Page 93 of Bright Lights and Summer Nights

I’m sorry people still ask you about me. I hate that the paparazzi followed you all the way to your aunt’s house. I hate that I still can’t shake the feeling that the opinions of others about us and you made you second-guess yourself. I hope I’m wrong. You’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met, even as you’re still figuring it out, and I hope the world sees that in you too. I know they will. It’s hard not to.

Yours,

Preston

Rebel,

I know I shouldn’t have texted you. You have no idea how many times I’ve typed out a text to you only to delete it before I hit Send. But after you won that award, I couldn’t help myself. I’ve never watched award shows, and the ones I’ve attended I barely ever paid attention to. But last night, I was glued to the TV. I thought my heart was going to leap out of my chest waiting for them to announce the winner. I’m so happy it was you. Hearing from you, even if it was only a few words, gave me hope. I’ll see you in February, Rebel.

Yours,

Preston

Rebel,

There was a moment today during the game where I got hit so hard that for a moment, I couldn’t move. My teammates and coaches were huddled over me, their eyes wide with fear because they knew how hard that hit was. I couldn’t hear a damn thing any of them were saying. Trainers were asking me questions, refs were trying to talk to my head coach, and the only thing I could think about was that time we walked out to the pier at midnight. The moon lit the path for us down the old, creaky boards. I remember it so vividly. The way you smelled, the baby-pink tank top you had on. We danced under the stars that night. And for some reason, as I lay there on the field, I wanted it to be that night again. I wanted to be back on that boardwalk with you. I was pulled out for concussion protocol, but was able to return after being checked out. I tried to focus on the game—we won by twenty-one—but it wasn’t the most focused I’d been in a game. All I could think about was wanting to be back on that boardwalk with you.

Next summer I want to dance with you on the boardwalk every night.

Always yours,

Preston

Rebel,

I saw that interview you did with Ruby Robinson. You’re doing big things, Emma Turner. Every answer you gave her about your life and your experiences was so authentic and real. I love watching the rest of the world fall in love with you, just the way I have. It does sting a little, knowing you’re here in New York. You’re so close, but so far. I miss you.

Yours,

Preston

I reread the latest one a few times, still feeling the tinge of pain knowing she’s back here in New York. From what I understand, she’s been all over the place recently. Mexico for a brand trip, LA for a shoot, and back here in New York for I don’t know how long. It’s probably a good thing I don’t know where she’s staying while she’s here. She could be at Beck and Margo’s, spending time with their new baby, or she could be with Winnie and Archer, or she could be staying somewhere on her own. I really don’t know. It’s better that I don’t. If I did, I might not be able to control myself and go see her. But we’ve made it halfway to February. She really seems to be getting her life together. She knows how I feel. When she’s ready—if she’s ever ready—she knows where to find me.

So I’ll continue to wait, even though waiting for her is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It’ll be worth it in the end, as long as she’s mine.

CHAPTER 49

EMMA - THREE MONTHS LATER

I need to be on a beach. Or at least somewhere that doesn’t have freezing temperatures outside.

Like always, I forgot my gloves when running out to the little market a block away from my studio apartment. I’m always forgetting my dang gloves, and now I’m paying for it as I rush back to my apartment as quickly as I can. This is what I get for trying to be healthy and grabbing groceries to make myself dinner instead of just ordering out.

The wind whips at my exposed cheeks as I rush down the sidewalk back to my apartment. It’s surprisingly busy for it being almost mid-February in New York. It’s frigid outside, and if it wasn’t for me trying to have a New Year’s resolution of learning to cook for myself more, I wouldn’t be out in the cold at all.

My plans for the night were to eat some dinner, look over some final details for an exciting announcement I’ll be posting soon, and maybe torture myself by watching the Super Bowl event coverage in Miami.

I haven’t told anyone, but I’ve secretly become a football fan throughout the duration of this season. Or maybe it’s that I became a masochist. Either way, I’ve watched every one of Preston’s games I’ve been able to.

Watching him win in overtime to make it to the Super Bowl was probably the most thrilling—but exhausting—moment of my life. I couldn’t be prouder that the Mambas are one game away from having a Cinderella season. Preston deserves to have his last season be so perfect, and I’m just a ball of nerves for the actual game tomorrow night.

And I just miss Preston.

With a sigh, I shake my head and close the distance to the entrance to my apartment building. The doorman opens the door for me, holding it as I rush inside with my groceries.

“Good evening,” he says, his cheeks pink from the cold. I feel bad he’s having to be out in it, but at least he’s not out in it unless someone’s wanting to get in.

“H-i-i—” I smile through my chattering teeth. I shake my body, trying to get the blood moving now that I’m in the warmth of the apartment building. My arms tremble with the weight of the grocery bags as I walk toward the elevator.

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