37. My Treasure Hunt
37
MY TREASURE HUNT
Leighton
At pole class the next evening, I’m feeling pretty damn good. Hand necklaces and red-hot spankings just have that effect on a girl. The good sex sends me spinning—literally—as I glide around the pole for another mermaid spin at Everly’s studio.
But when I finish, I realize I’m the only one spinning.
Oh.
My cheeks flush hot and uncomfortable as I plant my feet on the floor. Everyone else has stopped and is looking at Jewel, who’s demonstrating the next move.
Swallowing hard, I glance around at my friends. They’re standing next to their poles, focused on the teacher. Maybe no one noticed my extra spin. Maybe no one cared.
But I care. Because I can’t fucking hear her.
Why does Jewel play the music this loud? How can anyone hear over this thumping bass? Her voice is muffled, indistinct as she slinks around in leg warmers and tiny shorts, demonstrating some new choreo. I can’t quite read her lips, because she’s in motion, her hair swishing past her face as she goes. I’m standing here just…wondering what the hell she’s saying.
The thing no one tells you about hearing loss? It’s not just the volume you lose. It’s the ability to pick out speech in a sea of sound. With this sexy, throbbing music blasting, Jewel’s words are a garbled mess.
Faking it isn’t working.
I swallow tightly, trying to push down the stupid rush of emotions I don’t want to feel.
Shake it off, Leighton. No one even saw you. This could happen to anyone.
Right. Of course. I don’t want to ask for special help since I don’t want to draw attention to myself. But really, I just got distracted. A little too much Miles on the brain. This is my reminder: focus more, daydream less.
With my throat tight, I zero in on Jewel for the rest of the class. I don’t miss a beat—not because I hear her, but because I watch her and everyone else like a hawk.
When class ends, Everly slings her workout bag over her shoulder. “Who’s up for Moon Over Milkshakes?”
My first thought is the sound, the noise. My second is whether there’s another diner I could suggest. But everyone’s already nodding and saying yes, so I go.
It’s easier that way.
Besides, I’ve learned how to manage here. Once we’re inside the bright, noisy diner and seated at a booth, I discreetly adjust the settings on my hearing aids. It’s not that I don’t want my friends to know—I just don’t want them to think they have to accommodate me. I’m fine. Really, I’m fine.
We slide into a worn mint-green booth. The scent of French fries and pancakes fill the air, and I inhale them, taking comfort in the way I can tell them apart no problem.
“So,” Maeve says, whipping her gaze to me the second the server walks away. “You’ve got that freshly fucked glow.”
Well, then.
In one spot-on assessment, Maeve takes my mind off my funk. “Do I now?” I ask playfully.
“You do,” Josie agrees, drumming her Kim’s Convenience -themed nails on the chipped Formica table.
Fable nods, her hazel eyes twinkling with interest. “Spill, girl.”
“You all have freshly fucked glows too,” I point out, shooting them knowing looks. Most of their boyfriends are back in town after the same road trip Miles went on.
Everly wags a finger at me. “And yet we’re talking about your freshly fucked glow. So I’m guessing resistance proved futile?”
The earlier tension from class fades completely as I let myself focus on Miles and the whirlwind of emotions he stirs up. “He’s kind of…” My stomach flips, my chest tightening with a mix of nerves and something far more dangerous. “He’s great. Like, really great. And it’s weird that he’s so great. I don’t know what to do with him being this great.”
Josie raises a hand, her blue eyes curious. “Did you just skip all the sex part and jump straight to feelings?”
“I guess I did,” I say, a little sheepish. Then I smirk. “ Do you want me to back up and tell you how absolutely incredible it was? Because it was. Best I’ve ever had.”
Maeve claps her hands several times. “Thank you, because that’s super important.”
Fable nods sagely. “Never underestimate the benefits of a good banging.” She grins, turning to Maeve next to her. “Put that on one of your mirrors, Maeve.”
Maeve, who’s expanding her art business with a line of mirrors featuring cute love lessons, taps her chin thoughtfully. “That is solid advice. But maybe I’ll add, ‘Never underestimate the value of a man who truly gives a shit about you.’”
There’s a collective sigh around the table, and my heart goes a little squishy.
But then Everly gives me a concerned look, her brow furrowed. “What are you going to do about it, though? You know…your dad and everything.”
The warmth in my chest is doused with a bucket of ice. There are so many feelings swirling inside me right now that it’s hard to find space for them all. “I honestly don’t know,” I admit, shrugging. “I’m trying not to think about it.”
The conversation shifts when the food arrives, and I let myself breathe. It’s easier to join in when I’m not in the spotlight.
