From Now On (Holt Hockey #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

EVE

M y world upends mid-sip of merlot.

“I’m not sure we’re forever.”

I swallow. Sputter. Stare at Ben Fletcher, my boyfriend of almost four years. My ex -boyfriend, I guess, as of approximately ten seconds ago.

Because those five words—now on an endless loop in my head—aren’t ones you recover from. They’re words that haunt you late at night when you can’t sleep. They’re final .

I wish I could say this is the first time I’ve had my heart broken. It’s not. But it’s the first time it’s happened when I haven’t seen it coming. Experience counts for something, though. My hand doesn’t tremble as I set the wineglass down on the flawless white tablecloth.

Ben chose to utter that life-altering sentence in Somerville’s nicest restaurant, La Bella Napoli. Unless I want my legacy in this town to be stained linen and a public outburst, I have to keep it together.

I’m too shocked to react, I think. My lips are numb. My tongue is numb. I understand exactly what the true crime podcasts I listen to mean when they say the blood drained from her face . I can feel it taking place, a chill appearing as warmth sinks.

Ben drags a palm down his forehead and over his nose. He swears under his breath before dropping his hand. His Adam’s apple bobs once, like a nervous tic. “I—I didn’t mean to say it like that,” he tells me.

Didn’t mean to say it like that. Not Didn’t mean to say it .

I’d just told him “it won’t be forever” while we were discussing our living situation in the fall. Arguing about our living situation in the fall would be more accurate, actually.

For two years, The Plan has been for us to move to New York City together after graduation. I’d waitress or bartend or work retail until I became a famous artist and every gallery was clamoring to sell my work. Ben would attend NYU’s graduate film program and become an Oscar-winning director. We’d live in a shoebox that probably wouldn’t have air-conditioning and probably would have mice, eating ramen for most meals. But we’d be together, and we’d both be chasing our dreams.

That was The Plan.

It’s astonishing, how a single sentence can obliterate years of planning. Erase countless hours of conversations. It feels like I was halfway up a staircase, and the rest of the steps ahead just…vanished.

Ben exhales so heavily the taper candles on the table flicker.

“My uncle offered me a job.”

“At the seafood store ?”

Ben frowns. “It’s a profitable business, Eve.”

It’s a lobster shack. Calling it a store was generous. They don’t accept credit cards; it’s cash only. There’s no public restroom, and the bathroom that does exist is not exactly a privilege to pee in.

“But…you want to be a director,” I remind Ben, like he’s possibly forgotten about the dream he’s had for as long as I’ve known him. “You got into NYU and you’re?—”

“I turned NYU down.”

I gape at him, jaw open and eyes wide. “You— What?”

This is feeling a lot less like cold feet or second thoughts and a lot more like deliberate decisions made without me.

Another beleaguered sigh comes from Ben’s side of the table, but the candles stay lit. “I already have student loans, Eve. Taking out a bunch more just to indulge the fantasy I become a famous director one day?” He shakes his head. “It was fun to think about. To talk about. To hope for. But we’re graduating soon, and it’s time to face reality. Rowan said?—”

“You discussed this with Rowan ?” I hiss.

Ben blows out a deep breath again . He’s always been a sigher. And I used to find the deliberate exhales reassuring. A grounding rhythm whenever I was unsure. Ben’s a constant, someone who shows up and sees things through.

Except, his reliability dried up. So, right now, Ben sighing is the most irritating sound I’ve ever heard.

“She’s my best friend, Eve.”

I know Rowan is his best friend. That’s a fact I’ve been uncomfortably aware of our entire relationship. Because Rowan is a cheerful blonde who grew up in the same small coastal town in Maine.

Ben’s always been insistent he doesn’t see Rowan as more than a friend, that nothing romantic has ever happened between them. And I believe him, but I’ve never understood why . Because, honestly? They make perfect sense together.

