Page 38 of The Lucky One

And the thought of not having something that means that much to me, right off the top of my head, is depressing. There’s probably something. Yet in the back and forth of keeping my mother happy as a stellar wedding planner, keeping my former fiance happy as his arm candy, I’m not sure that I know who I am anymore.

Nothing in my life feels real enough, or stable enough, to run toward flames.

And even though Weston hardly knows me, he called me out on it.

“It wouldn’t be the trophies,” Weston says, pulling me back into the moment. He almost looks pained, and despite my best efforts, I feel a piece of my wall tumble to the ground.

I blink, unprepared for this shift. “What?”

“Things I’d grab in a fire. It wouldn’t be a championship ring, or trophies, or a game ball. Not even a signed pigskin—which I don’t even own, by the way.”

“Then what would you grab?” I ask softly.

I’m not sure why, but I genuinely want to know his answer. A peek inside the Weston he keeps hidden away.

For a second, I think he’s going to yell “psyche!” like the overgrown man child he sometimes is. But then, without looking at me, he says, “A shoebox.”

“A shoebox?” I repeat.

“It’s got a lot of important stuff in it,” he shrugs. “Things I can’t replace.”

“Like what?”

“Photos. Ribbons from school. Tickets from high school and college games. Keepsakes. Newspaper article from my first draft. Stuff from my first professional game. Things that make me happy.”

It’s so down to earth it almost knocks my breath away, I feel bad for teasing him so much. Once again, Weston is surprising me.

And I doubt it’ll be thelasttime.

fourteen

WESTON

MARCH15

“You don’t strike me as the Passenger Princess type.”

“What?” she laughs, glancing over at me.

I should be surprised she’s driving with her hands firmly at ten and two—like she’s being graded on her performance—but no. It’s just who she is, always on point and trying to stay in control.

She’s tried to let go of that and go with the flow, but it’s just who she is and I really like that about her. Because Ireallylike Bridget.

“You don’t know what that is?” I ask. “You get all cozy and sit there in the passenger seat with your phone, book, Sudoku—whatever—and you just look cute.”

Not that I think she’d know how to relax, but it’s an experiment I’d be willing to test out.

“Does that seem like something I’d enjoy?” she asks, the edges of her lips twitching into a smirk.

“Considering you’ve only just let me have access to the radio, I’m going with no.”

To prove my point, I turn on ‘Kiss Me’ by Sixpence None the Richer just to see what she does. I might have an ulterior motive in mind here, but I’m also quietly adding songs to a playlist in my phone of songs she likes.

It’s called research.

The song fills the car, and she shoots me an amused look. “Not very subtle.”

“I prefer to leave out the guesswork.”

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