Page 31 of Any Second Now (Fort Collins Blizzard Hockey #2)

Should I Cross-Stitch It?

RALEIGH

S weet baby Jesus.

The cross-stitch orders have gone out of control. It’s been almost two weeks since I posted the video teaching Atticus to cross-stitch and we’re at almost five hundred thousand views and a lot more orders. That’s huge for me.

I’ve had to close the shop temporarily.

I drop the zombie cross-stitch I’m working on— Zombies prefer brains, so you’re good —onto the table and click open my email. That one is by far my biggest seller, clearly because of the video. I really wish I’d picked a shorter quote as my fingers are about to fall off.

There’s another message from my online post looking for Megghen’s owner.

Is she a silkie? At that my heart lurches.

But then: if she’s a brown one, that’s my chicken!

I respond quickly and then delete. The inquiries from my online post have significantly slowed down.

Today’s message was the first in days. I mean, I want to find her owner, I do, but I also like having her around.

I recently figured out that chickens like to snuggle.

Seriously. I saw a video online and tried it out.

I picked her up and brought her slowly against my chest. I was a little afraid she’d peck a hole in my neck but instead she laid her little chicken head against my shoulder.

I don’t think I’m ever going to eat poultry again.

She’s like my therapy. My ex might go to a human counselor, but I go to Dr. Megghen.

She’s also my encouragement when I low-level panic about my overwhelming cross-stitch orders.

I messaged all my customers and told them it would be a a few weeks—or longer—until I could ship the orders and they could cancel if they wanted.

Only a handful took me up on it.

I had the idea to create a cross-stitch kit with the zombie quote I was working on with Atticus. I added a note on my online storefront about shipping delays and the quicker availability of kits. I can get those put together and shipped in no time at all.

Except I’m spending a lot of time with Atticus, so I don’t have as much free time as I should, considering I’m on sabbatical and have no other responsibilities.

Atticus.

We’ve spent every night together for the past two weeks.

Sometimes at his place, which, admittedly, has a much more comfortable bed than the Pink Palace, and about twice as big.

But we stay at the campsite sometimes anyway.

I think Atticus likes waking up and watching the sun rise over the lake.

He even convinced me to go out on the kayaks again.

It was on a day that a repairman came to reseal the windows.

This time we stayed closer to shore and my panic levels were much lower.

I didn’t even capsize—myself or Atticus.

It was almost enjoyable. Probably because Atticus did it shirtless this time, and he doesn’t wear a life vest like I do.

Fine. It was fun.

He left a few hours ago to workout.

This thing is our little secret, kind of, since multiple people know about it.

But none of them are in Fort Collins .

Lachlan is so wrapped up in his girlfriend and Barrett is so wrapped up in, well, himself, that Atticus has managed to keep it quiet from them.

And the others are too far away to be able to truly interfere. Not that Lucy and January aren’t trying.

I glance down at the jersey I’m wearing.

Not only did he leave it here after that first night, but he wants me to wear it.

He wants to lay claim to me… I get the feeling he hasn’t done that with women often.

Ever? I suck in a breath at the thought that what we have is special, not only to me, but to him as well.

The thing weighing heavy on me every day is Jacob.

He’s texting me way too much. I told him he can’t call me, and I muted our text chain. But it’s always there with new messages. I flip over my phone and tap through to check out his latest from this morning.

Jacob

Good morning, beautiful

My favorite days with you were lazy Sunday mornings when we snuggled on the couch with our coffees

I scoff and shake my head. I literally have no recollection of that ever happening.

Maybe we sat at the kitchen table and scrolled our phones?

But I don’t think we were snuggling on the couch.

I think he’s completely re-writing our marriage in his brain so he can hyper focus on something during his therapy.

I should tell him to back off once and for all. Block him. It’s been a month since my last payment to him. When will he ask again? Maybe he won’t. Once he’s financially stable, then I’ll cut him off emotionally as well.

I let those beautiful roses remain in The Pink Palace for twenty-four hours before I walked them over to Elizabeth. She accepted them with raised eyebrows when I told her that the smell in the small space was making me nauseous. It wasn’t a lie. Every time I looked at them, I felt sick.

Does Jacob really still love me? He’s been drowning in the ocean of his gambling addiction and compulsive lying, and he needs some way to survive the raging sea.

I think I’m a life boat for him. I’m calm waters.

But he’s not the way for me. I don’t even like the water.

I consider what to type back, but I can’t think of anything appropriate. I don’t want to argue with him. I don’t want to casually respond as if his texts are welcome.

While I think, Atticus buzzes in.

Atticus

up for a kayak?

I let out a short laugh as his message breaks the building tension inside me. This man cracks me up every time we’re together.

Me

I almost died kayaking and you want me to go again? Like, again again?

Atticus

that is categorically false

Me

You flipped me

Atticus

also false. you flipped me, and that was the first time we went. last time, we both stayed completely dry and it was a delightful afternoon on the water

Me

Hmm. Maybe. Either way, at some point I was in a lake filled with probably electric eels and crocodiles

Atticus

so many things wrong with that sentence, coach

A knock at the Pink Palace door startles me.

Is it Atticus? Texting me as he walks up to the door, probably with the kayaks already set up?

I snort. Because even though the water still scares the shit out of me, I’ll get back on it with Atticus.

He’d save me from drowning (along with the life vest) and scary Colorado wildlife.

I drop my phone onto the counter and stride over to the door. Fred leans against the wall in the corner, but I haven’t even thought about touching him for weeks.

I don’t need Fred when I have Atticus.

I pull the door open, a huge smile on my face.

But it’s not Atticus.

