22. Izzy
Izzy
Ipush through the door of the bookstore, two coffees in my hand, already knowing it’s not enough. My brain’s humming because I have way too many tabs open. My phone pings again with another email from Mr. Piersanti, probably a polite nudge about the deadline.
As if I could forget.
A week left, and I’m still almost two thousand short.
The back of my throat pricks like a warning. I’m either getting sick or about to have a mental breakdown. It’s a toss-up. Zoe lovingly grabs the Magic 8 Ball and asks.
The answer? Most definitely.
What does a dumb, plastic toy know anyway?
By mid-morning, Zoe is deep in the middle of sorting a preorder campaign for a local indie author. There are stacks of signed books, bookmarks, and stickers. She has a highlighter in her mouth and a pile of bubble mailers beside her, trying to make heads or tails of the shipment schedule.
Then my mom calls.
At first, I try to be patient. I really do. But then I snap, tossing down my own stack of papers. I don’t have the space for this. Not today.
“I’m working, Mom. You know that. You’ll need to call me later.”
“You’re too busy to talk to your own mother? I need you. Phil—”
“Phil is your ex-husband who’s regularly trolling Tinder. He’s back with you because he couldn’t hold down a job. But I have one, and I need to do it now, especially if you want help with rent this month.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Isla. You’re too good for me now? I’d never talk to my mother like that.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard. I know for a fact she did. I lived with her mother. But she edits her own history the way she edits her Facebook posts. Everything is a highlight reel of perfection.
“I really need to go, Mom,” I say, checking the clock. “You can call me later.”
When I hang up, Zoe is twirling the highlighter between her fingers. “Go, you!”
I fold in half on top of the counter, hitting my head against the cold surface. That feels nice at least.
I peek up from behind my arms. “There’s too much going on, Zoe.”
“Take a break.”
Just like that. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
I hate that cortisol is a new buzzword for the wellness gurus.
But mine spikes at the mere mention of slowing down.
I swear I can feel it surge through my body.
Or maybe it’s just making friends with the anxiety that’s already buzzing around my veins, thanks to the two giant peppermint lattes.
“Take the day off. I can handle everything.”
“That’s not the point,” I snap, my voice sharper than I mean it to be. “God, I’m so sorry, Zoe.”
“I think that is exactly the point,” she says gently. “You’re overwhelmed. It’s okay to need a break.”
“I can handle it,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
But even in her soft, careful tone, I hear she doesn’t really believe me.
And I don’t think I do anymore, either. Which is new. Growing up, I didn’t have the luxury of falling apart. If something went wrong, I was the one who fixed it.
Now, that’s not entirely true for me anymore.
Jack is at the old hockey rink in Merritt Point today for a small clinic with some of his teammates. He figured it would be good for everyone to see him actively taking part in the community before his big meeting in January.
I tap my fingernails on the counter. Damn, I really need to get them done before Christmas. “Can you watch the store for an hour?”
“I just told you to take the whole day off.”
“I only want to grab lunch…”
Zoe arches an eyebrow. “You’re going to see Jack?”
“No. Maybe.” I throw my arms up. “Okay, yes.”
She laughs. “Go. I’ve got everything here. Really. We need to prep for the event anyway, and I’m sure things will be quiet this afternoon. I’ve got it, Izzy. Promise.”
I grab lunch at Seas the Day, the diner on Main Street, then drive to the rink. The parking lot’s packed, so I navigate my way through a mine of potholes and a grumpy seagull who dive bombs me until I find crumbs of a leftover granola bar in my pocket. Thank goodness for toddlers.
I chuck it away from me, then scurry inside.
Jack’s in the middle of the ice, surrounded by a large group of kids. He’s pretending he’s terrible at skating so they can “catch” him. He flails dramatically, almost falling, and the little boys and girls lose their minds.
God, he’s adorable.
He’s patient and loud and ridiculous—all at once. It’s clear the kids love him.
He scoops up a tiny player who can barely stand in all his gear and skates with him tucked between his legs. He guides the kid’s stick toward the puck, helps him fire it into the net, and celebrates like they just won the Stanley Cup.
Alex and Bosko swoop around the group, hyping them up to cheer on the little guy.
The thought hits me without warning—him like this, a kid of his own tucked between his legs as they skate together. I don’t… there’s no future where I’m with Jack and that’s our son or daughter he’s helping instead. Right?
He turns and spots me, his entire face lighting up. “Quick, everyone, try to catch Bosko!”
The kids cheer, switching their attention to his teammate, and he skates over to where I’m standing in the box, clutching his bagged lunch.
“You can’t stay away from me, Sinclair, can you?” he teases, eyes bright.
“As if I’d admit that.”
He grins, reaches out with one gloved hand, and pulls me in just far enough to kiss me—quick, sweet, a little sweaty, and somehow perfect.
“Did you rob the bank?” he asks, glancing at the bag in my hands.
“Brought lunch. Figured you’d want more than vending-machine jerky and stale popcorn.”
His eyebrows lift, impressed. “You’re the best.”
“Best fake girlfriend around, I hear.” I quickly clear my throat. “How’s the clinic going?”
