Page 5 of Westward

“It is my end-of-school pie, something we have done since my kindergarten year. I’m getting us pie. And Sweet & Tart makes the best pie.”

“Better than that Ashy Buns place,” my dad teased.

I laughed, listening to them as my phone went to Bluetooth, and I drove down the small town roads towards Sweet & Tart.

The bakery had once been owned by another woman—a woman who had hated me with the fire of a thousand suns because I had been Atlas’s girl. And then had dumped our breakup in my face until she found someone of her own and had finally left town. Our friend Bronwyn had ended up buying the place and changed the name to Sweet & Tart. And Bronwyn knew how to make her pies.

“We’ll be here waiting for pie, and I’ll put on the tea,” Dad said. I could practically hear him smacking his lips in anticipation.

I laughed and said my goodbyes before parking in front of the bakery. Frankly, I was surprised I found a spot because everybody was out in the beautiful sunlight with the perfect temperature, picking up desserts and presents for the graduation and festivals coming up. Tourists filled the area, and the locals just looked happy that it was no longer snowing.

I had an entire summer off to do what I wanted, maybe to travel, to organize my house, and to paint a few walls. I was planning to hike and enjoy myself.

School wasn’t in session, and it wasn’t hockey season. It had always been my favorite time growing up.

And I hated the fact that I had even thought about hockey season. Why Atlas was continuously on my mind these days, I would never know. No, I knew exactly why. Because my friend Felicity—Atlas’s little sister—had found love, and others in my life were starting to find love as well. People were growing, figuring out what they wanted, and I did my best to tell myself I wasn’t being left behind.

Just because I was now thirty-one and single didn’t mean I had always been.

And it wasn’t like I compared every man in my life to Atlas. That would be wrong.

Because if anybody looked up photos of Atlas, you knew that he wasn’t comparing me to anyone. He might not have gotten married either, but he sure as hell hadn’t been celibate.

I ground my teeth together, telling myself I was an idiot.

No need to be thinking about him.

Even if it was off-season, and there’s a high probability he would be back in town. Like always.

I walked into the bakery as everybody chatted amongst themselves, either snacking or waiting for their order. I waved at Bronwyn, who pointed to the back, and I knew she would go and get my pie.

I talked to a few people about the upcoming graduation, and everybody was so good about not talking about the fact that the Portland Gliders had been knocked out in the third round of the playoffs. No Stanley Cup for them. It had broken my heart for Atlas, because I’d never hated him—contrary to popular belief. But I didn’t really want to talk about it with everyone else.

As Bronwyn handed over the pie, a news bulletin filled the room, and I turned as everyone quieted.

“Portland Gliders hockey star Atlas Carter was released from the hospital earlier this week after an attack at the arena. No word as to who was responsible, or the motivations, but he was found in the team shower, unconscious, and the fact that they were able to keep it under wraps for so long is sparking rumors of rivalries.”

Reporters continued to speak, speculating about who had attacked him and the injuries he would have. After all, an injured goalie meant they didn’t know what would happen to his career. He was thirty-one—still young and not even the oldest on the ice, but nearing it in some eyes.

And with an up-and-coming goalie on the bench, what would this mean for Atlas Carter’s career?

“Oh my God, did you hear?” someone began, and then I blinked as I realized that every eye in the bakery was on me. The looks of confusion, anger, worry, and pity covered their faces, and I tried not to throw up.

They had looked at me like this when I had come home without him, and then again the first time he had walked down the street arm-in-arm with someone who wasn’t me.

Bile covered my tongue, but it had nothing to do with their looks, because Atlas had been hurt.

And nobody had told me.

Suddenly, a hand touched my arm, and the pie fell from my hands, splattering onto the floor, leaving pastry and cherry sprawled over the tile, as if a murder scene had been left behind.

Had Atlas bled? Is this what it had looked like in the shower when he’d lain prone and unheard? Why hadn’t anyone told me?

“Come with me,” Teagan said.

“I’ve got the mess,” Bronwyn said, and I had a feeling she didn’t just mean the pie on the ground.

And suddenly, Teagan was pulling me into her car, and I was trying to catch my breath.