“You think Becca and I never got in a fight?” He follows me into the kitchen. “Of course we have.”
I meet his eyes, leaning one hip against the counter. Something tells me he’s not worried about whether his relationship with Becca can survive a trip to Ikea. Sometimes mine has felt that touch and go.
“This is your first fight as a married couple. I’m sure you’ll have many more, but now it’s up to you to figure out how you want to move forward.”
Shaking my head, I draw a deep breath. “We’re not moving forward, dude. I’m moving to Canada to play hockey, and she’s . . . well, I don’t know what she’s doing. Her texts say she gave up the promotion, but I really don’t care. She wasn’t honest with me. Our trust has been broken. Trust is everything. You know that.”
Owen gives me a disappointed look. “Couples get in disagreements all the time. It doesn’t have to be the end of things. And I’m sure she had her reasons. Just think about it, Covey.”
“I’ve been doing nothing but thinking about it for the past . . .” I look down at my watch. “Twenty-four hours.”
“Come on.” Owen groans. “I know you’re stubborn, but even you’ve got to see the cosmic significance of you both getting placed in the exact same city. It’s meant to be.”
I shake my head. “Not seeing it. And really, Parrish, cosmic significance? Meant to be?”
“Drink that, would ya?” He tips his chin toward my coffee. “You’re a cranky bastard when you haven’t had your caffeine.”
Rolling my eyes at him, I take a sip of my coffee. “Since you’re in the mood to dole out advice, help me out here. How did you win over Becca?”
Owen’s eyes darken. Without even hesitating, he says, “Easy. I showed her my dick.”
“Be serious, jackass.”
“I am,” Owen says. His expression is solemn, and somehow I fear he might be telling the truth.
“Well, she’s seen my dick and she seemed to enjoy it,” I mutter, and Owen laughs.
He checks his phone and nods toward the door. “Hey, I’ve gotta get going. But, seriously, man, talk to her. Fix this.”
I roll my eyes again, taking another sip of coffee as Owen heads for the door. I can’t just fix this. How does he not see that?
“And stop sending me pictures from Greece,” I call out after him. “If I wanted to see it, I’d fucking go there!”
“Cranky bastard,” he calls back just before the door closes.
But once he’s gone, I can’t stop his words from ringing through my head. As I drop onto my couch and force down the coffee, I start to think that maybe Owen’s right. Maybe if my dad had stayed and fought for his relationships, if he hadn’t just given in at the first sign of trouble and fled, everything could have been different for him.
I guess I have a decision to make.
Am I going to walk away?
Or am I going to stay and fight for my wife?
Then again, calling Aubree my wife is way too generous. She’s never felt like mine, so no matter what Owen has said about love or fate, I don’t know if there’s anything left of our relationship to salvage. And that definitely hurts worse than getting kicked in the balls.
I grab my busted phone from the counter, dial the familiar number, and wait for the call to connect.
“Dad,” I say once he answers.
“Landon. What’s up, son? It’s good to hear from you.”
I swallow my pride and let out a slow exhale. “I need to talk to you about something.”
20
* * *
Vancouver or Bust
Aubree
If I’ve learned anything from fifteen years of failed relationships, it’s how to mend a broken heart. I’ve mastered my own personal recipe for recovery—one part tears, two parts junk food, add a sprinkle of vodka-fueled rebounds as needed. Let heal for one to two months, and voilà, I’m back on my feet again.
But when I was driving to my apartment yesterday, desperately trying to blink away my tears to get a clear view of the road, I knew that this would be no ordinary heartbreak. This is the kind of thing I might never recover from. And my night of nonstop crying, hyperventilating, and blowing up Landon’s phone with texts only reinforced that fact.
After maybe a grand total of two hours of sleep, the view from my couch this morning is equally bleak. I’m not sure which is less healthy—my breakfast of double-chocolate brownie ice cream that I’m eating straight from the pint, or the fact that my puffy red eyes have been glued to my phone all morning, in hopes of getting a reply from Landon.
Spooning up a heaping bite of ice cream, I catch a glimpse of the light dancing off my wedding ring. I know I shouldn’t be wearing it, based on the way Landon all but slammed the door in my face yesterday. But I just can’t bring myself to take it off.
I raise the spoon of chocolaty goodness to my lips, hardly tasting the ice cream before swallowing it. I’m not even enjoying it at this point. I’m just trying to numb the pain of the past twenty-four hours.
I’ve lost my husband, turned down my promotion in hopes of getting him back, and still, he’s completely ignoring me. The only thing that hurts more than this complete and utter mess is knowing that it’s all my fault. I have no one to blame but myself.
When I go in for my next bite, my spoon hits the bottom of the pint. Shit. It’s over before I even realized it. Kind of like my marriage. What a depressing thought.
I set the empty carton aside, turning my attention back to the TV. The news is showing some press conference footage from the day before. My gaze ventures to the bottom of the screen, tracking along with the rest of the day’s headlines. Some NHL trades are happening, and while they’re mostly names I don’t recognize, I lean in closer. And then, in a big bold font, streams a string of words that I swear I must be misreading.
BREAKING: LANDON COVINGTON TRADED TO VANCOUVER REBELS, SOURCES SAY.
My heart boomerangs up into my throat, then down to the pit of my stomach. Sources? What sources?
I scramble for my phone, typing Landon’s name and the word Vancouver into the search bar. Half a dozen articles flood the results, each one echoing the same sentiment. The Ice Hawks are trading their rookie, and the team that wants him happens to be in the city I just turned down a promotion in.
What are the freaking odds?
Was this the thing he wanted to talk to me about yesterday? Yesterday when he came to my office and things disastrously broke right before my eyes?
Frantically, I grab my phone to shoot Landon a message about this, but after one look at the huge string of unanswered texts I sent him last night and I stop dead in my tracks.
Slow your roll, Aubree. If he hasn’t texted you back yet, he’s not going to respond now.
My thumb hovers briefly over the call button, but then I close out of my contacts altogether and open my email instead. There’s a new message from David Stone, his response to my email turning down the promotion last night.
Aubree, I’m sorry to hear that you’re declining the position. Please take the weekend to reconsider, and we’ll move forward on Monday morning.