22. Bethany
Chapter twenty-two
Bethany
Iwake up with one sock dangling off my toes. My phone is wedged under my shoulder, screen dark, and there's already a crease pressed into my cheek where it dug in overnight.
For one traitorous second, I smile at the ceiling, replaying the exact angle Timothy tilted his head.
No.
Absolutely not. We are not doing this right now.
I sit up too fast, and my brain, helpful little saboteur that it is, replays the kiss anyway.
In slow motion. With commentary. My mouth actually remembers the shape of his, which is an insane thing for a mouth to be capable of.
I'd like to file a formal complaint with whatever part of me is responsible.
I reach for my laptop.
The spreadsheet loads, cheerful and blue, completely indifferent.
Body Bethany wants to flop back down and think about Timothy's hands. Brain Bethany opens a new tab and labels it "Inventory."
I make coffee on autopilot.
Getting ready, I gather receipts, contractor notes, and the measuring tape.
I brush my teeth. In the mirror, my reflection looks unfairly calm.
I spit, rinse, and give myself a short pep talk.
The phone rings while I'm shoving folders into my bag, and it's Grant.
"Rink's looking great," he says, warm and easy.
I make appropriate noises about gate checks and surface treatment while my stomach quietly relocates to somewhere around my knees.
"We should talk soon," Grant adds. "About next steps. After the project wraps."
My hands go completely still around a folder. I say something breezy and competent that I will not remember five minutes from now.
Business voice over gut-punch. A real specialty of mine, apparently.
Of course the project is wrapping. That was always the goal.
After we hang up, I open the project timeline.
Lights: check.
Gate: check.
Surface treatment: check.
The list is getting satisfyingly short.
I feel weirdly proud and weirdly hesitant at the same time.
I click out of the timeline before I can examine that feeling too closely.
By the time I leave, I have one goal: behave as though kissing Timothy did not rearrange my internal organs.
I pull into Hockey House with supplies sliding across the passenger seat.
Inside, the boot room is spotless. The bins are labeled, the gloves stacked, and the maintenance log already updated.
Someone calls out a hello from the back room and I answer in a voice pitched two registers too chipper. Usually, the boot room settles me.
Today, even the neatly stacked gloves remind me of Timothy helping with the rink.
Every corner of this place, apparently, comes pre-loaded with a Timothy-shaped memory now.
I walk out the back door and look at the rink.
It stretches ahead of me. Boards straight. Ice smooth. Nearly, infuriatingly finished.
Pride arrives with a faint, unexpected pinch beneath it.
My breath fogs in front of me and I watch it dissolve instead of thinking about anything real.
I stand at the edge of the rink and let myself imagine him there. Hands in his pockets. Looking at me like he chose me.
I hope he keeps looking at me that way.