Kiss and Don't Tell(48)

She glances up at me. “Seems as though I lean toward older men.”

My brow shoots up. “Memorize that Internet search on me?”

“Just a few details.” She leans in. “For the record, twenty-seven looks really good on you.”

I like those kinds of compliments. Clearing my throat, I ask, “Since you’re still a student, does that mean you’re earning your masters?”

She picks up another hat and tests it out. This one is brown with a Banff label stitched across the front. “Bachelor’s, actually, in business. What about this one for Eli?”

“He has it,” I answer. “I never would’ve guessed that. You don’t seem like the type of person who would be interested in business.”

“I’m not,” she answers. “Not in the slightest. Josh convinced me to pick that major. I was undecided for a decent amount of time and he came in with his pragmatism and said it would benefit my mom if I did.”

That pisses me off. Who the fuck is Josh to convince her to go that route, when after spending only a few days with her I can tell that’s not the major for her? “My mom owned a small used bookstore in Seattle. She adored literature and the pathways reading brought to every individual, but business wasn’t really her strong suit. Josh thought it would help the store grow. I guess I did, too.”

Holding back my angry tongue, I ask, “It didn’t?”

She picks up a red hat. “We never got a chance to see. Mom was diagnosed with a brain tumor. I took a long break from college to help her run the store, and then, when she passed, I had a hard time keeping the store alive alone. Josh and I had split at that point. He couldn’t quite handle the attention I was giving the store, I guess. And then I lost the store anyway. Honestly, it was a nightmare. Now I’m not sure I want to go back to school.” She shrugs. “I’m not sure what I want to do at all.”

Josh broke up with her . . . while she was struggling? What a fucking piece of shit. And from the tone of her voice, I can tell it wasn’t easy on her. None of this has been easy on her—losing her mom, losing her mom’s store. No wonder she doesn’t know what she wants to do, a dark cloud has settled over her. I never would’ve known, though, because she puts on a happy, grateful front. And maybe she is happy and grateful, maybe it’s not a front at all. But underneath her positive fa?ade, there’s a deep cut of insecurity, of pain.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose your mom.”

“Not fun.” She holds up the hat, moving forward with the conversation. “What about this one?”

My stomach twists, wanting to comfort her but not sure how to do that. I didn’t think my first question would dig up something so dark for her, something I’m sure she’s still trying to work through. Maybe it’s the reason she’s here.

I grip the back of my neck and say, “He’d like that one.”

“Wonderful.” She moves past me with confidence and heads to the cash register, where she begins to check out, leaving me in the back with the hats while I figure out what to say to her.

I don’t know anyone who has lost a parent before; I’m not quite sure what she’s feeling or how to make that feeling go away, if only just temporarily. I don’t like hearing the sadness in her voice, or knowing that despite trying her best, she failed. That can’t sit easy on her heart, either.

I need to be there for her. That’s the only thing I can do. Listen, be there, be supportive—the kind of support she didn’t get from Josh. I move toward the cashier, but just then, someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around to see a mom with a teenage boy whose eyes are lit up, star-struck.

“Mr. Lawes, would we be able to get a picture with you?” the mom asks, her hands trembling.

Turning on a smile, I say, “Of course.” I drape my arms over both of their shoulders and bend down to get in the picture. The mom takes a selfie and then thanks me.

“We’re huge fans.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Sorry we couldn’t bring home the Stanley Cup for you this year.”

“It was quite a run in the playoffs,” the boy says.

From the corner of my eye, I spot Winnie moving closer with a bag in her hand.

“How is your head? Doing okay?” the mom asks.

“Fully recovered,” I say with a wink. “If you’ll excuse me, got some more shopping to do.”

“Sure. Thank you so much,” they say, and I turn toward Winnie and move through the store until we’re outside.

I go to ask her more about her mom, but someone else comes up to us. “Mr. Lawes, could we get a picture?” I glance apologetically at Winnie, who seems to find it humorous as a crowd gathers just outside the souvenir shop.

Word has spread—there’s an Agitator in town.

I spend the next ten minutes taking pictures and signing autographs. At one point, I lose Winnie and start to panic that she wandered off somewhere, but then I see her exit one of the alleys. She has more bags in hand and doesn’t look upset, more entertained than anything.

I take my last picture, thank the fans, and then walk toward her.

“Hey, Mr. Popular.” She grins up at me.

“Shit, I’m so sorry, Winnie. That was . . . not great timing.”