“You discussed changing The Plan— our plan—with Rowan before talking to me ?” I’m incredulous, hurt, and pissed, all of which are evident in my tone.

The tops of Ben’s ears turn bright red. “I just needed an outside perspective. You’re…too close to things.”

“Too close to things,” I repeat.

Too close to things ? Of course I’m too close to things. I’m his fucking girlfriend!

Or, I was his fucking girlfriend.

“Should I bring over some dessert menus?” The smiling waitress who served us dinner appears to clear our empty plates. “The cannoli are always popular. And our tiramisu is incredible.”

Ben looks to me. Ordering dessert is a decision he wants my opinion on. Just not what he chooses to do with the rest of his life.

The pasta I ate has turned into a leaden lump in my stomach. My appetite is nonexistent. But I nod because I’m desperately trying to act normal, and that’s what I’d ordinarily do—dessert is the best part of the meal.

“Great. I’ll be right back.” The waitress disappears.

“I know I handled it terribly,” Ben says as soon as she’s gone. “Honestly, I brought it up to Rowan because I knew you’d talk me back into it, and?—”

“Talk you back into it?” I scoff. “This was not my plan, Ben. It was our plan. What we both wanted.”

His eyes close briefly. “I know.”

Moving to New York together was my suggestion , though. I pushed Ben to apply to NYU over other film programs. I planned the color scheme of our shoebox apartment. I gave him three guidebooks to the city for Christmas.

I reach for my wineglass, chugging the remaining inch of merlot in one go. I don’t even like red wine, but the chalky aftertaste barely registers.

I feel…lost. Not sure what to do or say next.

“I’m so sorry, Eve,” Ben continues. “I never wanted to hurt you. I—I’m just trying to be honest with you.”

At the table next to us, a laughing couple clinks their glasses together. A celebratory soundtrack painfully ironic for this moment.

I’m not sure we’re forever.

I was sure we were forever. Or, I stopped considering us temporary. I thought I was done dating, that I’d met my future husband at eighteen.

“So, you’re moving back to Maine,” I state.

“I—yeah. I am.”

He’s playing it safe. He’s returning to his loving, supportive, whole family. To the tiny town that smells like salt air and seaweed, where everyone knows each other’s grandparents. To marry Rowan and have little blond babies with her.

I can picture it perfectly. Suddenly, Ben’s future is so much clearer than I ever saw our planned life together unfolding.

There’s nothing wrong with familiarity. But I’m realizing how much of our relationship was future-focused. How it felt like we were working toward a goal together, never living in the moment. In the hour we’ve been at La Bella Napoli, I can’t recall anything we’ve discussed that was unrelated to New York. I’m sure we have touched on other topics; I just can’t remember a single one.

I don’t want to do long distance. Ben knows I don’t want to do long distance. That was a central component of The Plan—us ending up in the same place.

He changed The Plan, and he did so without consulting me. The sense of security I’ve always experienced around Ben is gone, shriveled up into nothing but an empty hole of loss in the hollow center of my chest.

I pluck my napkin out of my lap and toss it on the tablecloth. My skin feels tight and itchy, like it’s shrinking around me. Or maybe that’s the room itself. Either way, I can’t keep sitting still.

“I need to use the restroom,” I announce, louder than necessary.

I’ve lost my volume control tonight. Among other things.

Ben nods. Swallows. “Okay.”

He looks miserable, but I don’t gain any satisfaction from it.

I get why he changed his mind. Ben’s responsible and steady. He’s not a risk taker. For months, he’s gotten this wrinkle between his eyes when the topic of New York has come up. I knew he was stressed about money and worried about finding an apartment, but I thought he was excited about film school and a new chapter in a new place. It never occurred to me that he would change his mind. That Ben was even capable of blindsiding me like this.

I underestimated the allure of safety. Overestimated how much he loved me.

I stumble as I stand, nearly knocking my wineglass off the table. Shattering glass would be a more appropriate sound to accompany this moment.

