Page 123 of Across His Line

I told him. That’s the thing. Twelve twelve. Now you’ll remember. And I walked away and spent a whole day being embarrassed about it, and then two weeks went by, and we said hey in the hallway four times, and that’s it.

He isn’t going to remember. Why would he? It was one weird conversation in a hallway. He has hockey, finals, an NHL scout, and a father who sends a car for him. It’s not something he’d hold onto.

I’m not even sure I want him to.

I tear off another piece of tape with my teeth.

I carry them down. All eleven, stacked against my chest, with the tote bag on my shoulder and my phone balanced on top. The post office on Main closes at one on Saturdays.

I’m on the last flight, going sideways so I can see my feet, when the back door opens at the bottom of the stairs, and the cold comes in, and Nash comes in with it. Then Rafe is right behind him.

“Hey, Tessa,” Nash says, looking down at my packages. “Kylie up there?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

He goes.

Rafe’s in a Woodbury hockey jacket with his bag over his shoulder and his hair wet and pushed back, like he just came from the rink. He has a plastic bag in his other hand.

He sees me and stops at the bottom of the stairs.

Koda comes in behind him. “What’s up, Tessa?”

“Hi, Koda,” I say softly.

Koda nods and looks at Rafe. Rafe glares at him, and Koda goes without being told.

I stopped moving. I’m watching Rafe watch me. He waits until his teammates leave the stairwell.

As soon as they’re out, he says, “Happy birthday, Tess.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say. It takes me a second too long to understand that he said it.

“You remembered?”

He gives me a look. The one where he thinks I’ve asked something obvious.

“You told me,” he says.

I can’t believe he remembered.

Then, he holds out the plastic bag.

I look at it. I can’t take it. I don’t have a hand.

He looks at the packages. Then at me. Then he comes up two steps and lifts the top four off the pile without asking, and holds them in one arm, and holds the bag out again with his other hand.

I take it.

It’s heavy. Heavier than I expect. I look inside.

It’s a tape gun.

Not like mine. A real one. Metal, with a black rubber handle and a big serrated blade on the end, the kind they use in the back of stores, with a roll of wide clear tape already loaded in it and two more rolls in the bag underneath.

I look up at him.

“Your tape thing sucks,” he says.