Chapter 17
JORDAN
“That was a big reaction over some records,” he says in the car as my eyelids grow heavy.
I sink deeper into the warm, luxurious seat, wearing my soft, pretty coat and listening to the rain on the roof and roads as we cross the bridge into North Vancouver, where I guess he lives.
The cat dozes in the back, and my records and record player are safe beside her.
Tate even buckled them up so they wouldn’t jostle on the drive.
“They were my mom’s.”
“Hmm.”
Tate drives the way he plays hockey—with ease, control, and skill.
Like my body knows I’m safe when he’s behind the wheel, my eyelids grow heavier, and I take a deep breath to get oxygen to my brain.
I will not fall asleep. Not in Tate’s car.
I’ll probably drool all over myself and only add to his low opinion of me.
“You can fall asleep,” he says, glancing at me, then back to the road, something in his eyes.
Worry? God, I hope not. I hate that he thinks I can’t take care of myself. I hate that he saw the shitty place where I lived and all my stuff out in the rain.
How am I supposed to help the team win the Stanley Cup if I can’t even keep myself from getting evicted?
“I’m not going to fall asleep.”
“Okay.” He pauses. “But if you do, it’s fine. I’ll wake you up when we get there.”
There’s something different in his voice, something low and comforting that settles my nerves. Like we’re friends. No, like we’re lovers.
I frown out the window, pinching my thigh to snap myself back to reality.
“How’d you lose your mom?” he asks, and I look over. “I’m sorry,” he adds quickly, off whatever my expression is. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s fine. People never ask.” They get weird and change the subject or worse, give me a look of pity. “She had colon cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
I glance at him again. No look of pity on his face. He just looks, not sad, but regretful, maybe. That I had to lose her.
“She had low iron and fatigue, and the doctor said it was because she was vegetarian and approaching menopause. And by the time the signs became worse and she got a second opinion,” that old pain aches in my chest as I stare out the window, “it was already stage four.”
I don’t know why I said all of that. I clamp my mouth shut as we drive.
“I’m really sorry, Jordan,” he says in that low voice, and my heart aches again, differently this time.
I tuck my arms over my stomach. “I don’t know why I told you that.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“We used to listen to records together.” Why do I keep telling him things? It’s like he’s casting a spell on me, getting me to show him little pieces of myself. “She loved music and, um, dancing around the kitchen and stuff. Seventies rock, mostly. And I like to think of her like that.”
Not like she was when she was sick. When my dad should have been there and he wasn’t.
“At her best?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
He hums. “She sounds really fun.”
“She was.” She would have loved this dumb little cat in the back seat. “She was really, really fun.”
A beat passes and I can see him glancing between me and the road. “You’re tired. Close your eyes for a bit.”
I’m so warm and comfortable, and my brain feels sluggish. “Maybe for a bit. But I won’t fall asleep.”