Chapter 32
NOVA
ONE MONTH LATER
November in Boston took a sharp cold turn, sending me scrambling for the winter clothes I hastily stuck in storage before my trip to Denver.
As I head home from the café, the wind blows inside the collar of my coat. I pull it tighter around me.
I text my new roommate a picture of me bundled up.
She responds almost immediately.
You still don’t regret telling your old boss to fuck off?
Then, I’d have more salary for a car.
No, I reply.
It’s true, most of the time.
The pay was better than at the café, though I get good tips some days.
I talked to Mari on the phone after she got back from her honeymoon, listening to her gush about the weather and the ocean and the food.
I’ve been ignoring social media. I don’t have notifications turned on because I don’t want to see anything Mari might be posting about the team, and ditto for Brooke or Chloe, whom I've followed since the wedding.
Except one night when I was out for a double date one of my old friends set me up on. We went to a sports bar, and the Kodiaks game was on. My date asked if I was into sports, and I said no.
“Wade’s a beast, but he’s overrated.”
“No way, he’ll come back this year,” the other guy retorted. “You seen the numbers he put up last week? He’s a machine.”
“I heard he’s a prick.”
“He can be whatever he wants. Still gonna have the entire world lining up to suck his dick at the end of the night.”
With every mention of the star player, my appetite faded away.
Clay didn’t break my heart. He couldn’t have, I reasoned, because we were never together.
But his letter is still buried in the back of my drawer.
It wasn’t meant to be.
I’m not who you think.
We couldn’t have been anything.
Clay’s note passed through Harlan felt crueler than Brad’s letter in the mailbox because I thought Clay and I understood one another. I hated that he wouldn’t tell me to my face. I hated that he let me in, then slammed the door.
He made me feel stupid and gullible in a way I swore I wouldn’t again.
On my way home from the double date, I searched his name.
Still nothing about a trade with LA, though there were low-level rumors the way there are about everything.
Why hasn’t it worked out?
I shove down the question. His situation isn’t my problem.
In between the news articles are images of him in his uniform, in press conferences. I came across one of him with a woman who looks a lot like the one who sent him naked pics in his car.
Damned Kodashians.
I like crunchy peanut butter.
Now you know something they don’t.
Being angry is easier than being crushed.
So, I let myself be pissed for a few weeks in that hard, brittle way that covers up the fact that when it’s late at night and I’m staring at the ceiling, I miss him more than I ever missed the man who offered to put a ring on my finger.
But each day, it’s a little better.
I’m figuring things out. I’m moving on.
“You’re her,” a well-dressed woman says as I finish wiping down at the café.
“Excuse me?”
“I saw your art in a magazine. Your name was listed, and so I looked you up on social and saw that’s who you were.”
She pulls up her phone and shows me.
My drawing of Clay was featured in a magazine.
“You’re very talented. I’d love to buy a piece.”
I’m surprised and pleased. “I don’t have any ready. Soon,” I go on quickly.
I have been drawing lots since I got back to Boston. It’s the one thing that’s better, the only time I feel vibrant and alive.
She hands over a business card. “Call me when you do.”
I’ve never sold a piece of my art, except for at the auction, which only half counts because people were supporting a charity. The prospect of earning money from my work is thrilling. I haven’t let myself entertain that possibility since art school.
After promising I’ll call her, I finish closing up at the café. I’m heading home from work as I go into my social media.
She’s not the only one who found me.
As I walk up the stairs of the walkup, I see I’m tagged hundreds of times.
It’s unbelievable.
But there’s also an email.
Dear Nova,
I’m writing on behalf of the Kodiaks organization to invite you to create a special art installation to be completed on site in Denver.
Discretion is important, so if you intend to accept, please meet me to discuss the details and next steps.
Sincerely,
James Parker
Owner, Denver Kodiaks
What the hell?
It’s mysterious and so hard to believe that I check the return email address to make sure it’s not a hoax.
But it’s the same format as Harlan’s, only the name is different.
James Parker.
I thought I left this behind me.
Evidently not.
As kids, Mari and I used to set paper lanterns on fire every summer with our hopes and dreams in them. Seeing them float up into the darkness was freeing.
I stomp to my bedroom and dig through the back of my closet. My fingers close around Clay’s jersey, and I yank it off the hanger it’s been on since I put it there a month ago.
