Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
“Hey, Ri, are you okay?” she asked, her voice gentle with worry.
“I’m fine. But I have something to tell you, and I need to try this out with you before I talk to Mom and Dad or…anyone. I—”
“Riley, you’re scaring me. Spit it out or I swear to God, I’ll reach through my cell phone to shake it out of you.”
I chuckled. “I’m pretty sure you can’t do that.”
“Riley…”
“I’m bi.”
Silence.
“That’s it? Ugh! You asshole. You’re going to give me a coronary. My heart is beating so fast right now. I thought you were going to say you were sick or depressed or unhappy.” She grunted, adding in a softer tone, “Are you happy?”
“I am. And I met someone. He’s…um, pretty amazing.”
“Oh, Ri, I’m happy for you, honey,” she gushed.
“Well, thanks. It’s…we’re not together,” I corrected awkwardly. “I wish we could be, but…”
“Hockey.”
“Yeah.” I closed my eyes briefly.
“I see. Well, I’m glad you told me. Will you tell anyone else?”
I nodded, though the gesture was lost in the cell connection. “I’m gonna tell everyone, Tar. It’s going to be public knowledge…as in the world will know. A lot of people won’t care, but a few assholes will. You’ve always been good to me. You’re an awesome older sister…the best. I love you and I just—you deserve to know before anyone…in case you need to process anything. Or whatever.”
“You almost made me cry, but now I want to smack you. What is there to process? You’re still you, Riley. Nothing changes, baby bro.”
“Thanks,” I choked out.
“What’s his name?” she asked after a moment.
“Jean-Claude.”
“French! Ooh-la-la.”
I snorted. “French Canadian. He’s from Quebec, he’s a chef, and he’s funny as fuck without trying to be. You’d love him. Honestly, I think Mom and Dad would love him too, but…”
“Introduce us.”
“It’s not that simple.”
Tara sighed. “I know, but I want that for you. Say his name again.”
“Jean-Claude.”
“You say it beautifully, like it means something to you. Like he means something to you.”
“Yeah. He does.”
“Then…maybe you can find a way,” she said wistfully.
“Maybe. Are the kids excited for Christmas?” Okay, not the smoothest topic change ever, but Tara went with it.
We talked for a few minutes until I admitted I was parked on the side of the road and the clouds ahead were looking dark and ominous.
“Oh, shoot! Sorry. Keep driving. I’ll talk to you later. Just…I love you, okay?”
“Love you too, Tar.”
I disconnected the call and checked my rearview mirror before pulling onto the road.
A couple of hours later, I veered into the rental return at the airport and began gathering my belongings while a dour middle-aged man with thick glasses wet from the weather made notes on a Star Trek-looking tricorder.
“I’ll check the mileage and give you the receipt, sir.”
“That’s okay. I don’t need the receipt,” I replied, slinging my duffel strap over my shoulder.
The roll of orange tape Jean-Claude left for me tumbled to the ground and landed at my feet. I was about to tuck it into my duffel bag when I spotted two small inscriptions written in black ink along the edge on either side of the roll.
Bonne chance
Je t’aime
Okay, I wasn’t great at French, but I knew that bonne chance meant good luck and je t’aime…
I love you.
I swallowed hard, tracing the jagged words with my thumb.
Things I’d learned about Jean-Claude: He didn’t say anything he didn’t mean and if he felt strongly about something, he spoke French. Or he wrote in French.
I love you, I love you.
“Since you’re still here, take the receipt and have a great day,” the rental guy grumbled.
“Uh…no.”
“Sir?”
“Cancel the return.” I shoved my suitcase into the trunk and my duffel on the passenger seat, then hurried to the driver’s side, the attendant hot on my heels. “I need the car.”
“You just returned the vehicle, sir.”
“Un-return it.” I motioned for the customer behind me to move into the next lane, waving my arms like ground control directing a jumbo jet on the tarmac.
“Your card has been charged and the account is closed. You can’t take the car.”
“Sorry, man. I have to. This is an emergency.” I slipped a wad of cash into his hand, jumped behind the wheel, and headed south.
To Elmwood.
I drove like a bat out of Hades, racing down the two-lane highway and slowing when the roads began to wind on the approach to the Four Forest area. My pulse skipped and soared as I passed the ginormous tree bordering Fallbrook and Elmwood, the church with the funny name that was soon to be a bookstore adjacent to the brand-new sports complex. St. Felix, St. Ferdinand? St. Finbarr! That was it.
I slapped my palm on the steering wheel, grinning like a fool as I cranked the volume on a Springsteen holiday classic. Dark clouds had followed me from Burlington and snow fell in earnest now, painting the town like a scene from a newly shaken snow globe. It was so fucking beautiful.