Page 23

Joely

If you’re up before sunrise here, odds are you’re either a farmer, a hockey player, or up to something mildly illegal. Tonight, it’s door number three. The only thing quieter than the empty streets is the trouble brewing on Miner’s Arena’s sign—because love confessions don’t come in bouquets. They come in Saran Wrap, zip ties, and a couple of best friends hellbent on making sure the guy finally gets the message. On my signs, the letters might be crooked, but the intentions are straight from the heart.

Playlist: Signs by Tesla

This time, the letters are secure. Tight. Not even a rogue Sorrowville gust could pry them off. I take a step back on the narrow catwalk ledge circling the sign and admire my handiwork like it’s a Banksy mural and not a mildly deranged act of public vandalism.

“Can we leave now?” Lynsie’s voice is three octaves higher than normal and shaking. She’s halfway down the ladder and clinging to it like she’s on a free solo documentary. “I am one stiff breeze from death.”

“It’s not that high,” I mutter, biting back a grin. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Joely,” she hisses, “this sign is fifteen feet in the air! And there are no handrails. I am two misplaced steps from becoming a human pancake.”

I crouch, double-check one of the zip ties, and tug the industrial Saran Wrap taut across the lettering. “The letters are going nowhere. They’ll hold.”

“I, however, am going somewhere,” she snaps.

I glance down. “Where?”

She finally makes it to the bottom and hops off the last rung. “Gisele’s. I broke a nail.”

“You’re kidding.”

She holds up her hand like she’s just lost a limb. “Cat burglar glam is a delicate balance. And this—” she wiggles the cracked acrylic— “has thrown me entirely out of alignment.”

I laugh and start my descent, the metal ladder creaking beneath my boots. My fingers are frozen, my thighs are screaming, and my hoodie has collected more dust than a forgotten attic. But the sign?

Perfect.

When I hit the ground, I pull my ski mask off. “Fine. Let’s go fix your precious talons. I’ll even pay for the repair.”

She narrows her eyes. “Really?”

“Obviously.”

We start walking to the car, steam puffing from our mouths in the icy air. The whole town is still asleep, not a single headlight on the road. Just two girls in black hoodies, matching leggings, and a pair of guilty grins.

Lynsie pauses at the passenger door and looks up at the sign again. “You really think he’ll notice?”

I smile, heart thudding as the letters flutter faintly in the breeze, shimmering under the streetlamp glow.

“He better,” I say. “Or I’m zip-tying one of these to his damn locker.”

If this doesn’t get his attention, nothing will. And if it does? God help me—I’ll actually have to say how I feel out loud.

She grins and climbs in. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

I yank open my door. “You already are. After I climbed a death trap in twenty-degree weather, you’re forcing me to go to the salon again.”

“And yet you’re glowing,” she says as I slide in beside her. “Weird.”

I lean back in my seat, fingers still tingling from adrenaline, heart racing with something else entirely.

Hope.

Or possibly frostbite. Hard to tell.

By the time we roll up to Glamboozled, the sky’s gone full cotton candy with sunrise. Lynsie’s chewing her nail—the broken one, like she’s mourning its sacrifice in the war on gravity—while I’m replaying our very illegal early morning ladder mission on a loop in my head.

The parking lot’s empty. Not a soul in sight. No early-rising grandmas rolling in for their biweekly perms. No bridesmaids ready to pregame with mimosas and spray tans. Just us. And a locked glass door.

Lynsie jabs the button on the intercom.

“Gisele’s not here,” I say, peeking through the glass. The neon lashes & sass sign is dim. “Let’s come back later.”

“I can’t wait,” Lynsie moans. “This nail is mocking me. I feel... lopsided.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re not exactly a Jenga tower, babe. You’ll live.”

She’s halfway into another nail rant when the lock clicks, and the door creaks open. Gisele stands there, wearing leopard print joggers, a ‘Not Before Coffee’ sweatshirt, and the kind of flawless eyeliner that can only be summoned by dark magic.

She blinks at us. “Is this a break-in or a cry for help?”

“Yes,” I deadpan, stepping inside. “To both.”

Lynsie holds up her hand like she’s giving evidence in a court case. “Emergency.”

Gisele peers at the cracked nail. “Tragic.”

“Thank you,” Lynsie whispers, vindicated.

I sigh as soon as the door clicks shut behind us. “Sorry to wake you.”

