The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(48)
“Maybe we can read it together.”
“Nah, I got this. I’m the official narrator of this trip.”
“What?” She turns toward me. “I never voted.”
“Didn’t need a vote, it just happened. Plus, my voice is closer to Pops’s.”
“Because you’re his grandson?” she asks, a little irritated.
“Well, that and because I’m a man. I mean, no offense, Haze, but you have a girl voice.”
“I can have a man voice.” She clears her throat, and in a deep tone she says, “See, I can speak man.”
“You sound like a caveman.”
“Which means it’s a step up from you,” she counters, and, damn, if I wasn’t so drunk, I think I could come back with something, but she has me.
And she knows it. She snatches the letter from me and opens it up as we lean against a thick stone pedestal that holds a statue of some person, likely important, given the historic area.
Clearing her throat, she holds up the letter but doesn’t say anything. I wait.
A few more seconds.
A few more.
“Uh, are you okay?”
Groaning, she slaps the letter to my chest. “My eyes are all out of whack from the wine. You read.”
Chuckling and holding back the “I told you so,” I read the letter. “‘Hey kiddos. Hope the wine was good. Did you have the Great? Life changing, huh?’”
“Yup, life changing, all right. Now I can’t read.”
I nudge her shoulder and she chuckles. “‘I’ll make this note short and quick. I brought you to this bridge because many years ago, and I mean many, I brought Gloria here. We walked along the stone bridge, marveling at the statues and the beauty of the two sides of the town connecting. It felt so majestic, but it was what Gloria said that day on the bridge that changed my life forever. She said, ‘Take a look at this bridge, how weathered and worn it is, and yet, it’s one of the most magnificent things I’ve ever seen. It may have its battle scars, but it’s sturdy, a strong foundation, and that’s something love should be built on.’ She was right. There were scars in our relationship, some battle wounds, but underneath the cosmetic features of our friendship was a sturdy foundation that love could be built on. Love you. Pops.’”
I stare down at the letter, my mind whirling, trying to comprehend.
Is he hinting at me and Hazel?
I mean, why else would he bring us here? And write about that? He knew damn well that we’ve had our moments—my lack of communication being a big one—but we still have a solid foundation.
Pocketing the letter, I glance at Hazel whose eyes are turned down, and she’s nibbling on her lip.
“Hey, you okay?”
She looks up at me and asks, “Was he talking about us?”
“I think so,” I answer.
She nods and then reaches out and takes my hand. Our palms locked together, we make our way over the rest of the bridge in silence as it starts to lightly snow. Once we reach the end, we walk back, and we keep walking until we reach our hotel. Through the entire walk, we don’t say a thing. We don’t giggle. We don’t laugh. It’s almost as if with the snap of his finger, with that one letter, Pops sobered us up.
A foundation to build love on.
Love.
Fucking hell.
Chapter Nine
HAZEL
The worst part about day drinking is that you sober up by nighttime and you have to nurse a hangover before you go to bed, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Ever since we got back to the hotel, we’ve been quiet.
I don’t know what to say.
Crew clearly doesn’t know what to say.
Things have become incredibly awkward.
The dry humping—which I know you know already, but there’s that, then the awkward conversations about holding hands.
Pops’s letter . . .
Love.
Foundations.
Battle scars.
What?
Jesus. I feel as though I can’t think straight, and it doesn’t help that Crew has decided to sequester himself on the couch and read a book on his e-reader while I sit here on the bed all by myself, legs tucked into my chest and my head spinning with uncertainty.
Knock. Knock.
Crew perks up. “That must be the food.”
“Thank God,” I mutter. “I’ll get it.” I open the door and make small talk with the delivery person and then roll the cart over to where Crew is sitting. “Mind if I sit next to you?”
“Why would I mind?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Just seems as though you want to be alone. I could eat my dinner on the bed if you want.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t want to be alone. I was just giving you space because you looked so freaked out.”
“Not freaked out.”
“Okay. Then sit next to me,” he says.
“Fine. I’ll sit next to you.” Turning to the food, I lift the lids and don’t bother shifting the plates around since we both got a simple burger. Trying to keep things normal, I ask, “What are you reading?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and as I dress my burger, I can feel his eyes on me, debating what he should say. I pray that he just moves on. Thankfully, he clears his throat and says, “The Witcher.”