Chapter 2
LEAH
I brush the last of the leaves out of my hair and add a fresh bandage to my finger where I cut it on the stubborn, sticky garage window.
While planning my visit to the Just Sold property on Golden Bantam Lane, I underestimated how quickly the sun rose and didn’t factor in the possibility of a landscape irrigation system … or the homeowner being up that early. I had to go back a second time because I didn’t quite finish the job.
Also, isn’t Mr. Roboveitchek fancy with a complicated gate latch, locks on his windows, and a hot tub? I might just have to go back a third time because my entire body is sore. I could really use the soothing water jet and bubbles on my back right now.
Who knew cat burglary could be so exhausting?
To be clear, I wasn’t stealing. Rather, returning. Sort of. Technically, Howie the Garden Gnome belongs across the street, but I’ll let Hudson deal with his wayward twin’s teenage misdeeds, especially now that Cara and I are good friends.
I scrunch up my face, really wanting to stick out my tongue. I’m alone, so no one would see. If you stick out your tongue and no one is there to see it, did you really stick it out?
This is the level of deep thinking I’m doing after a stupid day.
However, the scratching sound coming from behind the wall in the corner and my roommate Rasmus’s eerie “sound bowl band” echoing through the thin walls make “alone” a relative concept.
Loneliness is a different story altogether.
The image on my phone’s screen fades—yes, I was looking at cute animal videos and home organization, and whatever else fills my feed.
In Hudson’s backyard, I nearly went blind when I saw him shirtless and only wearing a towel around his waist. Gone is the reedy teenage boy who could hardly consume enough calories to support his hockey habit.
Though Hunter, his twin, was even thinner.
He seemed to resent food, odd for a guy his age, but that was Hunter for you.
He defied everything, laughed in the face of life itself, and rebelled …
eventually even against what I thought was our friendship and hoped would become something more.
I mean, everyone assumed we were a couple since we were together so often, including me. But when I brought up the topic, he avoided it like a slippery eel while at the same time letting me think he was my boyfriend. Kind of. Being a teenager was confusing.
Looking back, the teen years were hard enough and he had to go and muddy the water.
However, it’s fair to say that the sun has shined kindly on his twin.
Yeow.
Even though I’m lying down, I stomp my heel against my bed. Who’s rebelling now? That would be me—rebelling against myself for connecting the cognitive dots between possibly feeling lonely lately and a loser like Hudson.
Gross.
I blame my hyperactive brain for going off on that tangent. Now, where was I?
Ah, yes, laughing my face off when Hudson fell on the slippery leaves and several were stuck to his skin like leeches. He looked so confused, concerned, and … smoldery.
No. Not that. His eyebrows are like two hairy caterpillars, his nose is probably full of snot, and I imagine his lips feel gritty like sandpaper.
I repeatedly tell myself not to think about his lips. Not how they’re full or how they might feel. Not in any context.
What is the matter with me?
Letting out a sigh, I replay the encounter again. Not because I’m mentally admiring his pecs, but to make sure I didn’t do or say anything to reveal my identity. The one thing I said was, What were you expecting, a troll?
If the guy had any ability to self-reflect, he might’ve realized who I am—given the comment and my stature—his expression of frozen shock revealed no awareness that I was the girl next door in disguise.
We have an unspoken pact of mutually agreed-upon destruction. I mean, Hudson doesn’t know about it, but it’s enough that I do. Also, I don’t want to have to explain why I was at his house.
During the brief moment when we lay on the ground with our legs and arms tangled and Howie’s pointy gnome hat jabbing into my ribs, I considered explaining.
It’s all so ridiculous and juvenile that I had to flee …
and then return several hours later to deposit Howie with the other boxes that I’d already dropped off several days before with the kindly help of the real estate agent.
I half expect the police to have an APB out for me, but so far the coast has been clear.
Adjusting my pillow, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m scrollaxing—scrolling social media to relax.
In addition to the stolen item recovery, I worked a long shift at O’Neely’s Fish Bowl and then had to go do my former best friend and sort-of boyfriend’s dirty work.
Our status was never officially defined.
He was a boy who was also a friend. At least, I wanted to think so.
Believe there was something between us. The truth was, our status was undefined. But back to Howie.
I’m lucky I wasn’t arrested.
If Mrs. Gormely, the town gossip, or anyone else, for that matter, saw me sneaking around on Golden Bantam Lane, my name would certainly come up in whispers, which inevitably means my house call will get back to Mami.
The woman knows the news before it’s broadcast, especially when it comes to one of her four children.
My phone beeps with an incoming message, breaking me from my swipe daze.
It’s from my bestie.
Cara: Has the eagle landed?
I only wish this particular bird of prey hadn’t built its nest in the same town.
Me: Confirmed.
Me: Mission accomplished.
Me: The horse is in the barn.
Or should I say the gnome is in the garage? But not to Cara. She can’t know about the lawn ornament.
Cara: Wait. Who is the eagle? You or Robo? And where did the horse come from?
I harrumph because I’ve lost track except for one vital piece of information: Hudson Roboveitchek isn’t one of my favorite people on the planet. Cara knows this, but not all the sordid details.
Cara: Isn’t the barn where you want to build the hockey museum?
Me: Yep. The original Cobbiton hockey rink would be the perfect location.
.