Gisele waves me off. “I was up. I was just thinking about how peaceful my morning was. Now it’s ruined. Come in.”

The salon smells like lavender and last night’s dry shampoo. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Gisele cocks a perfectly sculpted brow. “So what brings you out, dressed like twin cat burglars?”

Lynsie’s already sliding into a mani chair, trying not to smudge her mascara with her scarf. “Tell no one.”

Gisele locks the door behind us and spins on her socked heels. “Tell no one what ?” She saunters to the back, flicks on the radio, and cranks the volume. “Oh look. It’s all request hour. Maybe I’ll call one in.”

Lynsie groans.

“I was thinking…” Gisele taps her lip. “ Sign of the Times by Harry Styles.”

I freeze.

She keeps going. “No? Not a fan? Hmm. How about Signs by Tesla? Gimme a Sign by Breaking Benjamin? Sign Your Name by Terence Trent D’Arby?”

Lynsie’s glare could melt acrylic.

I close my eyes. “How long have you known?”

Gisele shrugs, too pleased with herself. “Just a guess.”

Lynsie groans again. “Think Brogan knows?”

Gisele snorts. “Please. The man spent a month being served drinks on a coaster that spelled out his own name. He thought Santa came early.”

I groan this time. “It wasn’t that obvious.”

“Joely,” she says, deadly serious, “next year—more color. And glitter. The love confession deserved pizzazz.”

“I only had blue or black ink,” I mumble.

“Excuses,” she says, tossing Lynsie a nail file like a mic drop. “Now sit back. Spill. I want every juicy detail.”

I slump into the salon chair, heart thudding.

This was a bad idea.

And also, weirdly, the best one I’ve ever had.

“You want every juicy detail?” I fold my arms across my chest as Gisele paints Lynsie’s broken nail with the precision of a surgeon.

Gisele raises one perfectly microbladed brow. “Girl, I want the details to be so juicy I need a bib.”

“You’re disgusting,” I mutter.

“And yet, you’re here,” she sing-songs, not even glancing up as she adds a coat of glitter to Lynsie’s ring finger. “Which means I’m not wrong.”

“I’ll start,” Lynsie volunteers, her smirk practically weaponized. “Joely’s in love.”

I choke on my own spit. “Wow. Just straight to the slander.”

“She’s been in love since grade school,” Lynsie continues, holding her finger up to admire the sparkle. “And now, she’s climbing ladders and rearranging signage like she’s auditioning for a Hallmark movie called Love in All Caps .”

I blink at her. “Okay, first of all, amazing title. Second, rude.”

“Third,” Gisele chimes in, “accurate. You’ve been a hot mess since the Slammer’s party.”

I drop my head back and groan. “Because the party was… a thing . And afterward was definitely a thing . And now everything is different, and he keeps saying he needs time because of his contract. Which I understand, but it feels like my heart’s on a bungee cord and he’s holding the other end.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Gisele whistles low. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” I scrub my face. “That’s the problem. I think I’m in over my head.”

“You’ve been under for years, sweetie,” Lynsie says, no heat in her voice now. “You just finally surfaced.”

Gisele sets down her polish and walks over, leaning a hip on the counter. “You want my unsolicited opinion?”

“No,” I say.

“You’re getting it anyway,” she says. “Brogan Foster might be built like a Norse god and have abs that deserve their own calendar, but he’s emotionally stunted and dumb as a bag of pucks when it comes to love.”

“I’m not arguing,” I sigh.

“But,” she continues, “he lights up when you walk into a room. And he’s never once looked at a puck bunny the way he looked at you when you wore that dress.”

I flush. “That was just—”

“That was not just anything,” Lynsie says. “He stared at you like you’d personally invented cleavage.”

Gisele nods. “Girl. That man’s soul left his body. He had to reboot. You think he wants time? Please. He wants forever. He just doesn’t know how to admit it without screwing it up.”

I sit here, heart pounding, torn between hope and panic.

“What do I do?” I whisper.

“Keep showing up,” Lynsie says simply.

“And maybe,” Gisele adds, “don’t use coasters next time. Just write it on his damn forehead.”

Lynsie giggles. “That would be funny.”

“Okay.” Gisele settles on the arm of the chair like the queen of sass she is. “Let’s rank the Slammers. From Most Likely to Be a Secret Romantic... to Most Likely to Use Axe Body Spray as cologne and foreplay.”

