Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
Jayne
An exchange of texts between Bodi and Rome confirms that Lourdes is indeed his ex-wife, and Bodi and I sit in the parking lot of the outdoor mall as the information comes to light.
“This is a twist I didn’t see coming,” Bodi admits, looking at me. “Rome says he can give you a lot of dirt about her but most of it would just be his word against hers, though he does have proof of some stuff, like the texts from when she was cheating on him.”
“She was cheating with my dad,” I murmur.
“Because I seem to remember them having some lovey-dovey conversation at the dinner table about how the chemistry was there from the moment they met, even though they couldn’t be together right away.
How their texts and phone conversations kept her going through the hardest, darkest time of her life. Or some bullshit like that.”
“Is this good or bad?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “It’s not like she cheated on my dad… that would be different.”
“Well, she certainly looked like she wanted to lick West from head to toe.”
“Gross.” I laugh.
“Come on, let’s go walk around and talk about something more pleasant.”
“Okay.” I get out of the SUV, and he takes my hand again as we head toward the outdoor mall area. It’s hot but the humidity is a bit lower today, so it’s a beautiful day to walk around. With a cute guy who’s been holding my hand nonstop since we left the farmer’s market.
There’s a stationery store that I love and when I mention going in, he doesn’t even hesitate. He follows behind me as I peruse the journals—my one weakness—and all the pretty planner supplies.
“My therapist suggested I start journaling,” Bodi muses, looking around. “I was going to get a basic notebook, the kind you use in school, but then I thought maybe digital would be better. That’s the one thing I haven’t been keeping up with for my therapy, the journaling.”
“I love to journal,” I admit. “And write letters. I usually don’t send them but I do write them.”
“Yeah? To whom?”
“For a long time, to my mom. After she died, I needed to stay connected. Eventually, I realized I needed to stop because it hurt more than it helped. Now I write them to the universe. Future me. Whatever.”
“I love that idea.”
“You don’t think it’s dorky?”
“Not at all.”
“I wrote you one,” I whisper, dropping my gaze.
“To Bodi or to Broderick?”
“To Bodi. That night. After we decided not to see each other again.”
“Can I read it?”
“I…” I hesitate. There’s nothing embarrassing in it. Not really. I essentially vented my frustration, with a few things about my father butting into my business and how sweet Bodi was to me. I never dreamed he might read it someday. But there’s really no reason for him not to. Not now.
“I understand if it’s private. I’m just fascinated by it. I don’t think anyone’s ever written me a letter on paper.”
“It’s in a notebook, but I could copy it onto paper for you.”
He shakes his head. “You’ll change it. I want to read it as is or not at all. And I won’t be mad if you say no. The thing is, if you decide to share it with me, it needs to be honest. Exactly the way you wrote it, even if you scratched out words or whatever.”
I smile. I can’t help it. I really like this guy.
“Okay. Next time I see you, I’ll tear out the pages and give them to you.”
“Do you hide your journals?”
“The ones to my mom are in a random box on my shelf. If Lourdes or my dad want to read my grief-stricken, teenage girl angsty letters to my mom, they’re welcome to.
My letters to the universe are in two journals hidden inside a secret compartment in one of my suitcases.
Those are personal as fuck, and I’ll knock the snot out of Lourdes if she goes for those! ”
He chuckles. “Easy, tiger. Hopefully, there won’t be any physical violence involved.”
“I’d love an excuse to knock the snot out of her,” I admit. “And I’ve never hit anyone in my life!”
“Well, some people bring that out in us. It’s human.” He reaches for a black leather journal with worn-looking pages and an embossed pair of wings on the cover. There’s also a brass key that slides into a slot made to keep it closed securely.
“That’s a nice one,” I say. “But it probably doesn’t have lines. Would that work for you?”
“You know, I feel like if I had a blank space where I can doodle, I’d be more willing to try it,” he says thoughtfully. “Maybe do little lists of things I either want to work on, improve, think about… instead of pouring out my soul in sentences. Does that make sense?”
“Absolutely. There are even stencils to help you do that, although I’m not sure if they have them here.” I look around. “And I’ll tell you right now—a good pen is a must. It needs to feel comfortable in your hand. Trust me on that.”
“Okay.” He walks over to a display of them and we both start using them on the paper put out for people to write on.
“This one,” he says, holding one up. “It’s bulky but I have big hands—it feels good when I hold it.”
Big hands. That I already love holding. That I’m looking forward to having touch me in a situation where I’m not falling over.
“You should get it,” I say aloud.
“What about you? Do you want anything?”
“I think I’m going to buy one of the unlined journals over there. I’ve been wanting to try junk journaling and I need a separate one for that.”
“What’s junk journaling?”
“It’s a little hard to explain because it’s different for everyone.
In general, it’s when you use a variety of found and/or recycled items to create a place to pour out creative…
junk. Like some people use it purely to create pretty pictures with papers, stamps, ink, and stickers.
Other people do a combination of that along with writing along or on top of the pictures in a traditional journal way.
As a way of protecting thoughts and memories. ”
“That’s incredibly vague,” he says.
“Yeah, and I don’t know which direction I want to go yet. I just want to play around and have some fun.”
“Let me buy you your first junk journal,” he says.
“I don’t want you to buy me things,” I protest.
“But I want to. In exchange, you help me get started with my journaling. Is that fair?”
I hesitate but then nod. Because it’s silly to say no to something like this. It’s not like he’s buying me a car or jewelry or something. A journal would be both thoughtful and meaningful since he wants to try his own version of it.
“Okay,” I say at last. “But if you buy me the journal, I’m going to need some stickers to go with it.”
He laughs. “Pick out what you want. This is something new for me too.”
“Oh, look, here are some stencils like I was telling you about—this one even has bullet journals, so you can make lists that are even on the page.”
He picks up the package. “Great. What else?”
I laugh.
This is fun.
I’m having fun.
He’s fun.
I can’t remember ever being out with a guy and thinking he was fun. Cute, funny, interesting—absolutely. But fun? Never.
He drops more money than I would normally be comfortable with on a first date—several hundred dollars—but his fancy pen was nearly a hundred so I don’t feel too bad about my share. And he seems genuinely excited.
“You’re not like any guy I’ve ever met,” I say as we walk out of the store with our hands linked and him carrying a fairly large shopping bag.
“You’re not like any woman I’ve ever met,” he responds.
“I enjoy your company,” I say slowly. “I’m a little nervous about what’s going to happen once training camp starts. I know how busy my dad gets. You must be at least half that busy.”
“Yes and no. Your dad’s job is less physical but requires more preparation and planning.
Meetings with the higher-ups about strategy, lines, deciding who’s going to be captain, all the minutiae that we, as players, kind of take for granted.
My job is to get enough sleep, eat right, stay in shape, and focus on what I have to do every time I’m on the ice.
But timewise, that’s the equivalent of a full-time job.
I still have time to see friends, go out on dates, keep up with life. The time suck is really the travel.”
“Yeah.”
“But we’ll have a lot of time to talk once I start traveling, because I spend so much time doing nothing.
On planes. At night in our hotel rooms. Hockey is like four hours on a game day, maybe six if we have a morning skate.
Almost zero hours on a travel day, maybe a couple if there’s a meeting or team dinner.
I sleep for eight. That leaves me a lot of time to talk to you. ”
“I never thought of it that way.”
He leans over and presses a soft kiss on my cheek. “We’ll figure it out, Jayne. You’ll see.”
For some reason, I believe him.
And that makes me incredibly happy.