Chapter Twelve Travis
Chapter Twelve
Travis
I change my shirt three times.
The first one is too casual. The second one is too formal. The third one is the same as the first one, which I put back on because I'm losing my mind and need to stop before I make it worse.
It's just dinner. It's just Kelly. The same Kelly I've been having coffee with for weeks, the same Kelly who laughed at my jokes and listened to my problems and kissed me last night like she meant it.
Except now she knows who I am. And she's still here. And I have no idea what to do with that.
I check the time. Six forty-five. I told her seven, which means I should leave in about ten minutes, which means I have ten minutes to stand in my cottage and panic quietly.
The restaurant is a place I found a few months ago, back when I first got to Longshore and needed somewhere to eat that wasn't the gas station.
It's small, Italian, run by a couple who moved here from New Jersey twenty years ago and never left.
The food is good and the lighting is dim and the owner, Maria, doesn't watch hockey.
She has no idea who I am. She just knows me as the quiet guy who comes in on Tuesday nights and orders the same thing every time.
I called this morning to make a reservation. Valentine's Day, last minute, probably impossible. But Maria said she'd find me a table, and she did, because that's the kind of place it is. The kind of place where people take care of each other.
I want to take care of Kelly like that. I want to be someone who shows up for her, who makes things easier instead of harder.
I've been trying to do that since she got here—fixing things, helping out, being useful—but tonight is different.
Tonight I'm not the handyman. I'm the guy taking her on a date.
I don't know how to be that guy. I haven't been that guy in a long time.
My phone buzzes. Dave, again. I've been ignoring his calls all week, but he's persistent. The team wants an answer. The suspension is almost over. I need to decide what I'm doing with the rest of my life.
I silence the phone and shove it in my pocket. That's a problem for tomorrow. Tonight is about Kelly.
At six fifty-five, I walk across the yard to the main house.
The night is cold and clear, stars scattered across the sky like someone spilled them there.
I can see my breath in the air, little clouds that disappear as soon as they form.
The main house is lit up, warm light spilling from the windows, and I think about all the nights I've looked at those windows from the cottage, wondering what Kelly was doing inside.
Now I know. Now I'm part of it.
I climb the porch steps and knock on the door.
She opens it almost immediately, like she was waiting on the other side. And for a second, I forget how to breathe.
She's wearing something black and silky that catches the light when she moves. Her hair is down, falling in loose curls around her shoulders. There's lipstick on her mouth, darker than her usual, and her eyes look bigger somehow, softer.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi." I'm staring. I know I'm staring. I can't stop. "You look..."
"I look what?"
"Incredible." The word comes out rougher than I intended. "You look incredible."
She smiles, and I see a hint of the nervousness she's been hiding. "You don't look so bad yourself."
I glance down at my shirt—the first one, the one I put on twice—and shrug. "I changed three times."
"Only three? I lost count."
That makes me laugh, and some of the tension drains out of my shoulders. This is still Kelly. This is still us. The only thing that's changed is that now we're doing it on purpose.
"Ready?" I ask.
"Ready."
The restaurant is twenty minutes away, on the edge of a town even smaller than Longshore.
Kelly watches out the window as we drive, the dark fields and bare trees rolling past, and I try not to be too aware of how close she is.
The cab of the truck feels smaller than usual.
Every time she shifts, I catch a hint of her perfume—something warm and floral that I've never noticed before.
"So where are we going?" she asks.
"I told you. It's a surprise."
"And I told you I don't like surprises."
"You're going to like this one."
She gives me a look, but she's smiling. "You're very confident."
"I'm very hopeful. There's a difference."
The restaurant appears around a curve in the road, a small brick building with a faded sign and a parking lot full of cars. I pull into one of the last open spots and kill the engine.
"This is it?" Kelly looks at the building, then at me.
"Trust me."
Inside, the restaurant is warm and loud and smells like garlic and fresh bread. Red-and-white checkered tablecloths, candles on every table, Dean Martin playing softly from speakers I've never been able to locate. Maria spots us from across the room and waves, already heading our way.
"Travis!" She pulls me into a hug like we're old friends, even though I've only been here a handful of times. "And this must be your girl. You didn't tell me she was so beautiful."
"I didn't want you to get jealous," I say, and Maria laughs and swats my arm.
"Come, come. I have your table ready. Best seat in the house."
She leads us to a corner booth, tucked away from the crowd, with a candle flickering in a red glass holder. Kelly slides in across from me, and I watch her take it all in—the noise, the warmth, the families and couples packed into every available space.
"This is perfect," she says.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She looks at me, and there's something soft in her expression. "How did you find this place?"