Speaking of our small town, recently, my parents moved out of my childhood duplex and into the McMansion of their dreams. It even has a circular driveway.
This was all thanks to Chuck, my brother, and the generosity of NHL superstar and his client, Jack Bouchelle.
During the big move, I came across some old boxes.
Actually, I’ll give Chuck credit. He practically wrote the happily ever after for Jack and Ella rather than their story coming to an abrupt The End.
I want my hockily ever after, not that it’s likely to ever happen.
I’ll probably just end up marrying a garden gnome.
I roll my eyes because lately—okay, for a long time now—I’ve spent far too much of my time thinking about Hudson.
I digress.
A deep thud comes from somewhere in the Omaha apartment I share with six other people.
My room was previously the pantry. Lloyd lives in the living room that’s strung up with curtains like at a hospital ward.
The other five people have the dining area and three bedrooms, respectively.
Supposedly, Mirin and Branch are a couple, but I’m pretty sure they’re cousins.
Rasmus only makes appearances during his potluck sound baths.
Snoring comes through the wall and I’d bang on it. However, the last time, plaster rained down on me and I disturbed the rat empire, as evidenced by Julius Cheeser, supreme ruler of the kingdom, chewing through my phone charging cord the next day.
I remind myself that this is a turf war and fair is a relative concept.
My living situation on Graves Street in the city was a choice I made when the landlord of the adorable rental I had on Main Street in Cobbiton had to move his elderly mother into the apartment on short notice.
I’d have done the same thing if Mami needed a place with handicapped access, so I don’t blame him, though I could do without the constant burning plastic smell that I cannot locate and the month-old dishes in the sink.
I come from a big family, so I wash them, but they routinely pile up.
I’m a waitress, not the resident dishwasher.
Also, there’s a cockroach colony in addition to the rats.
What gives, people?
The real problem is I want Hudson out of my life.
Those boxes are just an example of how he repeatedly turns up like a stray dog, with emphasis on the dog part—no offense to dogs. I’m rather partial to the family pet, Tinker.
This isn’t one of those instances when I had a secret crush on him, or vice versa.
Nor did we hate each other like in one of the romance novels Gracie sells where we’ll have an enemies-to-lovers conversion.
More like we tolerated each other because of our shared connection to Hunter.
His twin, my best friend and boyfriend of indeterminate status.
Hudson was like another annoying brother.
One was enough, thanks. He treated me like a pesky little sister, which I already received at home, no thanks.
The difference was that we didn’t have the family tie to fall back on to make it so, at the end of the day, we hugged and made up.
Not that I’d ever so much as touch him with a hockey stick.
Ew. Cooties.
I know, I know. I’m being juvenile, but the guy has the knack for drawing it out of me, even all these years later.
Thankfully, after high school graduation, Hudson moved out, chasing hockey goals. Before Hunter left for New York City, he asked me to hold on to two boxes. At the time, I figured it was a way to keep part of him with me because it wasn’t like I was going anywhere.
Side note: I hinted that I wanted to go to NYC with Hunter. He said he had to follow his dreams, promising that he’d call me when he got his first record deal.
Looking back, I guess I wasn’t part of those dreams. My phone never rang. Never buzzed with a text. Haven’t heard from him in nine years.
I stuffed the boxes under my bed in the three-bedroom duplex occupied by six people.
I’ve tried reaching out to Hunter and somehow think about him nearly every day, which is likely why his twin brother lives rent-free in my mind as well.
However, the boxes disappeared until my family’s recent big moving day.
Valentina, my sister, told me to do something with them, so I brought them to my apartment—the new catchall—until one night, curiosity got the better of me … and the clutter, if I’m honest.
I go through phases where I want to minimize and downsize and then see a really cute crotched succulent plant ad on social media, a new hair styling tool, or get into a project to resurface my bedside table with sea glass. I ran out halfway, which means I need to go to the beach.
It’s all about progress, not perfection, people!
I mostly gave up trying to contact Hunter. At this point, he may not even have the same phone number or email.
But his brother does.
Rather than contacting him like a normal human to tell him about the boxes—with Cara’s help—I got his new address. Right across the street from her dad’s house, of all places. Talk about returning to the scene of the crime.
Then, like a common thief, I snuck into Hudson’s garage, deposited the boxes, and made my getaway.
This was after I opened the cardboard flap to take a peek ... to see how heavy they were. Can you really blame me?
Nestled inside were Hudson’s nasty old high school hockey jerseys and the garden gnome that terrorized me from sophomore through senior year.
I tried reaching out to Hunter so we could reminisce about Howie, but when he didn’t get back to me as usual, I decided it was best to keep the gnome in the family and make it Hudson’s problem.
Also, I don’t want to have to explain to Cara. She texts again, this time in the Hockey Gal group loop.
Cara: I’m calling an emergency meeting. My house. Thirty minutes. Attendance required.
A rumply brow accompanies my frown. I only know this because I reply with a selfie. If something serious is going on, why wouldn’t she simply have told me since we were texting a few minutes ago?
There’s a flurry of replies from the various hockey wives and girlfriends. Somehow, I’m affiliated by proxy even though I don’t have a Knight of my own.
Never will at this rate, especially with the lineup for this season, Hudson Roboveitchek is the last person I’d consider … if he even remembers that I exist. His brother certainly doesn’t.