We’re finishing up when an athletic blonde with shiny hair and a shinier ring walks past. She does a double take and turns to Everly. “Everly, how are you? It’s so good to see you!”
“Sabrina!” Everly lights up, standing to hug the woman in a cute pink sweater and distressed jeans. She’s all smiles and exudes a poised, magnetic energy that immediately draws attention. Also, her rock is as bright as a disco ball. It’s on her left hand, so she must be engaged.
Everly quickly introduces her to the table. “Everyone, this is Sabrina. She’s with Glace ,” she says, mentioning the Cirque du Soleil-esque ice show that’s set up camp in San Francisco for a long stay. “And amazing, by the way. You should see her triple loop. Well, you will—she’ll be at the rink in a couple weeks doing a promo.”
Sabrina waves, her bright eyes sparkling with warmth. “It’s so nice to meet you all. And here’s hoping I can keep the crowd entertained while they wait for the boys to get back out there.”
“Our fans love the intermission entertainment,” Everly assures her, then gestures to me. “Leighton will be there too—she’s taking photos for the event.”
“Perfect!” Sabrina’s smile widens. “Can’t wait to see you then.”
We chat for a few more minutes before she heads out, her effortless confidence stirring something in me. She reminds me of how I felt more than a year ago in the studio with Miles. I wouldn’t mind getting that feeling back.
When we’re done, I’m glad to have spent this time with my friends, but I’m also ready to go.
On the bus back to Miles’s house, I’m mentally making plans for later when I see him while trying to close the loop with my mother on the handbag shoot. Last night, I finally replied to her text asking for more details, but as she sends me the dates now, I’m secretly relieved. They line up perfectly with dates for the Sea Dogs calendar’s shoots. The money would have been nice, but it’s not even an option. As we trundle past the cafés and shops on Chestnut Street I write back.
Leighton: Sorry! I can’t be in two places at once. But I appreciate the offer.
Her reply is lightning fast.
Mom: That’s disappointing! Usually you’re so good at making time for these.
Yup. Still passive aggressive. But I stand my ground as I tap out a note.
Leighton: That’s not the issue. The issue is I’m working with the Sea Dogs, and I literally have a shoot on those days.
Really, that ought to be enough to settle her down. But my phone buzzes again as the bus nears Miles’s home.
Mom: Perhaps I can convince the Sea Dogs to move the shoot? I can be very persuasive.
Why doesn’t she just move her shoot? That would make the most sense. And yet, she wants everyone to bend to her. Still, I don’t know what she might try to pull, so I try to nip that in the bud.
Leighton: Please don’t. I’ll try to make the next one.
Mom: Brilliant! Send me your schedule and I’ll work around you.
I roll my eyes—she finally gets it. But also, I don’t want to send her my schedule. That feels entirely too personal for some reason, and I don’t entirely know why. It just does. My schedule is mine. I don’t share it with others. Still, I want to treat her the way I want to be treated by her—with respect. So I reply with that in mind.
Leighton: I’ll send you some dates.
Then, I set the phone aside as I hop off the bus and head inside, eager to execute my plans for Miles.
But as I’m setting up, everything feels too…girlfriend-y. Maybe it’s because I’m alone in his house, adjusting my tripod, leaving a trail of lingerie for him to discover with geocache clues.
A bustier hanging in the closet next to his ties.
A satin nightie tucked under a pillow in the guest bedroom.
A thong slipped into a bathroom drawer.
It all sounded playful and bold in my head, but now my stomach twists, and I feel…off. Like I’m overstepping. Like I’m trying on a role that doesn’t quite fit. Miles isn’t here—he’s working out with some of the guys on their off day and grabbing a bite afterward. So it’s just me, the dogs, and all my uncertainty.
I wince, glancing around the bedroom. Boppity and Cindy sit at my feet, their cute, inquisitive stares somehow making me feel even more exposed. The queasiness settles deeper, a pit in my stomach that won’t go away. It’s not just that I’m staying a few extra days—it’s that it’s starting to feel like something more. And I don’t know what to do with that.
We’ve been sharing his space, making breakfast, getting ready together—like we’ve done this a thousand times before. We’re playing house, and I don’t know if that’s comforting or terrifying. Maybe both.
I look at the white duvet cover, crisp and unassuming, and then at the carefully written clues in my notes app. The plan was to surprise him with a lingerie treasure hunt, then pose for him, taking pictures he could keep.
But now all I can think about is how much space I’m taking up in his home, how presumptuous this all feels—the lingerie, the clues, this version of playful intimacy I’ve dreamed up in my head. The confidence I saw in Sabrina has melted away, leaving me feeling like I’m…overstaying my welcome. Yes, I know Miles wants me. But I don’t know if he wants all of me, or all of this. My cheeks burn, and I reach to put the camera and clues away before he gets home.
