Page 135 of The Boyfriend Goal

But I can leave her a letter because I finally know what I want to say.

I head into her room, grab her notepad of blue paper, and bring it back to the kitchen. I write her a short letter and leave it on the counter. She’ll find it when she comes home from work.

When I return the notepad to her room, I catch sight of the list sticking out of the blank book. I take one step toward it. Then another. It’s a tractor beam pulling me closer. I’m so tempted to look. I reach out a hand, my fingers itching.

I’m dying to find out what she’s crossed off without me.

But I stop, close my eyes, and shake it off. Then I open them and I tear myself away from her room, shutting the door.

I don’t have to see the list to know she’s crossed off more items. The question is—how many?

I take a yoga class, grab some lunch with the guys, and go to the animal rescue and volunteer. All day, I count off the hours till she comes home. Till I can apologize. Till she finds this letter, and I can talk to her and try to figure us out. But the day moves too slowly. The hands on the clock trudge by. I’m convinced her work will never end. Around four, I wander around the house. It’s eerie and dark since it’s late December. My footsteps creak on the floorboards, and I’m painfully aware that she’s not here.

And I’m just…waiting.

What is wrong with me? In hockey, you don’t wait. You do.

Spurred by a burst of adrenaline, I run upstairs, change into a nice shirt and jeans, and race to the garage. I can wait outside the library. Surprise her with a ride home. Be the guy who’s leaning against his car, ready to pick up his woman and celebrate her successes.

I hightail it to the library with the letter in the passenger seat. I park in the tiny lot. But when five o’clock ticks by, she doesn’t emerge from the main doors. With nerves strung tight, I march inside, looking for her and finding Thalia. “Hey, is Josie here?”

“She left early. She had some things to do,” Thalia says, and I can’t read a thing into her tone—if that’s good or bad or if she even knows.

I race back outside to the lot, stabbing Josie’s name on my phone. She doesn’t answer. I pace, dragging a hand roughly through my hair. Where the hell did she go? Home is the obvious answer, so I hop back in the car and return to the house. But she’s not there, and she’s still not answering.

“Where are you?”

Then I remember—there’s someone who might know.

I call Asher and ask him for Maeve’s number. Then I ring Josie’s friend immediately.

The first night I met Josie, she’d told me she’d turned on her location tracker for Maeve. Later, she told me that she never turned it off. “It amused us too much,” she’d said.

When Maeve answers, I waste no time. “I need to see Josie now. She’s not answering. Do you know where she is?”

Maeve laughs, clear and bright. “As a matter of fact, I do. She’s at Dolores Park.”

I drive so fast to number eight.

46

LOVELY NIGHT

Josie

This isn’t weird at all.

That’s what I tell myself as I walk into the park solo…to dance on a Monday night. Normally, I wouldn’t go to any park at night, being a single female and not having a death wish and all.

But I picked tonight for a reason. Dolores Park is hosting its tree-lighting ceremony. The iconic palm trees on the edge of the park are proud statues, their trunks decorated with white and red lights blinking in spirals, their fronds decked out in flashing pinks, purples and blues.

Crowds fill the park, a motley crew of couples, friends, and young families heading toward a towering Christmas tree in the center of the space where a band plays on a gazebo stage and vendors peddle hot cocoa and candied pecans. Upbeat Christmas tunes in a rock beat reverberate from the stage. Something by Gwen Stefani, I think. A cover of one of her Christmas songs.

Nerves skitter up my spine, but I look around, getting my bearings. People are swaying by the stage, and kids are running in circles. Yup. This is the right time. I’ll blend in and, besides, so what if I don’t? So what if I stand out? It’s fine if I look silly as I dance alone, rocking out to Bill Withers’ “Lovely Day.” Greta’s non-favorite song.

My hand curls tight around my phone, my fingers circling by the playlist, at the ready. I clicked it open on my way over. Sure, I’m trying to be spontaneous at times, but you can’t take all the prep out of a girl like me.

My phone’s on Do Not Disturb. I didn’t want to be distracted by checking my email for job news. I need to do number eight. I want to do number eight.

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