Damn, I wish I could afford a diamond, but maybe it’s for the best that I can’t. I don’t think I would be able to play it cool right now if she had an engagement ring on her finger. The gold band alone is nearly enough to kill me. I’m so busy trying to absorb the sight of her wearing a symbol of commitment to me, whether it’s real or not, that I almost miss her stricken expression. What the— “Britta, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Her gaze bounces between her ring and mine, her hand dropping kind of fast. “I didn’t realize you were officially going home. You just caught me off guard.”
“Going home temporarily. I’m coming back.” For some reason, I feel the need to clarify that information, even though it’s obvious. “Providing this interview goes well—and it will—I should have an interim green card that will get me through customs.”
She nods.
And she just keeps nodding. “Yeah, you have to go home and see your family. They must miss you so much.”
Something about her demeanor is off, but I’m not really sure where we got off track. Was it the rings? Or is it the fact that I’m leaving? I’ve mentioned the possibility of going home for the summer to her a few times, and it never seemed to bother her before. It’s kind of standard procedure for athletes to go home in between seasons. And believe me, I considered forgoing the whole trip so I could stay close to Britta. I’ve thought about it a lot. But she makes it pretty clear every chance she gets that I shouldn’t be making decisions around her. That I shouldn’t treat this as anything other than an expirationship. So what’s with her hollow expression?
Am I missing something?
“My family is a major reason I’m going home, sure, but there’s also a training camp in Edmonton. I’m not going home to lie around and watch television for two months. I need to be ready when practices start again in September. I’m not going to squander this chance you’re giving me, Britta.”
“Two months,” she says under her breath, almost to herself. “Cool, I’m just going to . . .” I watch her hand fumble with the door handle of the truck, and before I know what’s happening, she’s launching herself out into the parking lot. The door closes behind her.
I shove mine open, jumping out too. “Britta.”
We meet at the bumper of my truck. “Yeah?”
I have to dig my fist into my pocket to resist cradling the side of her face. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
I’ve never seen her like this. Dazed and a little fidgety. I don’t know how to handle this, so I dig back into my memory bank and recall a time when my mother kept saying, “I’m fine,” and my father wisely didn’t believe her. This moment with Britta is somehow reminiscent of that. What was it my father said to my mother that got her to crack? “Can you please try and piece together what you’re feeling and communicate it to me?”
She blinks up at me once, twice, like she can’t believe what she’s about to say out loud. “I think I’m going to miss you.”
Holy fuck, my father is a genius.
“I . . . wait.” Don’t move. Don’t even breathe. “Did you just say that you’re going to miss me?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“How . . . am I going to miss you?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
She stares at my chin hard, like she’s thinking, her attention cheating up to my mouth briefly, followed by a hard swallow. “Well,” she begins slowly, a flush spreading in her cheeks. “As a friend, obviously. We’ve been spending all this time together, getting to know every detail of each other’s lives. I guess I like having you around.”
“I’m canceling the trip,” I rasp, ripping my phone out of my pocket.
“What?” The exclamation bursts out of her. “No, no, no. No, that’s not what I was . . . I wouldn’t expect you to do that. I want you to go see your four sisters and keep yourself sharp at training camp. Of course I do. I was mostly just surprised. How m-much.”
She might as well be carving my chest up with a meat cleaver, inch by bloody inch. “How much you’re going to miss me?”
“Yes. I think that’s it.”
In my periphery, I see movement in the parking lot. There are people witnessing what is both an amazing and terrible moment, because on one hand, my dream girl just admitted she’s going to miss me. On the other one, she’s going to miss me as a friend. I’m not sure I believe her, though. How can I honestly believe this attraction doesn’t run both ways when I catch her staring at my throat so often, I would develop suspicions that she’s a vampire if we weren’t out in broad daylight?