The dogs erupt into a tornado of barking. Cindy and Boppity spin around and skid out of the bedroom, racing like a herd of Chihuahua-phants down the stairs.
Which means…Miles is home.
Shit.
I don’t have time to hide the evidence. Especially not when the sound of him padding up the stairs, with a canine entourage reaches me. He turns into the bedroom right as I freeze, caught red-handed taking the camera off the tripod.
He’s wearing jeans, a navy blue Henley, and his glasses. A smile spreads across his lips as he takes in the scene. There’s curiosity in his dark eyes, but it’s good—like he’s delighted.
“What’s going on?” he asks, unable to mask the grin as his gaze lands on the camera I’m still fiddling with.
My throat works like I’m swallowing a stone. I feel completely caught, but there’s nothing in his expression that says I’m taking up too much space. Instead, he follows it up with a playful, “Is this for me?”
He sounds so damn hopeful that it wrenches something free in my chest—a sob I didn’t even know I’d been holding in. Or maybe I did. Maybe I shoved it down after class and now it’s breaking loose.
“I was going to do this whole lingerie treasure hunt for you,” I blurt, the words tumbling out in a hot mess. “I had clues and everything. But then, in class, I couldn’t hear the teacher, and I felt so stupid. ”
I don’t know if any of what I said makes sense, but in seconds he’s crossing the room, closing the distance between us, cupping my cheeks, the dogs at his feet. “You’re not stupid. Tell me what happened. I’m here for you.”
And just like that, I bury my face in his shirt and do something I haven’t done in years. I cry. Big, sniffling, ugly, snotty tears.
“She plays the music so loud, and I hate it,” I hiccup. “I hate a lot of music. I hate it because I can’t hear people. And I don’t want to miss something someone says. But I don’t know how to tell her it’s too loud because I don’t want any attention. I don’t want any special treatment. I don’t want to be difficult, and I definitely don’t want people to think about me differently. I don’t want them to treat me differently. My mother treats me differently, and I hate it. I just hate it.” My voice breaks, and I bury my nose deeper into his shirt, like an animal burrowing into a den.
“How does she treat you differently?” His question is gentle, full of concern.
“She talks really loud. Like, in an exaggerated way. And she thinks she’s being considerate. But she’s not. It’s just rude, but it’s so hard to explain that to her, and when I try, she just says, ‘I thought I was being helpful.’ And what if I ask the teacher to turn down the music and she starts talking to me like that?” I flinch at the possibility, raw and visceral. “I don’t want anyone to look at me differently,” I whisper. My voice cracks as I push out the words I’ve been too afraid to say. “And what if…what if one day I can’t hear the music well at all?” The thought feels like a chasm opening beneath me, one I’m not ready to face even though his expression is so open, and he’s willing to hear me . Still, I walk it back as resolutely as I can manage with, “I should just enjoy it now.”
Miles tugs me closer, rubs my back, sighs softly. “Sweetheart. Are you enjoying the loud music though?” His voice is gentle as he lets go of the embrace to guide me to the bed. He sits down next to me, taking my hand in his, meeting my gaze as the pups jump onto the duvet one by one, settling around us like little bed sentries. “Do you like going to pole class?”
I blink at him, startled. I hadn’t expected that question. Taking a big, necessary breath, I let it fill my chest as I think about his words. “I like a lot of it,” I admit. “I like being with my friends, learning new moves, feeling strong. But the dancing? I don’t love it. And that’s okay. I don’t have to love every part of it.” I exhale slowly. “I just wish I didn’t have to do every part of it with my eyes.” I pause, feeling horribly vulnerable. “Do you know what I mean?”
“I do.” He runs his thumb along the top of my hand, back and forth, soothingly. “Do you want to keep going?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I like enough of it to stay. I want to be with my friends, use my body, and feel healthy. I love being able to exercise and do all the things in this body that I can do well.”
He nods, then rises, grabs a tissue, and hands it to me. “I hear what you’re saying that you don’t want to ask her to lower it, but for what it’s worth I don’t think that makes you difficult,” he says, his voice soft, free of judgment. I understand why they call him The Professor—his tone isn’t confrontational; it’s thoughtful, steady. It calms my wild beast of a heart.
“I don’t know…” I fumble for the right words. “Maybe it does. ”
He strokes my arm. “You know I went to PT for my ACL tear, right?”
“Yes.”
