“Not one second,” Yoda agrees, the tenderness in his voice so raw that listening to it is like when you first walk into a steam room and have to adjust your mind to the fact that everyone is naked, vulnerable. “But that presents its own challenges. Every memory is polished until it shines too bright to see it clearly anymore, you know? She’ll always be perfect in my eyes.”
“She was perfect,” Tank says softly. “And she was perfect for you. You were two of the lucky ones. I just wish you’d had more time.”
“And I wish you’d had more time with Michelle,” Yoda says, banishing the softness from Tank’s features.
“I’m not talking about that,” Tank snaps.
“Then we can’t help this man.” Yoda tucks his hands into the sleeves of his fluffy coat. “It’s your story he needs to hear.”
Tank rolls his eyes, but Yoda insists, “Tell him. Telling our stories is how we get closer to each other. How we learn.”
I’m about to suggest that maybe Tank doesn’t want to get closer to me and insist that’s fine—I’m not sure I’ve got a thick enough skin to make a real friend of someone as caustic as Tank—when my trainer turns to me and says, “Michelle was the girl I dated in high school.”
“The love of his life,” Yoda says, amending with a nod, “so far.”
Tank sighs. “I asked her to come with me when I got a contract to play in the minors down in Texas. She said no. I left. I was miserable. She was miserable. But by the time I pulled my head out of my ass and went back to Washington to fight for her she was pregnant with my best friend’s kid.”
“Not his very best friend,” Yoda clarifies. “That’s me. His other very good friend, who also happened to be a very bad drug dealer.”
“As in, he sucked at it,” Tank says, taking up the story. “Chance had the street smarts of a fucking baby rabbit. He got himself in trouble and dragged Michelle and the kid down with him. The kid ended up in a foster home, and Michelle and Chance both went down ten years for possession. With good behavior, they could be out in five or six, but they’re never going to get their kid back or have a decent life. Not being ex-cons.”
Yoda hums under his breath. “I don’t know about that. I believe everyone deserves a second chance. And a third chance. Especially people named Chance.”
“It doesn’t matter what you believe, you big hippy,” Tank says with another eye roll. “The system’s rigged against ex-cons. It’s a fact, not an opinion.”
“But it’s not your fault,” I say, hurrying to clarify when Tank shifts his fierce gaze my way. “Not the prison time or the fact that she ended up with someone else.”
Tank stares at me for a long, tense moment before announcing in a flat voice, “Yeah, I know that. But it still kills me, Wallace.” He pauses, a muscle twitching in his tight jaw. “If I could go back and change places so she could have a shot at something good, I would do it. In a heartbeat. She didn’t deserve that. Any of it. And maybe if I hadn’t left the way I did… Blowing out of town like our history meant nothing and I couldn’t get away from her fast enough…”
I want to do something to comfort him, but I don’t dare to clap him on the back or pull him in for a bro-hug the way I would my other friends. Tank is a prickly person on a good day. Right now, fresh from sharing things I can tell he doesn’t share often, he’s giving off such intense “keep your distance” vibes that all I feel safe offering is a sincere, “I’m so sorry, man.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Tank says. “Be smarter than I was. Don’t let her go without a fight. Show her you’ve got what it takes to make the long-distance thing work.”
Yoda nods. “Bree’s special, brother. Your light and her light…” He lifts his big hands, rippling them like waves in the air between us. “You vibrate on the same plane.” He threads his fingers together with a wink. “You’re from the same source. Meant to come back to each other, yeah?”
Tank exhales sharply, but instead of making fun of Yoda’s hippy woo-woo the way I expect him to, he nods. “Listen to him. It might sound crazy, but he knows shit like this. He’s got a sixth sense or something. Ever since we were kids, he’s always been able to call who’s going to end up together. Even people you’d never expect to be a good fit.”
“It doesn’t sound crazy,” I say, throat going tight as I add, “Being with Bree feels like coming home.”