Back in the living room, I retrieve a lighter from the drawer in the coffee table.
This is moving forward. This is closure.
I huff out a breath as I hold the shirt up.
I flick the lighter until an orange flame dances on the end.
My heart accelerates.
Bad idea, Pink.
I shove the voice, his voice, down and lift the lighter to the corner of the jersey.
The fabric holds fast.
I grit my teeth.
Eventually a curl of smoke wafts up from the edge. The fabric darkens, beginning to blacken and melt.
A knock comes on my door.
Dammit.
Dropping the lighter and jersey on the couch, I cross the room and answer it.
Brooke is there wearing a full face of makeup and a Canada Goose parka.
“I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow?” I ask.
“Yeah, well, apparently, I came early to call an exterminator because your ass hasn’t. I saw two rats inside the building,” she insists, tugging her hood off.
I step back to let her in, and she throws her arms around me.
“It’s good to see you,” I murmur into her jacket, meaning it.
“Well, If I hadn’t insisted on coming to visit my friend, it wouldn’t have happened.”
I take her coat and cross to the counter. “Wine?”
“Hell yes.”
I pour two generous glasses and carry them back to the living area.
Brooke’s perched on a chair like a queen holding court.
She lifts the jersey off the coffee table with her thumb and forefinger. “What the hell is this?”
I pass her a glass of wine and take a long gulp of mine. “Probably what it looks like.”
My ass hits the couch, sending the lighter bouncing. My friend’s eyes widen as she spots it.
“Were you going to burn this place down?!” she demands.
“I’m not crazy. I just wanted to be free.”
“Smoking yourself out is not the answer.” She shakes her head. “Whatever happened with you and Clay, you can’t hide out here.”
“Brooke, this is my life.” I gesture around the apartment.
My friend stares me down. “You’re too big for this.”
“Square footage is less expensive than New York—”
“I mean your spirit, Nova. You were made for bigger things.” She tosses the jersey at me, and I catch it, staring at the singed edge.
I think of the message that came in not long before she arrived.
“Since you mention it…” I set my wine down and reach for my phone, clicking into my email.
Brooke’s eyes widen in glee as I pass it to her. “Oh my God. This is huge.” She lets out a screech. “You have to say yes.”
“There’s no way. Why would Harlan make this offer?”
“I bet Harlan knows nothing about this. Rumor is he and James barely talk unless James is throwing his weight around.”
This is making less sense by the second.
“He’s crazy loaded, a 'no expenses spared' kind of guy,” she goes on. “He made his money in finance and owns two jets and eight houses. If he’s inviting you to do this, it isn’t going to be any old installation. You have to say yes.”
The mystery has me intrigued, I’ll give her that.
“What if I don’t want to go back?” I stare at the jersey, the half of Clay’s name visible on the back.
“What if your future is waiting for you?” she counters.
“I already have a job.”
“Yeah, because serving overpriced cappuccinos is your calling.” She rolls her eyes, gesturing to the walls. “It’s obvious you’re not into art anymore.”
My art is up all over the place. Every night, I’ve been drawing. It’s compulsive. I can’t stop.
I drain my glass and ball up the jersey in my fist, walking to the sink. I swear I feel his number burn itself into my skin as I set my glass down on the counter.
The email said the installation is at the venue.
Whatever LA deal Clay was trying to make hasn’t gone through. If I take this job, there will be no avoiding him.
When I glance back, Brooke’s typing on my phone.
“What are you doing?” I lunge for her.
She holds the phone away. “If you don’t say yes, I will.”
I snatch it back and stare at the email.
“Pack your bags,” she says. “I can have a charter at Logan Airport in an hour.”
I check my phone as I pace the room. “There’s a home game tonight.”
“We can steer clear of the stadium for now.”
It’s suddenly too warm in here. I lift the window over the sink, the cold air rushing in to burn my lungs.
“No.” I square my shoulders. “I’m a big girl, and I’m over Clay. From here on out, this is about me.”
Brooke’s eyes flash with excitement. “Yes! This is going to be epic. I’ll call for the plane.”
“Wait! I have to do one thing first.”
She turns back, questioning.
I take a breath before lifting the jersey.
“Pass me the lighter.”