Page 21 of Slapshot Bride
“No one important,” he clarifies. Our eyes meet, and I simply nod.
The drive back is quiet. When we pull through the gate and the house comes into view, my phone buzzes in my lap.
I look down.
Dad.
I open it.
Dad:
Riley. Your mother and I need you to come home. Whatever is going on, we can sort it out as a family, the way we have always sorted things out. Preston is devastated, honey. He just wants to talk to you. Please come home.
I read it twice.
The car comes to a stop at the top of the driveway. Easton cuts the engine, and the silence settles in me.
I look up at the house. Then at Easton, and it dawns on me.
I don’t want to go home.
At least, not yet. So, I lock the screen, face down on my thigh, and turn to Easton again.
“Help me bring the bags in?”
“Whatever you want, love.” He winks and gets out of the car.
Love.
First sweetheart. Now love.
The words seem to come so easily to him, like affection isn’t something he has to think about or ration out. Maybe that’s just who Easton is. Warm. Kind. Caring in a way that feels completely effortless.
I know he doesn’t mean anything by it. He probably calls everyone sweetheart and love.
Still, I sit there for another second with a stupid smile spreading across my face.
Because apparently, I like the way those words sound when they come from him.
And just like that, the text doesn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.
I climb out of the car, close the door behind me, and decide I’m not letting thoughts of Preston ruin another minute of today.
This is my life now.
I intend to start living it.
5
EASTON
Not Preston Fucking Sinclair
She shows me the text after dinner.
We are on the couch with two half-eaten cartons of Thai takeout on the coffee table between us, chicken basil and pad thai from a place down the hill I've been ordering from since I moved in.
She ate more than I expected, which isn't saying much, but it's something. She’s changed into one of the new t-shirts she got at Valentina’s, soft cream cotton that already looks like it belongs on her.
