Page 115 of Bombshells
Be patient, darling. It will happen for you. You will know great love if you allow yourself the patience to see it in front of you.
I let out a gasp, and then clap a hand over my mouth.
The sound makes Anton’s eyes flutter open again—his bright blue eyes. Like the Caribbean Sea. “All good?” he asks sleepily.
“Yes,” I yelp. “Just fine.”
His eyes close again. I lean down and kiss his forehead to let him know that all is well, and he makes a soft sound of comfort.
But then I read the last paragraph of that letter again, my gaze darting back and forth across the words on the page.
How is this possible? I read this letter in Ontario, and I interpreted it to mean Bryce. I would have said that she’d actually named him in this paragraph. I hadn’t remembered her describing the color of blue.
The fact is that I’d been impatient. I’d read what I wanted to read.
With shaky hands, I fold up the letter and tuck it back into the box. I set the box on the floor, and I set down my phone, plunging the room back into darkness.
I relax under the covers, and Anton’s hand slips into mine. “Love you, baby. Sleep well, now.”
“I love you, too,” I whisper back.
It takes me a little while to fall asleep. My mother was a wise woman. She saw many things that I failed to see. And maybe she even predicted Anton’s entrance into my life.
But I think there’s something else I’m supposed to learn from those pages, first. Patience, Sylvie.
Let’s face it, if I’d listened to that advice, I could have avoided all the heartache I had over Bryce.
You were right, Maman, I think to myself. I must learn to be patient. If only you were here to tell me how that is done.
Thirty-Eight
Like Whiplash
ANTON
In the morning, poor Sylvie is sore. Her neck and shoulders are tight, and her stitches throb.
“It’s like whiplash from a car crash,” she says, rolling her neck.
“I’m sorry, baby. Let me get you a dose of Tylenol.” After that, I help her to put a waterproof bandage on her wound, so she can shower.
“Sorry to be such a drag,” she mumbles as I towel off her hair.
“You aren’t. Stop.” The truth is that I like taking care of her for once. “I do have to go to morning skate, though.”
“And I have to meet another doctor, so we can argue about the concussion protocol.”
“It’s going to be okay,” I tell her, and it’s not just a platitude. “I really believe that.” When she stands up, I fold her into a nice hug. “Heal fast, sweetheart, so I can let you out of sexile.”
“That’s a Frankenword for…sex exile?” She giggles against my shoulder.
“You know it.”
* * *
I’m just finishing up a nice, grueling workout on the rink three hours later when I spot Sylvie standing over by the penalty box.
I skate over there immediately and come to a hockey stop beside her. “Hey, gorgeous. What’s the news?” It must be good, because she’s smiling.
