Page 30 of The Map of Nova and Dev

“Once, maybe, but not twice.” I all but wink.

ten | devin

Wakingup without Nova in the bed next to mine is lonely. Which is weird. I’ve always had my own bedroom, never once shared with Willa. And except for the baseball road trips I had no say in, I haven’t had a sleepover since before middle school. When I sleep, I prefer being alone, but give me five nights with Nova, and apparently, I love sharing.

But only with her.

Get a grip, Dev.I haven’t even known this girl for a week. And I’ve never had more than lukewarm feelings for a girl. I haven’t liked guys, either. I just don’t do emotions, not like that. Can I appreciate the way a woman looks? I have eyes and hormones, but my brain doesn’t go beyond that.

Yet here I am, craving the presence of a girl sleeping across the freaking hall. Here I am, cracking the vault I’ve kept securely locked about Damian.Enough.

It’s early, much earlier than necessary considering we’re staying in Montana for a few days, but years of early morning workouts between football and baseball training have forever set my internal alarm clock to the buttcrack of “why the hell are you up?” especially since my mind continues to live on Eastern time.

With firsthand knowledge of Nova’s aversion to mornings, I slip on my sweatpants and a tee, thinking of working in a jog before she wakes. I sneak out the back door and jog the walkway toward the ski lifts and lodge. Keeping my pace casual, I work up a light sweat while allowing my brain to wander.

What it must be like to live in a place where you put on ski gear and step out your back door and onto a lift a football field’s length away. I don’t think I’d ever leave if I owned this place. I wish it were winter so I could experience the slopes.

Returning to the house, I uncap a bottle of water from the refrigerator and explore the main floor, chugging. It’s in the entertainment center, hidden in built-in cabinets on the front side of the house, where I find clues to Nova’s family.

Bookshelves are crowded with framed photographs of various groups of people throughout different seasons. The pictures confirm what she said last night about her dad’s family vacationing together, taking turns between the Montana house, her uncle’s beach house, and Finland.Finland.Before this road trip, I’d been to seven states in eighteen years, and Nova’s traveled most of the U.S. and much of Europe. We’re such different people.

I step closer to the shelves, picking up one frame after another for a better look. Having stalked Nova’s social media, I quickly find her and her siblings in a candid shot on the slopes. There are pictures of them with her parents, a group shot of six adults—the beautiful blonde standing with her arms wrapped around a bearded guy with long hair resembles Nova more than Nova’s mother. My greedy gaze scans one shelf containing pictures of the same bunch of kids through the years. Nova is easy to pick out due to those giant dimples in her round, youthful cheeks. The sight brings an unfamiliar warmth to my chest.

Two pictures in matching rustic wood frames sit on either side of a clear vase full of paper airplanes on the center shelf, and immediately I know they’re Nova’s deceased grandparents. One is a beautiful redhead smiling wide as the sun sets behind her, and the other is a profile shot of a couple laughing as they raise a toast. The love is tangible in both photographs. I try to imagine what losing Mom last summer would have been like. Our family dynamic changed so much when Willa moved to Vermont for school two years ago. I can’t fathom what life would have been like for Mr. Pratt to become an orphan overnight or for Mrs. Pratt losing her mother. Just contemplating the loss has me wanting to grab my phone and call Mom.

Out of curiosity and complete and utter nosiness, I pick one of the folded planes from the vase. The creases are worn like this paper has been folded and unfolded for years, the edges frayed.

My Dearest Ruby of Oz,

On the twenty-fifth anniversary of our meeting face to face, I want you to know you have been worth every moment.

Every tear, every shouting match, every sleepless night, and lonely day. Every wrinkle, gray hair, and extra ounce of weight. From missing you when you were in New York to loving when you were in my arms. From watching in awe as you gave me not one, not two, not even three, but four amazing gifts in our children, to participating in every second of being their dad and your partner. From the bad moments to the good, life threw us those curve balls, but today on our anniversary, I can only remember your face on that beach. The wind in your red hair, the smile on your perfect mouth, the feel of your silky skin.

My favorite memory of us, my love, is today, twenty-five years ago. The day our waiting paid off, and our forever started before we even knew it.

Lovingly,

Your Dreamer Brett

PS. My second favorite memory (close your eyes, kids!) is what happened last night as we celebrated our first grown-up trip away from home! Damn, we need to do this (and that) more often ;)

Mildly embarrassed for reading about an obviously personal moment, even if it was back in 2016, I refold the letter and set the plane back in the vase. Mr. Pratt’s love for his wife is tangible. As broken as they must have been after losing their parents, look at what they built. I glance up at the ceiling where Nova’s room is. Look what they created. My heart tugs, and it’s damn inconvenient how badly I want her.

With a heavy inhale, I step away from the letters before I’m tempted to read more, and glance around the main floor. I’m covered in dried sweat and probably stink, so I should grab a shower, but I’m too curious to head upstairs.

Instead, I listen. Not hearing any movement from Nova’s bedroom, I make my way to the lower level, searching for the toy room she pointed out last night. The Pratt family stores enough gear in the large space beside the garage to open a sporting goods store. One wall is covered with skis, poles, snowboards, and sleds. The other has mountain bikes and skateboards hanging. This is gear for pros, and none of it is cheap.

“Damn.” I stand before a closet-type storage unit with helmets, goggles, and other wearable gear. My envy is intense.

A creak in the overhead floor draws me from gawking and up the stairs. Nova stands at the kitchen island, pouring cereal into a bowl. “You finished snooping?”

“Not even close.” I point my thumb toward the stairs. “You weren’t kidding about the toy room. Those are some serious boards your dad has hanging down there.”

“He’s been snowboarding since he was a kid. He even taught ski lessons in high school.” Nova pulls a gallon of milk from the fridge and fills her bowl to the rim. “Sometimes, I think he’d rather be on the snow than anywhere else in the world. And I guess when you design snowboards for a living, you gain a penchant for collecting them.”

“Yeah, I’ll say.” I laugh, resting a hand on the back of a stool at the counter. “Get enough beauty sleep?”

I don’t get an eye roll, but the head dropped back is almost as good.

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