Chapter 4
Jasmine
The event is thinning out, and the sponsors left an hour ago. Now it's mostly Harper's team in black polo shirts, stacking chairs and collecting empty glasses.
I'm standing near the window with my second vodka soda warming in my hand, looking at the arena floor below. The ice is empty, and the lights are dimmed. An hour ago, this building was full of noise and hockey players in suits, and now it's just a big, quiet room.
I don't want to go home, even though it’s the smart thing to do.
My workload is packed tomorrow. I have the sportswear brand contract on my desk, and Wilder is expecting a framework by Friday.
I have a spin class at seven, and if I leave now, I can be in bed by eleven.
But my apartment is quiet, and tonight I don't want quiet.
Tonight, my head is full, and I need to let it settle before I take it home with me.
I catch sight of Logan. He's pulling on his coat by the exit and scans the room one more time. His eyes land on me.
We're forty feet apart, and the lounge is almost empty between us. We lock eyes, and he smiles. I remember what it used to mean when he gave it to me. Remember the butterflies I felt when he did.
The ones I’m faintly feeling now, so I smile back.
Blake says something to him, and he turns, and they walk out. The door closes behind them, and the room is quieter than it was a second ago.
I drain my glass.
“You look like a woman who needs another drink,” Harper says, holding two wine glasses and a bottle tucked under her arm.
She's kicked off her heels, and her hair is up in a messy bun. This is Harper after an event. I like this version of her better.
“Your team did a great job tonight,” I say.
“My team is exhausted, and I owe them all bonuses.” She sets the glasses on the nearest high table and pours. The wine is red and full-bodied, and she pours generously. “Sit with me.”
We pull two chairs together near the window. Below us, a maintenance crew is doing something to the ice, and the Zamboni makes slow, methodical circles. It's calming to watch it work.
Harper tucks her feet under her and takes a long sip. “So. You and Logan Shaw.”
I take a drink of wine. “What about Logan Shaw and me?”
“You talked to him for forty minutes.”
I shrug once. “I was networking.”
“I run events for a living. I know the difference between networking and whatever that was. You two were at the bar in your own world. Liam set a napkin on fire doing a trick, and you didn't even look up.”
My eyes go wide. “He set a napkin on fire?”
“That's not the point.”
I've known Harper for about a year. Caldwell, Price & Associates hired her company to plan our annual gala, and we hit it off over the planning process, skipping the small talk and going straight to late-night wine and honesty.
She introduced me to her girls, and she's the reason I have a circle in this city beyond my office.
She's also relentless when she wants information.
“We grew up together,” I finally say.
Harper's glass pauses halfway to her mouth. “You and Logan Shaw grew up together.”
“Yeah, in Long Island. Same neighborhood. His family lived on Maple. Mine was on Birch, three blocks south.”
“You're kidding.”
“There’s more. We started dating when I was sixteen. His family is a hockey family. His dad played college. His mom played field hockey. Both his brothers play. The whole Shaw universe revolves around the game.”
“Were you serious?” Harper asks.
I look at my wine. “I thought so. We were together for two years. I went to every game and watched him play. I thought that was going to be my life. Then he got drafted.” Alcohol is loosening my tongue.
I've never told anyone this. Not Clara, who is my closest friend at work.
I turn the glass in my hand. “His mother told me, in her own way, that I wasn't built for the life he was going to have. She said hockey families aren't easy, and it takes a certain kind of woman to handle it, and that basically she didn’t think I was that kind of woman.”
“God.”
“Then Logan left, and I went to college and then law school and then here.”
“That would make me bitter,” Harper says.
I shrug. “I healed a long time ago.”
Harper nods and picks up her wine again. “He seemed nervous tonight when you two were talking.”
“Logan always seems nervous. It's just how he is.”
“No. With the sponsors, he's stiff. With you, he was different. Cole told me once that getting more than three words out of Logan Shaw requires an act of God.”
“He was always a talker with me, even back then. He just didn't talk to anyone else.”
We sit in silence for a minute, watching the Zamboni finish its last pass. The ice is perfect, fresh and glossy and untouched.
“If you ever want to talk about it, I'm here. No judgment,” Harper says. “It’s going to be tough seeing him all the time.”
“I’ll be fine. We’re friends now. In fact, he asked me out for a drink to catch up, and I said I’d love to.”
Harper raises an eyebrow, but she doesn’t voice her thoughts. We move on to other topics, and an hour later, I’m ready to leave.
I take an Uber home. The city is still awake, but my street in the West Village is quiet. I let myself into my building, take the elevator to the fourth floor, and unlock my door.
My apartment is dark, and I don't turn on the overhead lights. I kick off my heels in the hallway, hang my coat in the closet, and pad barefoot into the kitchen. The floor is cold under my feet, and I pour myself a glass of water and stand at the island and drink it slowly.
The apartment is clean as always. The girls like to tease me that I have OCD, but what’s wrong with loving a clean environment?
My gaze falls to the cream sofa with gold throw pillows, the bookshelves lined with law texts and the novels I keep meaning to read.
When I moved to Manhattan after law school, I had two suitcases and a lease I could barely afford. Now I have an apartment with a window that faces west and catches the last hour of sunlight every evening.
This is the life I built after Logan Shaw left.
I take my water to the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed. I unclip my earrings and set them on the nightstand, pull the pins from my hair, and let it fall. The jumpsuit unzips, and I step out of it and hang it up.
I wash my face, following the same routine I do every night, regardless of whether I'm exhausted or not. The routine stays the same.
I get into bed and set an alarm for six.
Then, I lay on my back, staring at the white ceiling, willing myself to sleep. But thoughts of tonight are all over my mind.
I told Harper I healed a long time ago.
So why haven't I had a relationship that lasted longer than five months? Michael, the investment banker, made it three months before he told me I was impossible to get close to.
Andre, the architect, lasted five months before he said he felt like he was dating a resume, not a person.
Jason, the professor, was four months. He was kind and patient, and I liked him, but I ended it anyway because every time he reached for me across the bed, I felt myself pull away, and I didn't know why.
Now, I know why.
I've been measuring every man against the boy who left, and the feeling I had at seventeen when he looked at me on the beach and told me he loved me. I believed him with every cell in my body. No man since then has made me feel that certain or that seen or that known.
I’ve spent ten years telling myself I don't want to feel that way again. That certainty is a trap, and feeling known just gives someone a map to your weakest spots.
I turn over and pull the covers up, forcing my brain to shut up.