Page 7 of Absolutely Not in Love
“It’s not a big deal. I’ll just ask her. Do you know her last name? And what else do you know about her?”
I groan, wondering if I’m going to regret this.“Not much. Her name is Gracie Mitchell. She teaches orchestra at Harvest Hollow Middle. She plays the cello. And she hates hockey,” I add, almost as an afterthought.
“Got it,” Logan says, already typing something into his phone. “I’ll let you know what she says.” He slips his phone into his pocket just as we reach the parking lot. The outside air is crisp and cool and officially feels like fall. Not the fake fall that often happens in the South when summer disappears for three days, then comes back with a vengeance. But actual, for real fall. The kind that isn’t going anywhere.
My hoodie is warm, but I’m still wishing for something a little warmer.
“Any ideawhyshe hates hockey?” Logan asks.
“I only know that her brother played,” I say. “She made it seem like her family spent a lot of time supporting him.”
Logan scratches his chin. “You said her last name is Mitchell?” His brow furrows, then he stops at the edge of the parking lot. “Wait. I think I know her brother. Josh Mitchell. He was a great wing.Man,I haven’t thought about him in years. I wonder what happened to him. I thought for sure he’d play college, maybe even go pro.”
“Yeah? He was that good?”
“In high school he was, but that doesn’t always mean anything. But I’ll for sure ask Parker. She’ll probably know.”
We part ways in the parking lot, and I drive home via Maple Street so I can check out the bookstore. I don’t go inside, but it looks like the kind of place I’d enjoy hanging out, so I make a mental note to return some weekend when I’ve got extra time to kill. Now that the season’s officially starting, I won’t have many of those, but I’ll take what I can get.
Gracie’s Honda is already parked in her spot when I pull in my Audi beside it. It’s ridiculous how happy this makes me. I wasfinebefore last weekend. But now that I’ve admitted the possibility of actually liking her, it’s like my brain kicked into fifth gear and turned me into a sweating, nervous middle-schooler.
What do I even plan to do? Knock on her door just to say hi? Unless she happens to be coming out when I’m going in, I probably won’t even see her.
I consider my options as I lock my car and head toward the warehouse door, stopping on the sidewalk outside to check my mail.
I could…make dinner and knock on her door, offering her the extra. Or I could ask to borrow an egg or a cup of milk or something. Maybe I could play my music too loud, hoping she’ll come over to ask me to turn it down?
I open my mailbox and pull out several days’ worth of mail. Since there are only two of us who live here, we use traditional black mailboxes, lined up side by side just to the right of the heavy warehouse door.
I riffle through the stack of letters, and—yes.
Our mailman is my new favorite person. I’ve got two pieces of Gracie’s mail. It would only be neighborly to return them to her in person.
I take the stairs two at a time, my heart already pounding.
I can do this. It isn’t a big deal. I have her mail. She needs her mail. That’s all this is.
The excitement rushing through me almost feels foreign for how long it’s been since I’ve felt something similar. I’ve dated a little since moving to Harvest Hollow. But I’ve never had a relationship last longer than a few dates. My semi-awkwardness makes it tough. Hockey makes it tougher. With the way we travel during the season, it’s hard to see anyone seriously, and I’m not really into the casual hookups a lot of the other guys look for when we’re on the road.
It’s not lost on me that I’m only days away from our first pre-season home game. We’ll have a week of training after that, then a weekend tournament in Atlanta before we’re back in Harvest Hollow for our official season opener. After that, I’ll be on the road as much as I’m home.
But if I use that as a reason not to try with a woman, I’llnever try.Not until I stop playing hockey, and that feels too lonely and depressing to consider.
A few guys on the team maintain relationships, and some of them are even married. If I want this, I have to just go for it.
I drop my bag onto the floor outside my door and take two more steps to Gracie’s. I lift my fist, knocking quickly before wiping my palm on the leg of my joggers. It’s only then that I realize I’m still holding allmymail along with hers, so I turn and toss mine toward my bag. Instead of landing in one place, the mail scatters like confetti in the wind, landing all over the narrow hallway outside our apartments.
I swear under my breath, then turn to pick it up, dropping Gracie’s mail in the process.
I’m half-crouched, butt facing Gracie’s door, when she slides it open.
“Felix?” she says.
“Hey,” I say, quickly standing up and dropping the letters I was gathering. I spin to face her. “I have your mail.”
I don’t, actually, have her mail. Oranymail. All of it is still on the floor.
She looks around the hallway, a question in her eyes. “You do?”
