Page 17 of The Overtime Kiss

“Same here for Max and me,” Everly chimes in with her efficient spirit. “The only caveat is I’m not sure Athena’s great with other cats.”

I’m speechless. Truly, I didn’t expect this. The outpouring of support from these women—women I’ve onlygrown close to since meeting last fall—hits me hard. I haven’t had these types of friendships before. Not like this. Maybe because I’ve been so itinerant since graduating from college, bouncing from ice-skating show to ice-skating show, from cruise ships to occasional residencies. But now, settled into the city for the past several months, I’ve become part of this group of friends, and it’s such a gift to be one of the circle.

At the same time, I feel terrible taking them up on their offers. They’re all cozily paired up with hockey players, and I’m over-the-moon for them. But I’m not sure I’m ready to face all these happily-ever-afters when mine was torpedoed yesterday. It’s like peeking into a world I don’t quite belong to yet.

“I can’t thank you all enough,” I manage, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I’m honestly touched.”

“I’ve been there,” Leighton says sympathetically; she bounced around a lot last year, trying to make it on her own.

“Me too,” Josie adds. She lost a place right after she moved to town.

Isla leans in with a gentle smile. “My place is always open as well. It’s small—a studio. But the couch is excellent for napping, so it must be good for sleeping.”

Maeve clears her throat. “Which is a bonus, you know. Not all couches can go the distance and be good for night sleeping.”

“That’s very true,” Josie says thoughtfully. She’s the curious one, I’ve learned quickly. “I wonder if anyone’s ever done a study on that.”

Even though I don’t know exactly when the garlic place will be ready—or if it ever will—I do need someplace to stay immediately.

I turn to Isla, the only other single woman in the group. “I’d love to stay with you, Isla. You’re the closest to the rink.”

“Perfect.” She beams. “My couch has been waiting for someone to break it in.”

I laugh. Just one last thing. I lift my hand and wiggle the engagement ring still on my finger. It’s not a tiny rock. “Now, where’s the best place to sell this thing? I need the cash to keep my business afloat for a few months.” I feel nefarious in the best of ways. But I’m the woman who marched down the aisle to a cheating voicemail, so it seems on brand.

“Let’s add that to the planner.” Isla is already typing, then hitting search. We pore over options and make an appointment for an hour later at a diamond merchant. No time like the present.

That afternoon, I ditch my ring for a cool five figures, field a call from Rhonda—her friend Starla is happy to rent her micro-studio to me this summer (emphasis onmicro)—and then check in with my clients to let them know their regular lessons are back on if they want them. I might as well get back to work.

Later, I send Rhonda a thank-you gift: a brand-new cat sweatshirt, a nail salon gift certificate, and some of Birdie’s toffee brownies.

At least this hot mess still knows how to get things done.

The next day, I pack up Furby and move into Starla’s “micro-studio” above the garlic hot dog place. She might have been overselling it by calling itmicro.It’s more like a walk-in closet. There’s not even a shower—just a sink and a toilet—but I can shower at the gym. I’m an athlete. I’ve been doing it my whole life. I retrieve my things from Fuck Chad’s while he’s not home, store them at Leighton’s, and then spend the night with Furby on a futon that smells like the strongest spice.

At least it’s mine for now, and that’s what I need.

There’s one more piece of unfinished business. I’ll have to face Tyler Falcon again at Luna’s skating lesson. And I’m notsure I’m ready to see the gentleman who kindly turned me down on my wedding night.

How do you face the man who left you ibuprofen and a tiara after you came on to him like a dog comes onto a bone?

But I know this much—I absolutely have to grab a minute alone with the man I propositioned.

I just hope that when I do, I don’t stink like garlic.

5

A GROWN-ASS ADULT AND HIS MANTRA

Tyler

Look, I’m not the kind of guy who throws a pile of clothes on the bed and debates what to wear. For anything. I don’t call my sister or my mom on FaceTime, holding up one shirt after another and fielding opinions.

But today? Today, I’m fucking annoyed at the mountain of shirts and the number of options I’ve considered. I blow out a harsh breath, shake my head at my reflection in the mirror, and mutter, “Get it together, man.”

Getting it together means closing my eyes, plunging a hand into the mountain of clothes, and grabbing the first shirt I touch. Doesn’t matter what it is. With my eyes barely open, I tug it on. When I glance back at the mirror, I shake my head.

“Of course,” I mutter.

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