bīriņš quoting American history isn’t exactly in his usual playbook.

“It cannot stand,” I recite. “But what does that have to do with⁠—?”