Page 59 of Puck Me Twice

“That was meant to be a teasing joke,” he says, like that absolves him. “I honestly intended it to be a lighthearted comment until he made it all serious.” He squeezes my hand, and I start, because I hadn’t realized he was still holding it. “Nessie, you are incredibly important to me, and a part of me will always love you.”

I choke.

“I don’t have romantic feelings for you, I don’t want to break up your relationship, I don’t want to win you back. I just want you to not hate me.”

Staring out the cafe window, I try to recalibrate.

Because he’s right. I did hate him. I do hate him. It’s been years, but I’m still carrying around the fresh hurt of a broken heart all the fucking time, and nothing I’ve ever been able to do has taped it back together again.

“I’m in Boston for the long term,” Robby continues. “Hopefully, at least. I like the team. I want to stay here. But if you want me gone, at the end of the season, I’ll put in applications with the league. I can⁠—”

“You don’t have to leave.”

The words come out before I realize I spoke them.

Clearing my throat, I continue. “You don’t have to leave on account of me, at least.”

“Nessie…”

“I don’t know that I can forget what happened,” I tell him slowly. “But eventually, I think I’ll be able to find a way to forgive you.”

Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But hopefully, it will be sometime soon.

“Larsson loves you,” he says again. “He’s serious about you. I just didn’t want to be the reason that you keep him at arm’s length.”

I open my mouth.

“I know you, Nessie. He blindsided you last night.”

Quietly, I nod. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

“I hope we can be friends again,” Robby says. “I really want us to be friends. Whatever that looks like. I just want you in my life.”

Swallowing my fears, I meet his eyes. “We might be able to make that happen.”

nineteen

. . .

Sven

I’ve fucked everything up.

Case in point: my sourdough starter was left out a little too long in the direct path of a sunbeam, and it burst the glass jar holding it captive.

Also: Rupert hasn’t said “good girl” to me in the four days I’ve been home. I think she’s upset with me for leaving her with Brigitte, even though my bird-sitter is always coming in and cleaning even during the offseason.

Oh yes: And Brad keeps texting me, threatening me and insulting me in the same message. If it wasn’t such a pain to find a new agent and train them to deal with me, I might switch. But I don’t have the patience or the time for that.

All of this is eclipsed, of course, by the fact that I haven’t talked to Vanessa in way too long. She hasn’t called or texted or emailed or sent a carrier pigeon since I sent her the note about giving her space. How much damn space does she need, an entire fucking planet?

Blowing out a breath, I knead the bread dough with all of my frustration. It’s not her fault that we’re in different places. Genuinely, I am fine with giving her space. I just don’t like the silence.

I guess now I know how she felt at the beginning when I wasn’t texting her back.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

When my bread comes out of the oven, I package it and head across the street. Hildy opens the door right away, pulling me into the house by the front of my sweatshirt.