“I’m scared,” I say. “But also—I’m listening.”

Lynsie perks up. “Okay, Heath’s secretly a romantic. I don’t care what anyone says. My brother blushes when you say the word ‘feelings.’ And he blasts Alanis Morissette whenever he’s drowning in unrequited love.”

Gisele points a glitter-tipped nail. “Agreed. Heath has major cuddler energy.”

“I think Gage writes poetry in a leather-bound journal he hides in his sock drawer,” I add.

“Underwear drawer,” Lynsie corrects. “He’s too soft to be sock-core. That’s more Boone.”

“Oh, Boone totally has a sock drawer with like two actual socks and the rest is protein bars,” I say, snorting.

Gisele laughs. “Boone is one spilled shaker bottle away from a mental breakdown. But I’d still trust him over Shep.”

We all look at Lynsie.

She widens her eyes. “What?”

“Girl,” I say. “Shep?”

“I don’t like him,” she insists way too quickly. “He’s annoying and loud and basically lives in a frat boy meme.”

“And yet...” Gisele drawls.

“I SAID I DON’T LIKE HIM,” Lynsie practically yells.

We all stare. Silence stretches.

Gisele clicks her tongue. “Deny it all you want, but if Shep ever figures out how to read social cues—and stops yelling Woooo! in public—you’ll be doomed.”

Lynsie crosses her arms. “Never gonna happen.”

I hold up my glass. “To never gonna happens and Shep’s legendary third leg.”

We clink.

“And Bennett?” I ask cautiously.

Gisele tilts her head. “Most likely to secretly run an underground matchmaking service... while telling everyone he hates feelings.”

I grin. “He’s like the fairy godmother of doom.”

The laughter dies down a little, the air warmer now, even though the world outside is freezing. My heart feels lighter than it has in days.

This—right here—is why I’m not entirely unraveling.

Because even if I’m in love with a hockey player who doesn’t know I’m the one painting the town with his name, I’ve got these two.

Lynsie’s phone buzzes with a message from Shep—probably another “Woooooo!” gif or a blurry selfie of him flexing in a bathroom mirror. She makes a dramatic gagging sound, says she’s out before she starts simping, and disappears out the front door like her boots are on fire.

I stay behind.

Mostly because I want to but also because Gisele gives me that look. The one where she cocks one perfectly arched brow, crosses her long legs, and folds her arms like she’s about to lead an intervention.

“Joely,” she says, voice gentle but firm. “You’ve been in love with Brogan Foster since we were all wearing eyeliner that made us look like raccoons and listening to Avril Lavigne on repeat. Don’t play dumb.”

I sink into the armchair like I’ve just been hit by a freight train made of truth.

“Okay, yeah,” I murmur. “I know. It’s just—now that he finally sees me, really sees me, I don’t know what to do with it. I keep waiting for the moment it all falls apart.”

Gisele’s eyes soften. “Babe. Love doesn’t fall apart when it’s real. It just changes shape.”

“Great,” I say, scrubbing a hand over my face. “So I just have to figure out if this shape is permanent or temporary?”

“Nope,” she says. “You just have to keep showing up for it. Stop worrying about whether he’s ready. Ask if you are.”

I stare at her.

“I didn’t come here for therapy,” I mumble.

Gisele shrugs. “Sorry. Free of charge. And non-refundable.”

We both laugh, and the sound is lighter than anything I’ve let out all week. I stare down at my chipped nail polish and try to imagine what it would be like to just…be brave. Tell him everything. Not just with Saran Wrap signs or coasters or doodles but with actual words.

“I don’t know how to not be scared,” I admit.

“Then be scared,” Gisele says. “But still do the thing.”

I glance toward the window, where the last streaks of orange sky fade to dusky purple. Somewhere out there, Brogan’s probably eating leftover pizza and watching SportsCenter , blissfully unaware that the girl he’s been kissing might just be planning her own emotional jailbreak.

“I think I do love him,” I whisper. “Like real love, not puppy love.”

“I know you do,” Gisele replies. “Just don’t wait too long to let him in on the secret.”

And just like that, I realize the biggest sign isn’t on a rock, or a water tower, or wrapped around a sign at Miner’s Arena.

It’s the one pounding in my chest.

And it’s all his.

I just hope he knows how to read it.