He shrugs. “Good group today. One kid keeps trying to check me, which feels rude.”
“He’s probably what… seven?”
“No respect for his elders,” he mutters.
I laugh, the tension in my chest loosening for the first time all day.
Then he looks at me, setting the bag on the railing. “You okay? You look… tired.”
I blink. “I just got here. No need to go so hard.”
Jack scrunches his nose. “Sorry,” he says gently. “Want to split lunch, and we can chat about it? I probably can’t talk for long…”
I swallow past the giant lump in my throat. “No, I’m good. Focus on all this.” I lean forward, whispering, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this place is falling apart.”
“You’re funny, you know that?”
“You like my smart mouth.”
“Thanks for lunch,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss against my forehead. “And for coming to see me. That was a nice surprise.”
“You should get back out there,” I say, but I don’t move. “You know… to the twenty tiny humans on sharp blades.”
“Ah, they’re fine. Most of them can stand now without face-planting.”
“Always a plus.”
I give him one more lingering kiss before forcing myself to step away. Digging in my bag for my keys, I call over my shoulder, “Okay, see you later. Love you.”
I freeze.
The world tilts.
Shit.
I didn’t just think it. I said it. Out loud.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He’s still on the ice, and I’m frozen, peeking over my shoulder still. My heart beats so hard I’m dizzy. It’s hot, and my knees are wobbly.
He doesn’t respond. Or maybe he does, and I miss it because my ears are ringing. Either way, the answering quiet hanging between us is somehow so fucking loud.
I force out a thin, brittle laugh and wave, then I bolt out of the rink before he can say anything.
Or not say anything.
My hands shake as I try to open my car door. The dumb, angry seagull is still harassing me.
Dammit, Izzy. I told Jack I love him. And now I have to live with whatever that means.
The seagull dive bombs me. I whirl around. “Read the room!”
I force my key into the door lock, thinking I’m finally free when it clicks. I yank the door open just in time to hear a loud plop.
I glance down at the giant splatter of poop, then back at the seagull now halfway across the parking lot, where Bridget is climbing out of Kathleen’s Subaru.
“Oh, Izzy! Hi.” She waves. I try my best to hold my breath. I hate dry heaving. “Kathleen, Jack’s girlfriend is here.”
Shit.
Kathleen comes around the car in a knee-length parka and a wool beanie slipping to one side over her blonde-and-silver hair. “Sweetheart.” She takes one look at my shoulder and presses her lips together to suppress a laugh. “Bad morning?”
“Complicated.”
“Hmm.” She exchanges a look with Bridget. “We were just about to get lunch. Why don’t you come with us?”
“Oh, well, I should head back to the store.” I search my mind for more excuses, landing on a half-truth. “So many boxes to unpack.”
It’s not exactly a lie. No one tells you that most days, it feels like I’m running a UPS drop site over a bookstore.
“Just a quick bite. Might help turn things around. Don’t worry, we’ll bring you back for your car after.”
I wish the giant potholes in the parking lot would swallow me up. I don’t want to be here, afraid that any second, Jack will come running through those doors.
And then what?
“You will,” Bridget says, steering me to the car.
It isn’t a question, and honestly, I don’t have the bandwidth to argue. I let them fold me into the warm back seat of the Subaru while Bridget digs a packet of wet wipes from the glove box.
“That’ll come right out.”
I scrub my coat as Kathleen settles into the driver’s seat. She peeks over and grins at me. “Glad we ran into you when we did.”
I have a hundred questions, mainly why they’re bringing me to lunch when they’re here to see Jack.
“We were coming to steal him,” Bridget says, nodding toward the rink.
I stare at the back of the headrest. “I, um, I actually brought him lunch.”
Silence. Then Bridget makes a noise that is almost certainly delight poorly disguised as a cough.
“Did you,” Kathleen says. Not a question.
“Well, you’re in luck.” Bridget claps her hands together. “We’ll take you instead.”
I peek between the two of them. “Yeah, okay.”
“Wonderful,” Bridget turns in her seat with small, happy shimmy.
Tucked into a small booth at the Oyster and Pearl, we order clam chowder and break into a basket of crusty bread.
Kathleen waits until I’ve had a few sips of my iced tea before she looks over at me. “Jack said you’ve been wicked busy at the store. Hope you’re making time for yourself in all that.”
It’s such a small thing to say. I don’t know why it makes my throat tight.
“Trying to,” I manage finally.
She hums and reaches for another slice of bread, letting me off the hook without making it a thing, before she and Bridget start sharing their favorite stories of Jack.
About how, when he was eight, he would run the beach in all his gear, determined to grow muscles.
Those were his exact words, apparently. About when he was twelve, he was determined to get a hat trick and practiced for hours in the driveway before perfecting his slapshot by sending the puck through the screen door.
By the time the check comes, I’ve only thought about the look on his face when I left twice.
Bridget covers my hand with hers on the walk back to the car. “He doesn’t let people in easily,” she says. “Never has. Prefers to hide behind that grin of his and those charming dimples.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“But he let you in.” She says it simply, like it explains everything.
Maybe it does.