He reads like crazy. He’s ridiculously well-versed in American literature and he’s not even pretentious about it.
And he’s one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met.
Seth is the kind of guy who would take off his jacket and throw it across a rain puddle. He’s the kind of guy who waits the extra five seconds to get the door for the person behind him. He’s the kind of friend you can call at three in the morning when you can’t sleep and he won’t even be mad that you woke him up.
Maybe pre-Rhett, Seth would’ve been perfect for me.
Anyway, you can’t force chemistry. If it isn’t there, it isn’t there.
We climb inside Seth’s Volkswagen and he tells me I can change the radio station if I like. The ride to LAX is mostly road noise and soft tunes. I was so nervous this morning I forgot to eat breakfast, so my stomach rumbles every five minutes.
“You’re never this quiet,” he says, placing his hand on mine. He does that sometimes. He touches me like I’m his, like we’re a thing. I think he does it on purpose. It’s as if he thinks one of these days I’m going to come around.
I gently take my hand out from under his. “Just wondering how tomorrow’s going to go.”
“It’s going to go just fine,” he assures me. “There was so much hype around this book, there’ll be people lined up for blocks just to meet you.”
“What if they think I’m boring?”
“Impossible,” he says.
“What if they hate my signature?”
“Have you been practicing?” he asks.
I exhale, pressing my forehead against the sun-warmed glass of the passenger window.
“Do you not like New York?” he asks. “I love New York, but I can only handle it in small doses. Too much and it’s just ... too intense. Everyone’s so serious there. Always wearing black and walking around like they’re somebody important when they’re nobody anybody’s every heard of.”
I chuckle through my nose. He’s right. New York is intense.
“I have no qualms with New York,” I tell him, staring ahead and letting my mind wander like it always does ... going to him. “New York was good to me once upon a time.”
I’d like to think there’s a version of Rhett and Ayla dashing around New York together, catching midnight movies and walking the city hand in hand late at night like the whole place belongs only to them. Maybe they moved in together by now? Maybe they took a trip together? Maybe they’re starting to think about the future because they’re just as inseparable as ever.
Regardless, the spirit of what we had, be it ever so brief, is still there. The second I step off the plane, I’ll feel it. It’ll sink into me, heavy at first, then it’ll wrap me up in a bittersweet embrace, kiss me gently on the cheek, and fade away, carried by a summer breeze.
Last I heard, Rhett left the Spartans. They let him out of his contract due to “interpersonal issues,” which I think was just code for everything that happened between him and Bryce and the decline of Rhett’s morale. I read on ESPN shortly after that that the Philadelphia Iron Kings signed him on. Other than that, I have absolutely no idea what he’s been up to.
I don’t know if he’s with anyone.
I don’t know if he’s happier now.
I don’t know if he moved on or if he ever thinks about me.
All I know is my life can be divided into two broken little pieces: life before I knew him—and life after.
Thirty-Three
Ayla
* * *
“You want to catch a Spartans game while we’re here?” Seth asks as he pays for dinner. We landed three hours ago, checked into the hotel, cleaned up, then made a beeline for one of his favorite restaurants, Gramercy Tavern.
I wrinkle my nose. “Not really.”
Seth’s smile fades and he clears his throat. I’ve told him about Bryce, and he knows the story there. I haven’t told him about Rhett. Or that I can’t so much as look at an ice rink without feeling this gaping void in my chest where something beautiful used to reside.
“We can’t just do, like, one game?” he asks, lifting a dark brow. “I love hockey.”
He does. It’s true. And somehow over the duration of our budding friendship, I’ve managed to avoid watching a single game with him.
“Don’t you have the hook up? I bet you could get some rink side seats if you asked. You think I could meet some of the guys? Shane McDermott? John Wisecup?” Seth’s face is lit with childlike enthusiasm when he talks about them. This would make his entire year. And given the fact that he took time off work to join me in New York, I should probably repay him with kindness.
“Yeah.” I exhale. I’ll put on my big girl pants and make a phone call. “Only for you.”
Thirty-Four
Ayla
* * *
“So glad you guys could make it.” Coach Harris stands outside the locker rooms a couple of hours before the game starts. I made one phone call last night, and he wasted no time getting us the best seats in the arena for Saturday’s game. He was even thrilled when I asked if my friend could meet some of the players. “It’s good to see you again, Ayla.”
“You as well.” I give him a hug because he looks like a hugging kind of guy, and he squeezes me tight. His hair has more gray than it did last time, but his ageless smile hasn’t changed a bit.
“I’m going to grab a beer; you want one?” Seth offers.
“Please,” I say, watching him leave.
“You doing okay?” Coach asks.
“I am.” My hand tightens around the strap of my shoulder bag. From the moment we walked in here tonight, every player that catches my periphery sends my heart into a freefall. I expect them all to be him, even if they aren’t—even if they can’t be.
I look for Rhett in places he couldn’t possibly be, and yet somehow, he’s always there.
But tonight’s different…
Because tonight the Spartans play the Iron Kings.
And that means he’s here.
“Was a little worried. You kind of dropped off the face of the earth for a while,” Coach says, adjusting his Spartans cap.
“Just busy working,” I say. “And running the foundation.”
“That’s good, that’s good. We got the check you sent for the youth camp last spring. Thank you. You put a lot of little smiles on those kids’ faces. Wish you could’ve been here to see.”
I offer an apologetic smile, tucking my chin. “Me too. I’ll try to make the next one, okay?”
A player passes us, wielding a walk like a steely-eyed man on a mission, and for a second, I’m sure it’s him.
But it isn’t.
Seth returns with two overflowing draft beers in clear plastic cups. He hands one to me and then asks Coach Harris some random question about some random player I’ve never heard of.
They’re deep into their conversation when I feel the warmth of Seth’s palm on my lower back. He placed it there so calmly, so casually.