“I went to this sports medicine clinic in Vancouver. For whatever reason, it was so cold in there I thought I’d freeze to death. But I didn’t say anything. I just kept bundling up. I’m an athlete, right? A pro hockey player, no less. We’re supposed to be immune to cold. Then one day, this older guy—the kind of guy who would tell stories about the fish he caught way back when—was doing some rehab for his hip surgery. He walked in one day and grumbled, ‘It’s colder than Santa’s seat on the sleigh at cruising altitude.’”
I laugh, despite myself. “Why can I picture this crotchety old man so perfectly?”
Miles grins too, the warmth of it melting some of the hurt inside me. Then his smile fades, his expression turning serious. “It’s not just you. I get that you feel like it’s you right now. But it’s okay that you can’t hear them over the music, and it’s okay to ask to turn the music down. You might not be the only one who thinks it’s too loud. A lot of people don’t like loud music. And even if everyone else can hear your instructor…so what?”
My brow knits. “So what…what?” I ask, pushing him to explain.
“They can still hear the music even if she turns it down. You’re not hurting anyone by asking for her to lower it.” He hesitates, his fingers flexing slightly against mine. “I know it’s easier to tell yourself it doesn’t matter though. I used to do that all the time after my injury—pretend I didn’t need anything because I didn’t want anyone to think I couldn’t handle it. Joanne tried to help me, but I wouldn’t let her. I thought if I admitted I needed help, it meant I was weak.” He frowns, and there’s hurt in his eyes, but maybe not regret as he brushes over the back of my hand with his thumb. “I don’t miss her—we weren’t right for each other. But I regret how I handled that. She wanted me to be vulnerable. She wanted to help me. Instead, I fed my own pain. I pushed her away because I was in such a spiral. But it didn’t make me stronger; it made me lonelier. It’s something I try not to do anymore.”
I blow out a breath, noodling on that for several seconds, on whether the situations are the same. But before I can ask that—if I’m even going to ask it—he keeps going, perhaps sensing my question.
“I’m not saying it’s the same. I just want you to know that in my experience it’s not always better to think we can do it all ourselves. Hell, I’ve been to yoga classes where people ask to turn the lights up because it’s too dark. Or they ask someone to move a mat because there isn’t enough room. I’ve been at restaurants where they only have candlelight on the table, and my mom takes out her cell phone flashlight to read the menu.” He squeezes my hand again, and it feels like he’s imparting strength, or maybe just the wisdom of years—a wisdom of experience that I don’t have yet. Maybe that’s some of the difference in the ten years between us.
“It’s not just you,” he says gently. “I know it feels that way right now, but it’s okay to ask for something you need. It doesn’t make you weak; it makes you your own best advocate.”
I try to picture asking Jewel to turn down the music. I close my eyes and see myself walking into the studio before class, before anyone else arrives, and asking for what I need. It makes me feel like one frayed nerve. But it doesn’t feel as terrifying as it did before I told Miles .
“Maybe,” I say, on a shuddery breath. “Maybe I’ll do it.”
He runs his knuckles along my cheek. “Maybe is a good start.” His eyes hold mine, his gaze calm, thoughtful, passionate too. “And for the record? I’d do it for you. I’d walk right in there and ask them to turn it down. But I know that’s not what you want.”
I smile, a small, sad one as I shake my head. “It’s not,” I say softly, grateful that he knows I’m not looking for him to slay this dragon. I’m the only one who can slay it, and I’ll have to do it in my own time if I do it at all. “It’s not what I want. But thank you for knowing that.”
He pulls me close and presses a kiss to my temple. “Thank you for telling me.”
My throat tightens. There’s more I want to tell him. That was only the beginning.
I want to tell him that I’m not only afraid of feeling stupid, but I’m deeply afraid that someday I won’t even be able to hear that music I’d be asking her to turn down. I meant it when I let that fear slip. But I didn’t share all my fears. Not only am I terrified that I won’t be able to pick out a single note of music someday, but worse, the voices of the people.
The people I love.
No one knows what this loss will look like in the future. The doctors and the audiologists can only say what the typical path is for people like me. It worsens, yes, and hearing aids and advances in technology will usually do the trick—but no one knows for sure.
Diving into that though with Miles? Telling him that I’m afraid of a world that might one day be silent? It’s too much. Too heavy. I can’t put that on him.
Instead, I say something else that’s true. “I was going to…do this whole treasure hunt for you. With lingerie and pictures and hints. Maybe another time.”
He squeezes my hand. “Let’s watch a movie tonight.”
We head downstairs and settle in on the couch with the dogs, and even though I know I can ask him to turn on the captions, and I’m about to, he’s already fiddling with the remote and selecting them.
Without being asked.
My heart swells dangerously bigger.