Page 55 of His Jersey

He shrugs. “It’s no Jewel Suite, but?—”

My reply is dry. “Ha ha. I’ve slept in the machine room by the boiler during a cold snap at the resort, so no, a room with walls and a bed is more than good.”

“You shouldn’t sleep in machine rooms.”

“Actually, they make for wonderful accommodations, complete with amenities like engine lubricant, greasy rags, and rodent droppings,” I say with sarcastic laughter in my voice.

“I mean, I hate that you were in that situation.”

“It’s not like I had much of a choice. I only learned that I could use my key—” I cut myself off because, technically, I’m talking about breaking into his father’s hotel rooms.

Jack’s eyebrows lift, but his lips wear an amused smirk.

Adding an appreciative smile, I gesture to the spare bedroom and say, “Thank you.”

“The housekeeper stocks the bathroom with extra toothbrushes andstuff, but if you need anything, please let me know.”

“Have sleepovers often?”

“Just Carlos when Marisol breaks his heart again.”

“Oh. That stinks.” Glancing at my hands, I feel like I’m lingering, not wanting tonight to end, but why delay the inevitable?

Jack says, “Thank you for everything earlier. You were a showstopper.”

I squawk a laugh. Then, as if all the tension inside me channels into how absurd this situation is, it turns into a fit with me clutching my stomach.

“Why is that funny?” Jack asks.

Shaking my head as I catch my breath, I say, “I’ve recently learned not to expect much from life. But I’m glad my hair looked good.”

This time, I receive a quizzical head-cocked look. Jack slides his fingers through the loose strands of my hair that hang over my shoulder. His fingers linger there for a long moment and he releases a sigh.

“Ella, you should expect more. You deserve more.”

My nose tingles and tears threaten to make a jailbreak. Hiding behind the curtain of my hair, I lift onto my toes, kiss him on the cheek, and say goodnight.

Jack was right when he sensed that I was overwhelmed. There has been a lot to process in the last twelve hours. Now that I’m alone in the spare bedroom at his condo, it’s all catching up with me.

I’ve heard of people experiencing something called “Island Fever,” where they feel a kind of claustrophobia when theyreach land’s end and there’s nothing but water in every direction. Last I checked, other than Jesus, we can’t walk across water.

But we can fly off of an island. After being there for so long, the departure was abrupt. Without time to really prepare myself, never mind being able to see what was coming, I’m sliding and spinning like the puck across the ice earlier.

The way my breath sticks in the middle of my chest makes me feel like I’m having the opposite of Island Fever but on the mainland. I look out the window for a fire escape and contemplate asking Jack if there’s rooftop access. I just need a minute to breathe.

Ironically, I miss the wide open space of the place that kept me prisoner. I think that’s another type of syndrome altogether, but the point is, I’m not sure what to think about all of this.

It’s happened so fast and I’m tired.

I crawl into bed and close my eyes, but the trip here, the hockey game, the party afterward, meeting his father, and then my mixed feelings about Jack play in my mind like a movie.

How can this be real life?

When I thread together all of the time he and I have spent together, it spans years, yet we hardly know each other, so why should I feel so disappointed that he’s moving to Nebraska?

Change also came at him fast and he made a decision. I’m happy for him and the new life he’ll have. Plus, he’s been generous and this little interruption to my regularly scheduled programming at the resort will give me a financial boost. I can’t very well carry on sneaking into villas, rooms, and the cabana storage building to sleep. Something had to give.

But now what?

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