Because that’s what Ben and I are—irrevocably broken. This awful moment, those five words, will always sit between us. I’ll never be able to go back to the before . We’re ruined.

I’m not mad.

I’m shocked, recalibrating to a new reality.

I’m sad.

La Bella Napoli is fancy. As fancy as Somerville gets, at least. The restaurant’s restrooms are single-person ones with plush cloth towels and soap scented like lavender and a vase of eucalyptus next to the sink. I’m most appreciative of the fact I won’t have to worry about anyone coming in while I sob in a stall, but the soothing scents are nice too.

Standing in front of the mirror, studying the bouncy curls it took me an hour to style and arrange, no tears come. I study my somber expression, my face so pale that the few freckles on my nose stand out in stark contrast. I sniffle a couple of times, but that’s it.

For the best, honestly. This evening is humiliating enough without spending the rest of the night with red, swollen eyes. My body still feels numb, and I silently pray this apathy will last long enough for me to get home, grab the emergency stash of vodka out of the freezer, and cry on my best friend’s shoulder. Harlow will know what to say to make this shitty night better. She’ll also suggest we egg Ben’s car or tissue-paper his house.

The sooner I leave this bathroom, the sooner I’ll be home. I wash my hands with a thick lather of lavender soap and hot water, then step back into the hallway.

My eyes fall to the floor as I resent each step forward. I don’t want to return to that table. Sit back in that chair. Look at?—

I collide with a hard body. A hard body that does not belong to Ben.

I know that instantly. It doesn’t smell like Ben. It’s taller than Ben. And it’s not Ben’s voice that says, “Eve?”

A rapid flurry of flutters appears in my stomach, the jolt of giddiness fracturing former numbness. The same silly sensation that appears every damn time I see Hunter Morgan.

Tonight is only the second time I haven’t felt guilty about the strange reaction.

Hunter raises his left eyebrow, the one split by what I assume is a hockey injury, and that’s when I realize that I haven’t moved. That I’m standing and staring at him. Inhaling his masculine scent and absorbing the heat of his body.

I jerk away like I was just electrocuted, heat flooding my face. Everywhere that was pressed against him tingles.

So, basically my entire body consists of crackling nerves.

“Hi. Hunter. Hi.”

One corner of his mouth kicks up as I babble out a flustered greeting. That’s as amused as I’ve ever seen him—slightly smiling. “Hey, Eve.”

I wonder if girls invade Hunter’s personal space a lot, because he seems completely unfazed by how I just collided with him. My guess is yes, and not accidentally.

“Sorry about that.” I gesture between us. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

He knows you’re a klutz, Eve. No need to draw more attention to it.

Hunter doesn’t acknowledge my apology. He asks, “Are you okay?” and peers at my face more closely than I’d like, considering I was just almost crying.

“Fine,” I chirp. “Great.”

Then I remember that his best friend is dating my best friend. Harlow tells Conor everything, and hockey players gossip a lot, based on how many rumors Conor shares with Harlow. Sooner or later, Hunter will hear why I was distracted enough to overlook a six-foot-something hockey player in my path on the short walk from the restrooms to the restaurant.

I decide on sooner.

“Actually, it’s been a crappy night. My boyfriend and I just broke up.”

It sounds real—and sad—spoken aloud.

“Oh.”

Hunter looks startled. Unsure what to say beyond that single syllable.

We don’t know each other, not really. He’s the hot, popular hockey player. I’m the awkward dork whose hands are always stained with paint. There was one night, freshman year, when it didn’t seem like we were so different. But since that conversation I doubt Hunter even remembers, our brief interactions have all been because our best friends fell in love with each other.

He clears his throat. “I’m really sorry, Eve.”

I think—hope—that’s pure sympathy in his voice. Not pity.