“Yes.” Yoda beams down at me. “That’s it. You get it, man. Now you need to make sure she gets it, too.”
Tugging off a glove, I rake a hand through my sweat-damp hair. “But how? She’s been burned by long-distance relationships before, and she’s mad that I couldn’t figure out a way to stay in Portland. She has zero hope that we can work this out.”
“Then you give her a hope infusion,” Yoda says, making it sound like the simplest thing in the world.
But it isn’t, not even close, and there’s frustration in my voice as I ask, “So does that work like a blood transfusion? Am I going to need an IV?”
“You’re going to need to use your head,” Tank says. “And your heart. You know this girl. You love this girl. Use what you know about her and what you love about her to your advantage.”
“Love weapons,” Yoda says, clapping his hands together. “It’s time to assemble your arsenal, my friend. I can help with this part. I’m good with love weapons. I’ll meet you at the coffee shop across the street when you’re done with practice, and we’ll get started.”
“You might as well head out now,” Tank says.
“Are you sure?” I ask, even as my skates turn toward the exit of their own free will. “I can pull my shit together for some more drills. I don’t want our entire morning to be a waste.”
“It hasn’t been,” Tank says, an upward curve to his lips that makes me suspect he’s more of a romantic than he lets on. At the very least, it’s clear he’s rooting for Bree and me, and that means a lot.
“Thanks for the intervention,” I say, so grateful I can’t help clapping him on the shoulder. “I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome.” To my surprise, Tank drags me in for a firm bro-hug before jabbing a finger toward the exit. “Now go get the girl. I’ll be at your going away party tonight. I want to see you two making out over hot dogs. Eating the same one from both ends until you kiss or something gross like that.”
I promise, “I’ll do my best,” before turning back to Yoda. “You up for coffee and love weapons now?”
Yoda thrusts his faux-fur-covered arms into the air. “Always up for both. Just give me ten minutes to get across this ice without falling on my ass.”
“We’ll help you, gorgeous,” Tank says, a teasing note in his tone I’ve rarely heard before. “Wouldn’t want you to get your fancy duds wet.”
“Thank you.” Yoda reaches out to take the arm Tank offers as he skates up beside the much larger man. “You’re a prince in wolf’s clothing, Theodore. We should work on your love weapons when we’re finished with Shane’s. It’s time you got back in the game, brother.”
“No,” Tank says flatly as we start across the ice, me peeling off layers as we go so my time in the locker room will be as brief as possible.
“You’re no good alone. You need a lady to soften your sharp edges.”
“No,” Tank repeats.
“What about Gigi, my glass-making girl?” Yoda asks. “You met her at my opening last year, remember? She’s a beauty inside and out, and patient enough to put up with your grouchy exterior until she peels back the layers to reveal the peach inside.”
“I’m not a peach, and peaches don’t have layers,” Tanks says, still in the same calm tone, making me suspect he and Yoda have had this discussion several times before. “And I’m not letting you set me up with one of your artsy-fartsy friends. I have nothing in common with those people.”
“What about Farro? She was at my birthday bonfire last year,” Yoda says. “She teaches Ju-Jitsu and used to be a cop.”
Tank snorts. “Yeah, that would
be a great match. We could bond over how close I came to going to jail.”
“You could,” Yoda agrees. “She’s got a great sense of humor.”
“No,” Tank repeats, helping Yoda step through the gate and onto the rubberized floor before skating backward with a raised hand. “Good luck, Shane. And don’t let that bastard invite anyone to your party for me. I refuse to be set up. Especially sneak-attack set up.”
“But it’s for your own good,” Yoda calls after him.
“Honor my boundaries, asshole,” Tank shouts back, but there’s love in his voice, even when he’s calling names.
Once he’s out of earshot, gathering his things on the other side of the rink, I can’t resist asking Yoda, “So you two have been friends since you were how old?”
