Chapter 7
7
ECHO
“Are you sure you don’t want company?” Anita looks worried, and after what happened over the weekend, I get it.
“No, I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I turn my key in the lock and let myself into my dorm room, a little surprised when she doesn’t try to follow me in.
Honestly, it’s a miracle she’s letting me out of her sight. She’s been like an overprotective mama bear. Even though I refuse to explain what’s behind my occasional panic attacks, I’m sure she’s noticed enough context clues to guess.
I step inside and a wave of vanilla-scented warm air greets me. Martina must have left her diffuser going and the heater on before she went to class. I shut the door, flip the lock, and cross the room to my bed, where I stop short.
There’s a wrapped bundle on my pillow. I never get any mail, so I have no idea what it is or whom it’s from. Come to think of it, mail isn’t delivered to dorm rooms. We have to collect it from a cubby hole downstairs. So what’s up with this?
I tiptoe closer, threads of anxiety spooling in my gut. The package looks to have something reasonably thick inside. There’s nothing written on the back. I turn it over, but the other side is also blank.
My gut tightens. The package is the size and shape of a book, but I didn’t order one recently, and no one has offered to loan me anything, so there’s no reason for it to be here. I briefly consider that it might be Martina’s, but the way it’s displayed on my pillow leaves no doubt that it’s intended for me.
My guess is that someone delivered it by hand and Martina placed it here for me to find.
Tentatively, I sit on my bed and place whatever it is on my lap. It’s sealed, so I gently tear the paper wrapping open. The rip is uncomfortably loud in the quiet room.
I reach inside and brush my fingertips along the spine of a book. I grip the edges and slowly draw it out. The book is bound in faded blue leather, with black lettering on the spine and front. The title reads: A Collection of Poems from the Romantics .
A slip of paper falls from inside the cover and lands on my lap. I pick it up and, as I scan the familiar handwriting, my chest begins to tighten.
I don’t have the words for how I feel about you, but these guys do. ~Tyler
There’s an XO printed beside his name and the letters are wobbly, as if he was nervous when he wrote them.
I bite my lip. It’s a gift. I should have expected him to send another after slipping the necklace into my backpack the other day.
If he’s trying to make it more difficult to hate him, he’s succeeding.
He knows how much I love poetry, and there’s something about old books that’s absolutely magical. Their slightly musty scent, the delicate pages, and the knowledge that dozens of others have pored through them over the years. I can never help wondering who they were, where they lived, and what their lives were like.
Against my better judgment, I open the book and read the small print on the inside cover. My eyebrows fly up. It’s a first edition. I close the book and scan the exterior. It’s in excellent condition.
This can’t have been cheap. My stomach hardens, my softness toward him vanishing. It would be just like Tyler to think he could buy my forgiveness. That said, he chose an excellent way to do it. I gaze at the cover longingly. I can’t keep it. That wouldn’t be right.
But damn him for knowing just how to press my buttons. Especially now, when I’m still emotionally tender from my experience at the Kickoff party. I don’t want to be reminded of him, or of the fact that he supposedly saved me from a creep and comforted me during a panic attack.
I don’t know what to make of that, so it’s best if I don’t think of it. In order to keep him out of my head, the book has to go, and so does the necklace. If he refuses to take them back, I’ll just have to give them away or donate them. The library is always looking for rare editions.
It doesn’t matter how much I want it for myself. My peace of mind is more important.
Metal clinks on metal as a key turns in the lock, and then the door swings open. Martina breezes into the room, a wide smile on her face. Her plump cheeks are rosy, and she pauses to breathe in the scented air.She glances at me and notices the book in my hands and the discarded envelope.
“Oh, good,” she says. “You found your gift.”
“I did.” And now I feel like a kid with their hand caught in the cookie jar. “Did someone give this to you?”
“Mmhmm.” Her glossy pink lips adopt a sly slant.
“Who?” I don’t have the mental energy to play guessing games as she’d probably like me to. I know Tyler sent it, but I’m curious if he delivered it himself. If so, it means he knows where my room is, or at least what my roommate looks like.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re no fun. It was that hockey transfer student. Tall, blonde, built like Thor. I wouldn’t mind seeing his hammer—if you know what I mean.”
“Thanks.” I bite my tongue. For all that she’s a shameless flirt, Martina means well, so there’s no point snapping at her just because Tyler is throwing me off my game.
