Page 57 of Game Changer

“We were?—”

“Are you a rule follower? Like a game plan?”

“I mean, of course, but what?—”

“I like rules and a plan too, so if I may have the honor of making the first entry in our rule book, I?—”

“Beau—”

“Rule number one, any talk about the future ofusis done face-to-face. I come with a few scars, and I need that, you with me?”

Gaw!

Frustrated as all get-out, I ask, “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Saying what?” he asks.

“You with me?” I imitate him.

“Gotta make sure you and I are always on the same playing field. Gotta be that way.”

“Then we need to talk soon.” I pause then throw in, “You with me?”

“I’m with you, Cupcake.” His voice gets thicker, deeper, and as if giving a confession, he says, “We’ve been on the same team since day one, and you and I both know that.” He pauses and then … “Fuck, I’m getting a call from the hospital?—”

“Take it.”

“You gonna let me call later and talk to Lily?” he asks.

“Of course I am.”

“Shit, yeah, of course. Um, I gotta?—”

“Take the call then call me back if you need to. I’m here,” I assure him.

“Gonna be my queen, Sydney Sparks.”

I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster, and I have never enjoyed them much. I sit down in the chair in the corner of my room and watch Lily sleep. It’s calming … until I get another text.

Boone

Bags are inside the back door. Remington gave me the code.

I push up out of the chair, make my way down two floors, and see the adorable patchwork pink quilted bag with Lovey and Cakey placed on top of the bag, and beside them, two bouquets of flowers wrapped in brown paper.

I squat down and hug my knees to get a closer look, but for some reason, I’m not ready to touch them. The lilies are beautiful, pink, and easy to understand. The other bouquet, I have no idea what they are. They’re a winter white, not blinding, but soft and a whisper of ivory, shaped like plumes with a graceful arch, a slender stem, with cloud-like blossoms covering them. There’s something whimsical and dreamlike about them.

I brush my fingertip over a blossom, and they feel soft like silk. The scent is a faint, barely-there fragrance, unless cool and crisp had a scent, then it would be those. There’s something about their elegance and beauty.

I pull my phone out and take a picture. Then I run an image search, and then search Winter White Astilbe’slore.

Perfect choice for someone who embodies quiet elegance, unwavering love, and a heart full of warmth, even in the coldest of seasons.

And another reads, “The astilbe floweris also known as false spirea, false goat’s beard, or feather flower, and they are said to have the meaning ‘I will be waiting for you’ or ‘I’ll still be waiting,’ symbolizing patience and dedication to a loved one.’

I pick up the duffle, place it in a crossbody position, and hold the bouquets of flowers in my arms as I head up the stairs.

I kick the door closed behind me and place everything on the counter, where I notice a Crockpot full of something that smells suspiciously like Molly Ross Sparks’ famous chicken noodle soup. It’s more stew-like, which makes it so much better. But right now, I’m not feeling food. I’m feeling … flowers.

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