Page 171 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“Yeah, Firecracker. You do.”
The nickname, the certainty in his voice, the way his arms feel like the safest place in the world. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I do.
Maybe I’ve had it for a while and I’m just too scared to acknowledge it.
I fall asleep to the sound of his breathing and the feel of his fingers in my hair. For the first time in weeks, I don’t dream about endings.
I dream about beginnings instead.
Chapter39
Hunter
Iknow the Christmas season has started purely because of the influx of Christmas and winter-themed cards I’ve received in the mail. Thanksgiving is still a few days away, and yet the glut of holiday cards, smiling photos of the Havoc management, my dentist’s family, and my agent has filled my inbox.
Juliet is gone, at the arena, working with the new social media team. My lips twitch as I think about her.
Should we do a Christmas card together? The opportunity to take over-the-top, cheesy photos in Christmas sweaters and mail them to people I hate – namely Patrick Delacroix – appeals to me. I guess it all depends on how Juliet is feeling about us at the moment.
We’ve been together for four months now. The original contract was only for five. Juliet has made quiet comments about our time running out. Does she plan to stay?
That’s the question, isn’t it? I need to figure out how to convince her I’m serious about trying to make a relationship work.
I’m standing in the foyer, sifting through a stack of mail, when I see it. Another package addressed to Juliet, same careful handwriting as before. Same local postmark. No return address.
Darla Huxley.
What could she be contacting Juliet about this time? I don’t even want to know. I take it straight to the patio and burn it without opening it. Watching the flames grow, consuming whatever poison my mother thought she could spread this time. The smoke smells acrid, wrong. I stay outside in the freezing air, watching the flames burn and gutter, until there’s nothing left but a pile of ash.
There’s a knot in my chest that won’t loosen, no matter how much coffee I drink or how long I stare at the ceiling. My thoughts are a mess.
Mom. Juliet. My hockey career. Everything good in my life feels like it’s balanced on a knife’s edge. It’s so fucking precarious.
I need to hit the ice. The cold, the quiet, the rhythm of blades cutting through silence can soothe this ache in my chest.
My feelings for Juliet have grown so broad and so deep. I refuse to lose her. Not now, not ever.
I text my brothers.
Rink. Now. Just us.
The arena is empty except for the Huxley brothers. No coaches, no cameras, no expectations. Just three brothers and an ice rink that has carried us through everything.
“What’s up?” Jett asks, scanning my face.
“Here.” I drag two resistance sleds onto the ice, tossing the belts to my brothers. “Suicides.”
“Shit.” Silas sighs. “Are you serious?”
“Yep.” I grab the third sled and loop the belt over my head, strapping myself in. My brothers do the same. “Let’s go from the halfway mark.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just talk?” Jett whines.
I ignore him, dragging my sled to the center red line. Silas mutters something to Jett as they line up. I glare at both of them.
“Are we gonna do this or not?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Silas leans down, eyes forward. “Say when.”