“So, what is it?” she asks, coming closer.
“A first edition collection of poems by the romantics.” I hold it up to show her. “Do you want it?”
She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Girl, no. If a guy like that wants to woo you, you let him.” She frowns, then adds, “Unless you’re dating someone, or identify as part of the rainbow spectrum that isn’t interested in men.”
“I’m straight,” I tell her, amused by the speculative gleam in her eye.
She throws up her hands. “Then what’s the problem? If you ask me, that’s a pretty romantic gift.”
It is. That’s the problem.
Tyler is being annoyingly thoughtful about trying to buy my forgiveness.
“I don’t want it,” I say. “Tyler and I have history, and it’s not the type I want to remember.”
Her deep brown eyes shine with sympathy. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I don’t have any use for a poetry book. You know I’m not much of a reader.”
I sigh. “You could sell it.”
“Or you could return it to him and say, ‘Thanks but no thanks’?”
Damn, I hate the fact she makes a valid point. Tyler’s family has money, but his father always kept him on a tight leash, so I don’t know how much he has personally or whether he can afford to throw it away. I should give him the chance to resell or return the book before I get rid of it.
“Maybe,” I mumble, my mind already busy trying to work out where I could track him down. I’ve given no thought to his living situation here.
Mostly because I’ve been doing my best not to think of him at all.
Is he in a dorm?
No, that doesn’t seem like his Dad’s style. He’d insist Tyler be in a fraternity or else live in an expensive apartment off campus.
I open my social media and search his name, frustrated that he pops up immediately because I’ve already cyber-stalked him several times. I don’t need to be reminded of my weakness.
I scroll through his information, looking for any hint of where he might live, but the sparse details don’t give me much to work with.
“You could wait for him after practice.”
I flinch, surprised that Martina managed to sneak up on me. She’s hovering over me, watching me behave like the kind of stalkery ex-girlfriend that guys warn each other about.
“What?” I ask, her words not making any sense.
She shrugs. “The hockey team has practice today. If you want to give the book back to him, you could catch him as he leaves the ice.”
“That’s…a good thought.” I don’t ask how she knows the hockey team’s schedule. Sometimes it’s better not to know. “Any idea what time they finish?”
TYLER
I stride into the changing room, inhaling the familiar aroma of cold sweat and menthol. Hockey gear has a distinctive scent that comes from working up a sweat in such a cold environment, and then never drying properly. The only thing I can compare it to is damp socks that have been worn for a couple of days straight.
It’s nasty, but it also reminds me of one of my favorite things in the world, so I don’t hate it.
Half the team are already undressed or in the showers. I sit and remove my skates before stripping off my gear. I wrap a towel around my waist and I’m heading for the showers when Ruiz, one of the second-line wingers, calls out to me.
“Kinsey!”
I turn toward him. “What?”
“I’m going to visit my girlfriend after I’m dressed,” he says.
“Good for you.” Why does he think he needs to share this with me?
He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “She has a super-hot roommate. I’m a happily taken, man, but this girl is fire. Why don’t you come and meet her?”
Ah. There it goes. These guys seem to have made a game out of trying to hook me up.
“Not interested.” I turn away and enter one of the shower cubicles, slinging the towel over the divider between my shower and the next one over.
“You never get any action!” Ruiz yells from behind me. “Your balls are going to shrivel up and die, man. Do them a favor.”
A few of the guys laugh. Someone whistles.
Calmly, I shout back, “There’s only one woman I’m interested in.”
There’s an explosion of whispers in the locker room. Until now, I’ve been tight-lipped about my intentions, but perhaps that isn’t the best way to go. I crank the shower on, tuning them out, and quickly wash, then shut it off again.
As I’m drying, a voice rises above the others again.“Is it that girl you were with the other day?”
I scowl and push the cubicle door open. Matthews, the guy who witnessed Echo shooting me down, has joined the others and is looking my way. I narrow my eyes at him, then sweep my gaze around all the horny fuckers who might find it funny to get in my way.
“Yeah. Echo. And if any of you even look at her sideways, I’ll make you regret it.”
None of them deserve her. I don’t either, but I don’t care. She’s mine, and that’s all there is to it.
“Calm the fuck down, Kinsey,” Ruiz says.
I ignore him. “She’s off-limits.”
