Chapter 5

Wielding a curling iron and pins and blow-dryer while wearing a cast isn't easy.

But I'm doing it.

Just like I absorbed the news of the broken bone in my hand the night before.

Like I accepted Leo standing next to the bed I was in while the doctor delivered that fun bit of information.

Like I dealt with him driving me home, calling a friend on the way to come and retrieve my keys so they could bring my car back to my place.

I'm not absorbing the fact that I've finally processed who he is, though.

A member of the Sierra hockey team.

The billboard just outside of town limits showing him posing with Lake Jordan in the emerald green, Tahoe blue, and white jerseys, holding sticks, smiling.

Looking gorgeous.

As gorgeous as he did up close, hair a bit unruly, jaw covered in thick black bristles, lips kissable and showcasing all the teeth in his mouth.

I don't know a lot about hockey.

Just that there's fighting and blood and missing teeth.

And the players are big.

Well, Leo certainly is.

Towering over me, lifting me like I weigh nothing, shoving Toby back like he weighs nothing?—

Toby.

Shit.

My throat immediately seizes up, pain that I was pretending to ignore, pretending didn't exist, flooding forward.

I exhale, focus on the client in front of me, still together enough that I'm able to comment and nod and smile at all the right places in her story, even with my hand aching and it taking the majority of my attention to not burn her or me or her hair with the curling rod.

I'm a professional, though.

So, I succeed.

In pretending to listen and not burning anything and taking her payment.

Thank God for the first two (though especially number two), because she's a good tipper, and she's added a Christmas bonus to the amount, along with a card bearing a picture of her adorable new pug puppy. Something she hands me with a hug before disappearing through the door.

Leaving me alone.

In my quiet salon.

My salon.

Another reason I work so hard. Because I've dreamed of this. My place. My name on the door. My clients walking through it.

I'll do anything to keep it.

Sighing, I slump down in the chair and ignore the ache in my hand.

It's too soon for more ibuprofen, and I don't want to take anything stronger until I'm home and don't need to drive anywhere and can get into my jammies and sleep for a billion hours.

But I have to get up first.

Have to get to my car and?—

A chime from the bell above the door as it swings open.

"I'm cl?—"

But then I look up and see…

"Fuck," I whisper.

Colleen and Toby stand just inside the threshold…their hands interlaced.

Are they fucking kidding me?

I push out of my chair. "What the fuck?" I snap.

Which…not the most articulate. But also…what the fuck?

Toby—who'd rarely, if ever, heard such a tone from me—rocks back on his heels. Colleen—who has heard that tone, albeit still rarely, but we've been friends since childhood, so naturally she's had more opportunity—just lifts her chin.

Telling me silently that this is the way it is.

Toby is the first one to try to break the news out loud to me. "Jolie, I?—"

"Save it," I snap. "You're together. You didn't make a mistake. You want to be together and I just need to deal, am I right?"

I can see exactly where this conversation is going.

In fact, embarrassingly, I've had similar ones with each of them, too many times to count. This is the way things are going to be. Deal with it.

But, fuck that.

I'm not going to deal.

I'm going?—

"Get out," I say, moving toward them and yanking open the door. "I'm done with both of you."

Toby's brows drag together. "Sweetheart?—"

I scowl. "Not your sweetheart. Not your girlfriend." I glance over at Colleen. "Not your friend."

Her eyes narrow.

"Not. Your. Friend," I say again.

Done. I am done.

"I'll box up your shit and leave it on my porch," I tell them. "But I don't ever want to see you again." I jiggle the door, setting the bell off again. "Have a nice life. You deserve each other."

Cheating is a line that—once crossed—cannot be uncrossed.

Cheating between my boyfriend and my best friend.

Well, they are officially dead to me.

Something that seems to shock them. Because Colleen finally drops Toby's hand and steps close to me, arms out like she's going to hug me.

Again…what the fuck?

I stick my hand out, halting her with my palm to her chest.

She oofs out a breath.

"I will say this one more time." I glance from her to Toby. "I don't want to see you—either of you—again. Not today. Not next week. Not ever."

"But—"

I start pushing, walking her back until she's outside the salon.

Only then do I look over at Toby again, lift my brows. "Out," I say. "Forever."

Thankfully, he moves, walking through the open door, standing by Colleen.

"Forget—" For a second, they both look hopefully, which is just insanity considering what they'd done, what they're doing, but that hope disappears when I go on. "Forget coming to my place," I say, "I'll drop your shit off."

My terms.

My time.

Then I slam and lock the door.

And collapse in a chair as I wait for them to leave.

Which they do. Eventually.

Only then do I finally get to go home, finally get to crawl into bed in my comfy pajamas and drink my hot chocolate.

Only then do I let myself cry.

But never in that crying, in the subsequent deep, deep sleep that follows do I think I'm anything but…

Done.

D.O.N.E.

I wake up late.

Much later than I planned—though I suppose that means I just tried to take my soliloquy of a billion hours of sleep to heart.

I roll over and rub my aching eyes, feeling that they're swollen, and make myself a promise.

No more tears over them.

And I follow through on this promise as I pack up their stuff, shoving it into two giant boxes—clothes and trinkets, gifts that I don't want, toiletries and random plates. A stuffed toy and a throw blanket.

Keys to their places.

All go into the boxes.

Which go into the back of my car.

I drive to Colleen's place, dump her box on the porch.

Then to Toby's, giving his the same treatment.

Then ice cream—because I just got cheated on—and pancakes with crispy bacon because no time of the day is the wrong time for pancakes and crispy bacon.

Then finally, home.

I stop by, open up my mailbox, and head inside.

But one envelope has me frowning.

My name is scrawled on the front, in big masculine letters in handwriting I don't recognize.

Heart pounding, I tear it open once I'm inside my apartment.

Sweetheart,

I wanted to check on you but you weren't home. I'm on the road with the guys for a week. Text me and let me know you're good?

-Leo

The third sentence has a question mark, but I hear it as a command.

Which is probably what Leo intended.

His number is beneath his name and I sigh, setting the note on the counter. Which is when I realize it's not the only thing in the envelope. Frowning, I pull out…

A ticket to the next Sierra game.