Page 97 of Can't Always Get What You Want

“Every morning.” I move into the room beside her. “I read somewhere that making your bed first thing sets the tone for the rest of your day.”

Nova steps fully inside, her eyes sweeping the room. “Look at you, Mr. Structure and Routine.”

“It’s called emotional regulation?”

She grins and toes off her shoes near the doorway. “Pretty sure I’ve seen that on Therapy Tok.”

Walking to the sitting area, I set the grazing board on the small coffee table and turn to watch her walking around my space. It’s lived-in but clean.

My white comforter is crisp, tucked tight as if I’d spent some time in the military.

A large-scale abstract canvas hangs above the headboard—a white and cream abstract that has no sentimental value and is only there to fill the void. My shelves are lined with framed photographs of family, friends, and teammates. Several pucks from hockey legends. A framed jersey from my college team. Candles. Books I mostly pretend I’ve read.

She stops at one of the framed pictures on my dresser.

“High school playoffs,” I say, leaning over to see it. “I split my lip during that game. See the scar?”

I point to my mouth as she leans closer to the picture, squinting at the younger, beardless version of me standing next to Rhett Anderson, both of us sweaty and cocky and vibrating with youth. My lip is split, blood crusted at the edge of my smile, and my left eye was already starting to swell shut.

“Jesus,” she says. “You look twelve.”

“Seventeen,” I correct. “Tough as hell.”

Obviously.

She grins, brushing her fingers over one of the candles on the shelf. “Do you actually light these or are they just props?”

“For sure. Otherwise the entire house smells like fart and dirty socks.”

Cash is a great guy, but when he’s home, the air quality drops at least three points. He also doesn’t believe in closing the bathroom door. And Skaggs leaves protein shakers in his gym bag until they ferment, which is fucking disgusting.

“It’s a miracle I’m still alive,” I lament as she continues perusing my things.

Nova laughs, delighted, brushing her fingers over the spines of a few books before glancing back toward the bed. “I kind of love that your bedroom is your safe zone.”

I shrug. “I have an office too, but never use it.”

She hums.

“Should we go sit and eat? I’m starving.”

Nova takes my hand and follows me to the two oversized chairs I have angled toward the window; a soft throw blanket tossed over the arm of one, the low round table between them is where I’ve already set the grazing board.

The windows overlook the backyard, soft pinpoints of light from the neighbor’s porch twinkling in the near distance.

She curls into the chair like she was designed to fit there. Legs tucked beneath her, shoulders relaxed, wine glass in hand as I pour. I sit opposite her, my own glass within reach, watching the way she sinks into the quiet.

“This was such a good idea,” she says after a few silent moments. “It’s so peaceful.”

It’s not always, but I allow her to live in the illusion. “Glad you think so.” Give the grazing board a little scoot in her direction. “Try the prosciutto—it’s delicious.”

She grins and reaches for the meat. “What kind of guy builds cheese boards?”

Hungry guys. “The kind who’s trying to earn bonus points.”

“I assumed when I got here that I’d be walking into a house full of crushed beer cans and piles of disgusting, dirty laundry.”

I shake my head. “Nope. We have a cleaning lady who comes twice a week and she puts up with none of that nonsense.”

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