Trouble : Boston Bolts Hockey

I’ve never been good with words. To be fair, I’ve never really tried to be good with words. I don’t censor my thoughts, but I don’t say much either way. Normally my face does all the talking.

But with Melina?

With Melina I want to be better. She’s hurting. She’s scared. She’s embarrassed. But she’s also pissing me the fuck off. And that makes it nearly impossible to follow through on my commitment. I walk into the kitchen set on making things right. To apologize—again—for telling her what she can and can’t do. And again, I make it worse.

Can’t she see that I’m trying, though? Can’t she see that I care? I care so goddamn much. The woman is all I think about. It’s absurd. Three days ago, I didn’t know her. To me, she was just another pop star with songs that my nieces sing along to far too loudly and off key.

Now I find myself searching out her music when I’m driving to the station. Listening to her songs when I’m in my office. Decoding lyrics to decipher her innermost thoughts. What makes her tick, why she’s so sarcastic and bratty, but most of all, why she’s so scared.

Beckett gave me the broadest of details. That she needed a place to stay for a few weeks because she wanted to spend the holidays with Lake, but that she had an issue with a stalker that made Ford uneasy. I figured a stalker meant an overzealous fan. I’m beginning to think it’s way more than that.

I wish she’d open up to me. Otherwise, how can I keep her safe?

These things keep me up at night, and when they’re not doing the job, thoughts of another pain in my ass do it. Because Cade won’t stop texting and asking about Melina. Since when does he care about anyone this much?

And why do I find the need to respond to his every question?

I can’t leave him on read, knowing he cares like this.

I’m fucking happy he cares. Melina deserves to have people in her life who have her best interests in mind. And Cade deserves someone as amazing as Melina.

I just need to get out of their way and let them be happy. Stop fucking it up like I fuck up everything good in life.

So now I’m texting more than I ever wanted to, tapping my foot to pop songs I can’t get out of my head, and pulling my hair so hard that I swear it’s grown half an inch in just three days.

That last issue is why I’m currently walking into a hair salon for a trim when I’m not due for one for another week.

Cade: Given any more thought to coming up to Boston?

As I wait for Lily to finish with her client, I glare down at the last message Cade sent me. Have I given any thought to it?

Ha. What an absurd question. It’s all I’ve thought about. Share the bed with them. What the fuck does that even mean?

Why can’t I get the image of what it could mean out of my head?

And why am I actually considering it?

“Hey, Dec. I’m ready for you.”

I blink a few times, bringing myself back to the moment. Back to the woman standing before me.

Lily Reilly. The wife of one of my best friends. Or rather, his widow.

Kyle was so much more than just a friend. He was my chief. Lily never calls me chief, likely for that reason. Sometimes I wonder if it hurts her to see me like this. I come in every other week for a cut. I’ve been doing it ever since we lost him. Before that, I always went to the barber downtown.

Guilt has a way of molding a person’s every move, even the most mundane activities.

“Hey, Lil. How’s Benji doing?”

Her son is one of the cutest kids around. The guys all make sure to spend ample time with him, and that includes bringing him to the station, so I see him often.

Her face lights up in the mirror as she gets me settled in, already pulling at my hair, likely realizing it’s much more out of control than normal. “He’s good. Spending time at Jules’ Bakery today. Helping Jules and Shawn make donuts.”

I dip my chin. “That’s good.”

“What’s new with you? I hear you have a famous guest staying with you through the holidays.”

She gets to work on my hair, and I find myself making conversation with her, because like I said, guilt forces a person to do things they wouldn’t normally do. And for me, that includes talking.

“Seems like you really like her,” Lily says as she stands in front of me, stopping to really study my reaction. With her scissors in one hand and her fingers holding the hair that hangs over my forehead, I find it hard to lie.

“She’s a sweetheart. What’s not to like?”

“Life is short, Dec,” she says in the way only a woman who’s lost her husband can. In a way that doesn’t feel like lip service. A way that feels more like a punch to the gut. “You should enjoy the good things.”

I don’t smile, even though she’s smiling at me, because her expression isn’t a happy one. No, it’s pained and brutal.

But it does make me think.This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

And when I get called into a fire right after my appointment, when I feel the lick of flames singeing my skin as I run into the building, I realize I never replied to Cade. And if I never come out of here, that last question will be left unanswered. Will he always wonder about how I would have responded?