Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 114951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 575(@200wpm)___ 460(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 575(@200wpm)___ 460(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
He really had taken on the role as tour guide, and it made me think of when we’d walked around Boston that first summer we were a couple — how we’d watched the sailboats in the harbor, our days lost in the North End devouring the best Italian food the city had to offer, the nights we’d played tourist and followed the historical paths, reading about the men and women who’d helped found our country.
My chest ached fiercely with the memories by the time we parked our bikes in Hyde Park. There was an energetic market going on, white tents sprawled as far as the eye could see between the strips of shops on either side of the street.
And as if he didn’t even have to think before he did it, Shane grabbed my hand.
Time slugged again as his palm slid into mine, his fingers curling around me with ease. Heat zapped from that point of contact, a warning sign or an invitation, I couldn’t be sure.
We took only a few steps before I yanked away, tucking my hair behind my ear before I folded my arms tightly across my chest.
Shane frowned at the rejection, but quickly smiled and shook his head like he’d forgotten a cup on top of his car before driving off. “Sorry. I… I guess I…”
Instead of finishing the thought, he shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded his chin toward the market.
“I hope I didn’t upset you,” Shane said after we perused the first two tents in silence.
My throat was tight as I answered, “You didn’t. It’s just that I—”
“Am married,” he finished for me, our eyes locking as we came to a stop in the crowd. “I know. It was… I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess it just kind of felt…”
He swallowed, again shaking his head like he was an idiot unable to explain himself.
I couldn’t help the smile that spread on my lips, even as my stomach tightened painfully. “I understand,” I said softly.
And I did.
It felt natural, even after all this time, after all the pain and loss. I felt it, too.
“It’s just nostalgia,” I said, and even as I said it, I wondered if I believed the truth of those words. “We’re old now. Easy to want to go back to a time when our knees didn’t ache.”
Shane barked out a laugh at that. “God, it’s been a while for me on that front. I take aspirin like candy since my injury.”
I frowned, the conversation paused long enough for us to smell soaps and lotions from a local craftswoman before we were walking again. “Does your hip still hurt? Even now?”
“Not all the time,” Shane said with a shrug. “But, yes. Hip and knee, both. It takes constant physical therapy to manage the pain.”
“That sounds tiresome.”
“It’s worth it to do what I love, even if not in the capacity I wish I could,” he answered easily, and then he plucked a candle from the table we were browsing. He held it up, brows arching as I read where it said bacon in the oven. He opened it, inhaled, and then handed it to me to do the same as his eyes shot open wide.
I laughed.
It really did smell like bacon in the oven.
“I don’t think I’d want that smell in my house unless there really was bacon coming,” I said. “Seems like torture for my stomach.”
“What about this one?” he asked. This candle was labeled monstera that needs water. We both laughed in surprise when we smelled it. It was actually quite delightful.
“What actually happened?” I asked as we perused the candles. “With your injury. If you don’t mind talking about it, that is?”
Shane stiffened, his eyes darkening. “I don’t mind.” But he still paused a long moment before speaking again. “It happened late in the second period in a game against Toronto,” he said finally. “I was on a break down the right side. A defenseman stepped up faster than I expected.”
He lifted one shoulder in a small shrug, like the rest was obvious.
“I tried to cut inside. My skate caught. Knee went first.”
My chest tightened, and a vision of him standing on the sidewalk in the freezing cold of Boston hit me like a truck — the crutches, the bulk of hardware under his clothes, the way he’d carried himself like a broken man barely hanging on.
“I heard it,” he went on, voice even. “That pop everyone talks about. I didn’t feel the pain right away, but I knew something was wrong.”
He stopped walking, picking up a candle and turning it over in his hands before he sat it back down again.
“I still had momentum. Got hit from the side before I could go down clean. Took the boards hard. Hip shattered on impact.”
The words sat between us, heavy and final.