“Thanks.” I force a small smile. “Good to, um, see you. And congrats on the championship. I only got to one game, but I could tell you guys were…” My voice trails. I don’t know much about hockey. I don’t know much about sports, period. Maybe if I did, my monthly conversations with my dad would last longer than two minutes. “Winners,” I conclude lamely. “So anyway, good to see you! Bye!”

Did I already say that? I think I already said that.

Hunter Morgan makes me nervous. Reduces me to a fumbling mess, more like. It might be the piercing blue eyes. The dark blond hair that always appears stylishly mussed. Maybe the muscular, athletic frame.

Or, how, when he looks at me, I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff.

Whatever the cause, being around him has the unsettling effect of my mind going blank and my mouth spitting out repetitive gibberish.

It sounds like Hunter says “Bye, Eve,” as I hurry back into the dining area, but I’m moving too fast to tell for sure.

A dessert menu is waiting at my place when I return to my seat.

“I’m not hungry,” I tell Ben, sinking into the chair.

“I figured,” he replies. “I already asked for the check.”

I nod, arranging my napkin back in my lap simply for something to do. Then, I stare into space. I can’t think of one thing to say to him. My brain is vacant, and not in a pleasant, relaxed way. Just…empty. Same as the void in my chest.

Ben’s silent too, playing with an extra fork.

I sip some water while surreptitiously watching Hunter return to a booth where Holly Johnson is waiting. I had a freshman seminar with her. She’s smart, nice, and pretty. Exactly what I picture Hunter’s type being.

Holly leans forward as soon as he sits down, a seductive smile spreading across her face.

I bet she’s never accidentally tackled a hot guy. And if she did, she’d have something clever to say.

I look away, busying myself with pulling on my winter coat while Ben pays the check. Head for the door as soon as he receives the receipt, pulling in deep lungfuls of cold air once I’m outside.

Icy wind nips at my calves as I stride toward Ben’s parked sedan, the sheer tights I’m wearing no barrier from the chill. I stop and lean against the hood as I wait for Ben to catch up, staring toward the south end of Main Street. During daylight, you can see the Sound. Right now, it’s a black abyss past the streetlights.

Snow is falling, fluffy flakes drifting down from the dark sky and dissipating on the salted sidewalk. It’s March. It still feels—looks—like winter. But soon it will be spring. Soon I’ll be leaving this place. And moving to New York on my own feels very different from moving to New York with Ben.

The chirp of the car unlocking makes me jump.

I straighten, watching Ben approach with his shoulders slouched. Everything about his appearance is familiar. The glint of the chain attached to the dog tag that belonged to a childhood friend who enlisted after high school, then tragically died in a motorcycle accident last winter. The dark jeans he’s wearing that I helped him pick out at a store down the street. The green beanie his little sister knit him.

I hate every second of this.

He shoves his hands into denim pockets. “Didn’t know it was supposed to s?—”

“We’re done, Ben.”

A few feet away, he stops, a pained look spreading on his face. “Eve…”

That’s all he says—my name. Nothing else.

Because Ben knows.

He knows I don’t want to live in a small town in Maine. He knows I don’t want to do long distance. He knew this was where his decision would leave us.

Our relationship already shattered. You can’t glue broken glass back together.

No matter what Ben says—now, next week, next month—it will always be drowned out by the sound of I’m not sure we’re forever.

“Goodbye, Ben.” I turn and continue down the sidewalk.

“Where are you going?” he calls after me.

“Walking home,” I reply, my steps adding more distance between us.

I can’t get in his car and let him drive me home like every other one of our dates have ended. Everything’s changed, and I won’t pretend it hasn’t.

“Eve! Eve, come on. Just let me drive you—” The rest of Ben’s words get lost in a gust of wind.

I tuck my chin into the collar of my coat.

Ben calls my name again, but that’s the only sound he makes. There aren’t any footsteps. He doesn’t chase after me, and I can’t remember if he ever did or if we always stood in the same place.

Three blocks later, my legs are completely numb.

So I call my best friend, and she answers on the first ring.