“Five.” Yoda falls in beside me as I start toward the locker room. “Theodore stole my lunch the whole first week of kindergarten.”
I laugh. “So he’s always been like this, huh?”
“Nah, he was just hungry,” Yoda says. “His family didn’t have much, and what they had didn’t go to Theodore. The day I started bringing two lunches, he gave me a big hug and promised he was always going to be my best friend. So far, he’s been a man of his word.”
The story makes my ribs ache. “Poor kid.”
Yoda wraps an arm around my shoulders. “That’s why we all need to get out our love weapons, right? Got to fill this world with love to make up for all the hard stuff.”
I nod, and as I head into the locker room, hope unfurls with a quiet warmth that makes me think of the afternoon Bree and I spent curled up on her couch, listening to jazz records while she read dozens of poems aloud, searching for the one that would light up my soul the way poetry always lights up hers.
Inspiration hits with a sizzle, making me hurry to change even faster. I’ve got an idea for my first love weapon, and I can’t wait to run it by Yoda.
Tank was right—I’ve got all the tools I need to win Bree back. I just need to work as hard at getting the girl as I’ve always worked at my career.
Harder. Because she’s my home, my heart.
I’m going to fight for Bree like I’ve never fought for anything before, which means I need all the allies I can get.
On impulse, I pull my cell from my bag and scroll down to Hailey’s number. I’ve never called Hailey before—only texted when I couldn’t reach her husband, Will, for some reason—but she answers on the second ring with a warm, “Hello, Wallace. How are you this bright, beautiful Sunday? Ready to party tonight?”
Clearly, Bree hasn’t told her about our split. She might not have told her that we were ever together—we were keeping things on the down low from almost everyone but a few close friends—which will make my request even more awkward.
But I don’t let either of those facts slow me down.
Instead, I answer honestly. “No, I’m not ready to party. I fucked things up with Bree, and I need to fix it. Fix us. Because nothing is good without her.”
Hailey hums softly. “How major is this fuck up?”
I briefly explain the situation. When I’m done, Hailey declares, “That’s not a fuck-up, that’s letting fear call the shots. It sucks, but it can be fixed. We can fix this, Shane.”
“Assuming Bree wants to fix it.” Anxiety rushes in so strong it leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
“I think she will. She was so sad the other night. I could tell, even though she was trying hard to hide it. Trust me, I know my sister, and I’ve got a pretty good idea what’s going on in her squirrel brain. Go talk to your friend and then give me a call back. I’ll strategize with Will and see what we can do to help.”
“Thanks, Hailey. I appreciate it,” I say, hurrying to add. “I was wondering if maybe we could push up the party start time by an hour or so? But just for one certain person? I’d love to have some time alone with Bree.”
Hailey hums thoughtfully. “I’ll call her and tell her we’re starting two hours early. She’s always at least an hour late to parties.”
I thank her profusely, promise to call her back as soon as I have a plan in place, and hang up, shoving my feet into my boots, not bothering with the laces before heading for the locker room door.
I don’t have time to tie my shoes. There is a beautiful, perfect, amazing woman out there waiting for me to convince her that love trumps distance, and there isn’t a moment to waste. Not a second.
I push into a jog, hurrying to where Yoda waits by the glass doors leading out into the midday sun.
Chapter 19
Bree
All day long—as I work the brunch shift at the bar, flinging mimosas and Bloody Mary’s as fast as I can open OJ and squeeze limes—a silent war wages within my heart.
I can’t go to Shane’s farewell BBQ. That’s a hot mess waiting to happen.
But how can I miss my last chance to say goodbye and wish him well?
I don’t want to risk falling apart in front of Shane and his friends and my friends and my pregnant sister, who is hosting the party, and who will be tremendously upset if she realizes how upset I am.
But if I don’t go, I might not see him again for months—maybe longer—and the thought of going without laying eyes on Shane for an extended amount of time makes my spirit howl in despair.
