Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
“She wanted to meet your father. She gave you a gift to give me. She talked to me at the house. She talked to me about her ex. And she talked to me about how to be brave.”
That kernel of hope wiggles through me. Tempting. Alluring. “How?” I ask, quiet, careful, like if I talk too loud, the fragile possibility might disappear.
“I made an appointment to see a therapist.”
It’s a rocket that just launched me into another galaxy. This thing I’ve been wanting for years. My heart soars. “Are you serious?”
“It’s an online appointment. I’m going to start that way, but she talked about how she likes to control her environment, how she tries to make sure everything’s just right. But how therapy helped her to face her stuff.” He stops, closes his eyes like this pains him, then opens them. “That forced me to realize I’m doing the same thing. And I need to face my fears.”
I reach across the table and wrap my arms around him, choking up. “I’m so proud of you.”
“It’s about time,” he says, his voice breaking too.
“You’re brave,” I tell him as I let go.
He’s quiet, as if he’s giving that some thought. “You can be brave too.”
I flash back over the last month or so. The date at Costco. The puzzle shop. The haircut. The kiss in the dress shop. The list. The nap date. The road trip. The secrets we shared. The way she talked to me, the way she trusted me, the way we came together.
She’s done more than build me a cat tower. She’s shared her secrets; she’s let go with me. And, most of all, she’s helped my father.
She’s the most real thing to happen to me in years.
I’ve always operated on instinct on the ice. Off the ice, I’ve protected myself. But maybe I ought to trust my instincts because I know—I absolutely know there was nothing fake between us.
If I do nothing, I’m just one of those guys who’s not worth the effort.
But Remy is worth all the effort. And I’m not one of those guys.
54
A GLASS SLIPPER
REMY
Elena’s question shadows me that night, and into the next morning as I wake early. I’m not due at the arena for a couple of hours, but I might as well head over soon. I have a few VIP tours to lead today, so that’ll keep me busy as I ponder Elena’s words.
I hop on the bus, but on my way to work, a powerful feeling stops me from stepping into the arena.
Something unfinished.
Something I’ve held close in a bag inside a bag for more than a week.
The list.
I peer outside at the street signs, then quickly google the hours for the dress shop. The store is already open for the day. I pull the cord, then hop off the bus and race-walk through Hayes Valley to Champagne Taste. I push open the door, the soft floral perfume drifting past my nose, and the torch singer tunes floating past my ears.
The shopkeeper looks up from her work at the counter, recognition in her eyes. “Hi, love. How was your sister’s wedding?”
I pause, thinking on that. “It was great in the end. She had the wedding she wanted.”
“Wonderful.” A pause. “And the list?”
She’s so warm and so direct. I walk over to her, like there’s an invisible line connecting us, like this store is the final stop on my tour and I didn’t realize it till this morning.
“We did the list. Well, four out of the five items.”
“That surprises me. You two seemed just right; that’s why I left it for you,” she says, her eyes flooding with sadness.
I stop in my tracks. “You mean it wasn’t random? Finding the dress?”
She shakes her head. “No, love. It wasn’t happenstance that you found it. I left the dress out for you two. I saw the video from the arena. And when you walked into the store with him, and he went to the dressing room and kissed you like he meant it—I just knew. And I wanted my niece’s list to wind up in the right hands.”
My heart lurches. The breath leaves my lungs. “She was your niece?”
“Yes. Her name was Katrina,” she says, her voice catching.
Not our made-up name of Lacey, but Katrina. A real name for a real person with real wishes.
“She died before she could get married. Before she could do those five things before she said I do. I wanted the list to go to someone who understood…well, love.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say before I can even process her words about us and love.
“Me too. She never got her chance to do all those things.”
But I’m here. I have the chance. I can’t waste it. “I think I needed to know that,” I whisper, and even though we haven’t finished the list, I understand what’s unfinished for me.