It’s Jacob.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Raleigh,” he says with a sigh. “It’s so good to see your face.”

My jaw drops as I take in my ex-husband standing in front of me. Crisp white polo shirt and khaki pants, blond wavy hair in a perfect swoop across his forehead. He looks young and fresh, and his big blue eyes drink me in: Blizzard jersey, shorts and bare feet, hair tucked behind my ears.

But his eyes linger on the jersey.

“What are you doing here?” I cross my arms tightly across my chest.

“Do you have a minute?”

“My god, Jacob, couldn’t this have been an email? A text? Even a video call?”

He has the courtesy to dip his chin to his chest and cringe.

“But you don’t want me to call you anymore.”

“Showing up is not better!” The nerve of this guy. My shoulders tense as I block the door to the Pink Palace .

“Yeah, maybe not.” Jacob blushes and runs his hand over his face. “Sorry.”

Instead of meeting my gaze, he looks around the campsite, his eyes landing on the two new captain’s chairs.

“Jacob. What are you doing here?”

“Can we talk?” Jacob nods his head toward the lake and the chairs. The same chairs that Atticus and I sit in and have coffee the mornings we are here.

“We can stand.” I step outside of the RV, keeping my arms crossed to protect myself.

There’s no way I’m inviting him in. The Pink Palace is sacred, especially now that Atticus’s mark is in so many little corners.

A Blizzard sweatshirt he left the other night on top of my dresser.

Two coffee mugs drying on the small counter next to the sink.

His bookmark in the spicy memoir he bought for me and decided to read after I finished.

He’s inserted purple tabs marking the sections he said he wants to discuss with me.

“I got that job,” Jacob says, a shy smile settling on his face. “The one I’ve been talking about.”

“Good for you.” I breathe out. It’s a relief, really. He’s been unemployed for so long. And it’ll help me to stop supplementing his life out of guilt. This will be the final cord to sever between us, and I can do it without guilt now that he’ll be making money of his own.

Although him showing up here points in another direction.

He starts to ramble about the company, but I block him out.

He’s told me all of this in texts and emails over the past week.

I know he had his third and final interview three days ago.

That things went really well and he liked the interviewers.

That this job would give him health insurance, a 401K, and a salary that can pay rent and buy food.

“It’s a lower level than my last job, but I can work my way up,” he says as I zone back in.

“Congratulations. Because, Jacob? I can’t keep supporting you,” I say, my voice softer than I mean it to be .

His face falls. “I know. I was hoping for one more month—” Jacob stops at the look on my face, which must be one of pained resignation.

Of course he needs more.

One more month.

It’ll never end.

He’ll track me down wherever I go. He’ll never let me out of his life. After he has enough money, it’ll be something else. He’ll need someone to talk to about his investments, or ideas for a Christmas gift for his mother, or a reminder on what lawn mowing company we used.

“—but that’s it. And then I’ll have my first paycheck and be all settled. By the time you get back home, I’ll be a different man.”

“I don’t know, Jacob.” My stomach turns.

By the time you get back home.

“Hey.” He steps forward and swipes a finger on my cheek. “You okay?”

I flinch, surprised to realize my cheeks are wet. Am I crying over this man? What am I crying over?

His words repeat in my head: by the time you get back home.

That’s what he said.

Because the truth is, my sabbatical ends in less than three weeks. I’m supposed to go back to Connecticut and return to my pharmacy job and my old life.

But I don’t want to.

“I don’t know when I’m coming back.”

“But your sabbatical is almost over?” His crinkles his nose in a way I once found charming.

I shake my head too aggressively. “Maybe I’m not coming back.”

Jacob breathes in sharply.

What am I talking about? Of course I’m going back. I’m just sad because I don’t see a way that I’ll truly be rid of Jacob and that part of my old life .

He’s right—I’m not the kind of woman who travels in an RV and reinvents myself.

I’m just playing a part here.

And the show is almost over.

The look on Jacob’s face breaks my heart. Or does something to my heart. More like stabs it with a kitchen knife. It’s like he’s desperate for my attention. My approval. Have I left that kind of impression on him? That he needs to fix himself for me? If so, I really screwed up.

I think I might have screwed up in a lot of ways.

Divorcing him was not one of them. But staying in such close contact—who did that really help? Instead of giving both of us a clean break, I’ve been sending him money. Emailing him. Texting him back. Taking his phone calls.

I’ve been enabling Jacob.

I’m an enabler.

All he’s doing is thinking about himself and his own problems instead of actually getting out there and solving any of them. Therapy’s done wonders for his self-awareness—I think at this point he’s more in touch with his own issues than most people are—but it’s time he live his life.

“Your mom’s been kind and supportive to me while you’ve been gone,” Jacob says.

“My mom?” I snort. I’ve talked to my mom multiple times about this. She’s been firm with Jacob, not encouraging.

She’s even started a spreadsheet for him to try to push him to get his life together so he’ll leave me alone.

My phone starts buzzing with a call, but I ignore it in my pocket. Then it buzzes a few short beats. Text messages. I sigh and pull it out.

Mom

Raleigh, I think Jacob is on his way to see you. I’m so sorry, I’ve been trying to talk sense into him, but he sent me a text this morning that makes me think he’s in Colorado.

I groan.

“Everything okay?”

I ignore Jacob and tap out a text.

Me

Thanks. He’s here

The three little dots dance around with her response, but I put my phone away.

“That was my mom, warning me you might be showing up.”

“Was this the wrong thing to do, Raleigh?”

“Yeah, it was.” I squint my eyes shut. I have to get through to Jacob that he needs to live his own life without me.

And then my eyes fly open at the sound of a Jeep Wrangler on the gravel drive of the campsite.