None of them reply. Perhaps they’re all too busy wondering if I’m secretly psychotic. After a long minute, Matthews strikes up a conversation with our captain, Anaheim, about the first game of the season. Gradually, the murmur of voices returns. I dress, sling my duffel bag over my shoulder, and leave without saying goodbye.
As I exit the arena, the cool breeze sends goosebumps skittering over the exposed skin of my face. My mind travels to Echo. Has she found my gift? Does she like it? Even if it only softens her toward me a tiny bit, I’ll take the win.
A handful of cars are dotted around the parking lot. I hurry past the glass-paneled stadium walls toward my vehicle, a black Audi in last year’s model. I’m halfway there when movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention.
I glance over my shoulder. Echo is beelining across the concrete, her gaze locked on me. She’s carrying the book I sent her, and resting on top of it is the jewelry box containing the shooting star necklace.
“What are you doing?” she demands, her eyes sparking with fury.
I frown. That’s not quite the reaction I’ve been hoping for.
“Leaving practice,” I say, deciding it’s in my best interest to play dumb.
Her glare intensifies and she waves the gifts in my direction. “I mean with these.”
I raise my chin. “I’m wooing you the way I should have back then.”
“W-wooing me?” she stutters, blinking rapidly, having apparently not expected that response.
“Yes. I want you to have nice things. You deserve to. I didn’t treat you as well as I should have in the past, but I’m going to make it up to you.”
If it takes my last fucking breath, I’ll make sure she knows how much she means to me.
“You…what?” She shakes her head and thrusts them toward me. “Just take them. I can’t keep them.”
“Why not?” I ask.
She opens her mouth, then closes it. Her lips press together, and she huffs through her nostrils.
“I just can’t,” she says. “I won’t accept gifts from you. Take them back.”
I slide one of my hands into my pocket and use the other to hold onto the strap of my duffel bag, so neither of them are free to take anything from her.
“They’re yours.” My tone is firm. “You can sell them and use the money to pay for something you actually want if that’s what you’d prefer, but whatever happens, I’m not taking them.”
She nervously runs a finger along the wire arm of her glasses. “You can’t just give me random gifts. These must be worth hundreds of dollars.”
Thousands, actually.
I shrug. “It’s my choice what I do with my money. I choose to spend it on you. What you do with my gifts is up to you.”
Her eyelashes flutter, and is it just me, or do her glasses seem to be fogging up? “Why won’t you just let me go?”
My heart squeezes, and my insides roll nauseatingly. The anguish in her voice makes me want to be sick. My lips part but no words emerge.
Her shoulders slump. “Haven’t you done enough to me?”
Oh, fuck. Fuck. She’s going to cry.
If she keeps this up, I might cry too. My throat is tight, emotion choking me.
“That’s not what this is,” I whisper, barely audible.
She steps back and tucks the book underneath her arm while she uses her other hand to remove her glasses and wipe the lenses.
“Is this all some kind of twisted game to you?” she asks.
“No.” I reach for her, but the second I touch her arm she recoils so much that she stumbles. “I love you.”
Three little words I’ve never said to anyone else. Not Mom. Not Soraya. Sure as hell not that asshole who tried to mold me in his image.
“I’ve always loved you, even if I haven’t shown it well.”
She scoffs and swipes at her eyes. “Yeah. You have a unique way of making me feel so loved.”
I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood, and it reminds me of the first day I ever wanted to kiss her. After she saw how my father treated me and somehow looked past my threatening bluster to react with kindness.
“You’re the only girl I’ve ever loved,” I tell her. “I haven’t been with anyone since you. I haven’t even kissed anyone else since the day we broke up. I know that doesn’t make things right, but I want a second chance, and I can explain if you’re willing to listen.”
She puts her glasses back on, and the air between us chills ten degrees. I can tell by the way she’s doing it that those glasses represent a barrier between us that she’s fortifying with every breath she takes.
“You expect me to believe you haven’t been with any of those puck bunnies that fawn all over college athletes?” Her words drip with venom.
“I haven’t.” I understand why she might doubt me, but it’s the truth.
A flicker of pain crosses her features. “Or Whitney?”
“I wasn’t with her like that. I never cared about her. Please, let me explain.” My fist clenches around the strap, and a rock sits heavy in my gut. It feels like everything rides on this moment.
Echo looks me straight in the eyes. “I don’t believe you.”
Then she leaves, taking the broken remnants of my heart with her.