"I was driving around one night, a few weeks after I got here. I didn't know where I was going. I just needed to not be in the cottage for a while." I shrug. "I saw the sign and pulled in. Maria made me eat two plates of lasagna and told me I looked like I needed feeding."
"She wasn't wrong."
"She's never wrong. Don't tell her I said that."
Maria comes back with menus and a bottle of wine she insists is on the house. "For Valentine's Day," she says, winking at Kelly. "You let me know if he treats you right. If not, I'll hit him with a spoon."
"I'll keep that in mind," Kelly says, grinning.
When Maria leaves, we look at each other across the table, and I feel that same buzz I felt last night. This electricity between us that I don't know how to name. She's here. She knows everything. And she's still here.
"This is weird," she says.
"What is?"
"Being on a date with you. After everything." She picks up her wine glass, turning it in her fingers. "Yesterday I thought you were just some guy who fixed things. Now I know you're a professional hockey player who's been hiding in my backyard for six months. It's a lot to adjust to."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing." She takes a sip of wine. "I'm not saying it's bad weird. Just weird. Like I'm getting to know you all over again."
"Maybe you are." I lean back in the booth. "The guy you knew before—the one who fixed your sink and helped with your book—that was me. But it wasn't all of me. I was holding back."
"Really?"
“Yes, now I don't want to hold back anymore."
She's quiet for a moment, studying me. "Okay. So tell me something. Something real. Something you haven't told anyone else."
I think about it. There are a lot of things I haven't told anyone—things about my family, my career, the mess inside my head that I've never been able to sort out. But one thing rises to the surface, something I've been thinking about since last night.
"I don't know if I want to go back," I say.
"Back where?"
"To hockey. The team wants me back. My suspension is almost over, and they want me to come in for practice, see how it goes. But I keep putting off the decision because I don't know if that's what I want anymore."
Kelly frowns. "I thought hockey was your whole life."
"It was. It is. I don't know." I run a hand through my hair. "When I was playing, I never thought about anything else. It was just—get up, train, play, sleep, repeat. The structure made sense. I knew who I was and what I was supposed to do."
He looks away before starting again.
"I've been away for six months, and I've had time to think. About what I want. About who I am when I'm not on the ice." I look at her. "Being here, with you—it's the first time in years I've felt like a person instead of a player. I don't know if I'm ready to give that up."
She reaches across the table and puts her hand over mine. Her fingers are warm, her touch light.
"You don't have to decide tonight," she says.
"I know."
"And whatever you decide, it doesn't change anything. Between us, I mean."
I turn my hand over, lacing my fingers through hers. "You mean that?"
"I mean that." She squeezes my hand. "I didn't fall for Travis Howe the hockey player. I fell for the guy who fixed my sink and made me laugh and looked at me like I was worth something. That's who I want. The rest is just details."
Something loosens in my chest. Something I've been holding tight for months, maybe years.
"You fell for me?" I ask.
She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late."
Maria appears with bread and olive oil and a knowing smile. "You two are very cute," she says. "I approve."
"Thank you, Maria."
"Now eat. You're too skinny. Both of you."
We eat. The food is as good as I remembered—fresh pasta, homemade sauce, bread that's still warm from the oven.
We talk about everything and nothing. Her book, my suspension, the house, the town, the places we've been and the places we want to go.
It's easy in a way I didn't expect. Like now that there are no more secrets, we can finally just be ourselves.
At some point I realize I'm happy. Actually happy, in a way I haven't been in a long time. Sitting in this crowded restaurant with this woman who knows the worst thing I've ever done and chose to be here anyway.
I don't know what happens next. I don't know if I'm going back to hockey or staying in Longshore or something else entirely. But for the first time in months, the uncertainty doesn't feel like a weight. It feels like possibility.
"What are you thinking about?" Kelly asks.
"Nothing," I say. "Everything."
She laughs. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
She kicks me under the table, gently, and I catch her foot between mine, holding it there. She doesn't pull away.
"I'm glad you asked me out," she says.
"I'm glad you said yes."
"I almost didn't."
"What changed your mind?"
She tilts her head, considering. "You left your porch light on. When I walked back to the house last night. I looked back, and your light was on."
"That made you say yes?"
"It made me think you were waiting for me." She shrugs. "I liked that."
I did wait for her. I stayed up half the night staring at the ceiling, wondering if I'd ruined everything, hoping I hadn't. The porch light was just habit—I always leave it on—but if she wants to believe it was for her, I'm not going to argue.
"I was," I say. "Waiting for you. I have been since the day you got here."
She doesn't say anything. She just looks at me with those dark eyes, and I see something there I haven't seen before. Trust, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
It's more than I deserve. But I'm going to try to be worthy of it anyway.