Page 102 of Whirlwind
Would I be settling for Tyson? If I’m his second choice, if he is settling for me, does that mean I’d be settling for him, too? Idon’t want to settle. I don’t want a life where I love my partner more than they could ever love me.
What I want is the epic love the likes of…I don’t know, Jane Eyre. Where she and Rochester find their way back to one another. Not because it was convenient or easy, but because they were meant to be.
Not that I want Tyson to go blind while figuring it out or anything. Maybe his team captain kicking his ass is the equivalent of his Thornfield Hall fire.
Or maybe I’m just silly and looking for reasons to be near him.
I like being with him. I like myself when I’m with him, which is a profound thing for me to think after a lifetime of being uncomfortable with my place in the world.
My phone chimes with a notification, and I’m surprised to see it’s a text from Lottie.
Lottie:
I was very sorry to hear about your grandmother, Kit. I wanted to tell you that days ago except I know that when my grandpa died, anyone that said anything nice to me made me cry my eyes out and I didn’t want to do that to you. Tyson told me he’s a fuck up. I already knew that, but I was sorry to hear about his bonehead move. Whatever happens, I hope we can still be friends. I like you more than I like most people. That must mean something.
A small laugh escapes, mixed up with gratitude for her reaching out to me.
Me:
Thank you, Lottie. I appreciate you reaching out. And of course we’re friends! I like you more than most people, too.
Nightmare stirs from his position in my lap, rushing to the door. It’s time for his pre-bedtime potty.
When we step outside, Tyson spots us. Nightmare notices his friend, his tail wagging wildly as Tyson approaches.
“Hey, buddy,” he says, bending to pet Nightmare’s head.
“If you pick him up now, you risk getting peed on.”
“Noted,” he says with a laugh. “Do your business, bud.”
My dog runs off to his favorite corner of the yard, staring us down as he relieves himself. As if he’s afraid he’s going to miss some monumental moment while he takes a poo.
Dogs are weird.
“Do you have time to talk?” I ask. I don’t want to put this off. For both our sakes, it’s important that we have this talk. He’s heading into the playoffs, with the best shot he’s ever had at the Stanley Cup. He doesn’t need a distraction like me. I’ve been such an emotional vampire as it is. And the longer we put it off, the more I’m going to dwell on it.
“Always,” he says without hesitation.
After Nightmare is finished, we both follow him back into the house. He immediately runs to his kennel and starts the routine of twirling in a circle about twenty-three times before he deems his bedding to be just perfect.
“I need you to try and explain,” I say, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room and staring up at the bruise blooming on the left side of his jaw. From Mullins or Wylder, I wonder. And how does it make him look even sexier?
Tyson mirrors my position, sitting less than a foot away. Close, but no contact. His eyes scan over my face. What for? Do I look different, now that I know I’m truly without blood ties? No, of course not. That’s a dumb thought. Something like that can’t possibly change my physical appearance. It only takes shapeinside the deep voids waiting to be filled by the despair we let loose on ourselves.
I refuse to let it take hold.
Shoo, you dumb bitch.
“What’s funny?”
“I don’t know, what?” I ask him.
“You tell me,” he says, grinning widely. “You’re the one smiling.”
“You are,” I accuse, pointing a finger at him.
“Only because you did it first.”