The howling is so loud I can’t think straight, and I hurry home at four o’clock as confused as when the day started. But as soon as I close the apartment door behind me, I go straight to the shower and start getting ready to go out again. Hailey texted to say that the party’s been moved up two hours to accommodate families with kids that need to be in bed by eight, so there isn’t a moment to waste.
I use the shower gel Shane likes, put on my frilly green tank top and the flowing skirt he says makes me look like a hippy movie star, and leave my hair wavy and wild instead of running a flat iron through it. I function on auto-pilot, making myself as pleasing as possible to my man even though he’s not my man anymore.
He hasn’t called or texted or come by my house or the bar. He walked away four days ago, and he hasn’t looked back. My prettiness—or lack thereof—isn’t going to change the fact that we’re over and there is no future for us, but I can’t help myself.
When in danger, I fall back on the armor that served me in the past.
That’s what my appearance has often been for me—armor to keep me safe. Even when I was on the verge of model stardom, I rarely took pleasure in being beautiful for beauty’s sake or for my own enjoyment. Being pretty was a way to achieve financial security and freedom from pain and worry. Every high-profile photo shoot or coveted runway gig only brought me relief at having avoided poverty or embarrassment, never joy.
It’s impossible to find joy while running away from fear.
Running only takes you in one direction—away from scary stuff—not toward anything better.
It was only after I stopped running and took a hard look at the things that made me happy in the deepest, most lasting ways that I realized modeling was never going to give me the soul satisfaction I was looking for. The joy in my life comes from connection to the people I love and from doing work I believe is valuable and makes a difference in the lives of others.
Strutting around in fashionable clothes while swearing off carbs six out of seven days a week so I could fit into the tiniest sample size wasn’t bringing me or anyone else joy. Once that truth soaked in, it was amazing how easy it was to walk away from my old career and stop investing so much effort in what I looked like on the outside.
Except in times of extreme stress, of course.
Or terror.
I’m terrified, I realize, as I push through the gate into Will and Hailey’s new backyard, a half acre of green grass with a pool, a hot tub, and a fountain surrounded by hammocks, which is quickly becoming one of my favorite places to hang out. I usually feel so peaceful when I’m back here.
But tonight the sight of the colorful lanterns strung above the patio and the Tiki torches
flickering merrily in the evening light makes my palms sweat. The catchy vintage jazz bubbling from the speakers sends my heart into slam dance mode, and my stomach goes sour.
“This was a bad idea,” I mutter, backing toward the gate, hoping I can escape before anyone notices I’m here.
That’s the moment the realization hits—I’m the only one here.
But surely not…
I creep forward across the thick grass and around the side of the house, bringing the full patio into view. But the chairs surrounding the festively-set table are all empty, and the hot tub is still and vacant. The only movement comes from the lanterns, swaying gently in the summer breeze.
Brows drawing together, I tug my phone from my purse and check the text Hailey sent earlier. There it is—five p.m. start time—in black and white.
It’s five forty-five, nearly an hour past when the other guests were due to arrive. I was late on purpose, hoping I would be able to slip in and hide among the crowd, avoiding drawing too much attention as I delivered my going away fromance present to Shane, wished him success and happiness in Kansas City, and made a quick exit before Hailey noticed how upset I am.
I can fool the world, but I can’t fool my sister—especially face-to-face—and experience has taught me better than to try.
But now my plan has gone awry.
I check the text a second time, assuring myself that I have the right date, and am about to text Hailey to see what the heck is going on when the music stops and a familiar voice rumbles from the speakers set up at the corners of the patio. “’Hope is the thing with feathers, That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops—at all.”
“Emily.” I press a hand to my heart as I recognize one of Dickinson’s most famous, and most beautiful, poems. I don’t know which is more moving, the fact that Shane has finally found poetry that speaks to him—I can hear his connection to the words in his voice—or that he’s reciting this particular one for me.
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