Page 54 of The Breakaway

"Sharla!"

I turned to see Crystal and Maddie waving at me from the side stairs at the front of the stage. I set down my violin and skirted through the stands to meet them.

“That was incredible!” Crystal enveloped me in a bone-crushing hug, nearly lifting me off my feet with her enthusiasm.

Maddie grinned, her curls bouncing as she nodded in agreement. "Seriously, I got chills during 'Carol of the Bells.’”

I ducked my head, feeling a flush creep up my neck at their effusive praise. "Thanks, guys."

“Are you so glad it’s over?” Crystal whispered.

I laughed. “Oh my hell, yes.”

Maddie grabbed my face in her hands. "I have instructions. Are you ready?” I grinned and nodded as much as I could with her palms squeezing my cheeks. “Get your shit. Meet us at the front doors. Dinner's on me tonight."

My eyes widened. "Maddie, you don't have to do that!"

She waved away my protests. "Early Christmas present. I insist."

I followed her list to a T—it helped that there were only two items on it—and as we walked to Ranchmans, laughing and rehashing the concert's highlights, I made a mental plan to do my Christmas shopping now that I was a free woman. I hadn't even started, let alone figured out meaningful gifts for Crystal and Maddie. And it was going to take some figuring. They deserved something special, but on my anemic bank account balance, I'd be lucky to afford a pair of fuzzy socks from the dollar store.

But those concerns could wait until tomorrow. This was a perfect night. Juicy burgers, hearing about Crystal’s roommate drama involving an ex-boyfriend and a stray cat, messing with Maddie about her irrational anxiety over finals next week, and finally spilling on Logan’s visit.

When I walked in the door to the townhouse, I’d almost managed to forget the sight of Rob at the back of the orchestra section.

Almost.

I flicked on the lights and scanned the living room and kitchen. Nothing. I stepped forward until I could see his door.

My heart stumbled over itself. Open. That meant Rob was out. Where would he have gone after the concert?

I checked the time on the microwave. It was already ten o’clock on a Thursday night. Was he—? Did he go to the concert and then start his shift late?

For a brief moment, I considered throwing on my old clothes and running back to campus. Finding him and offering to help clean toilets. But I didn’t know which building he was assigned to. And that would be weird, wouldn’t it?

I puttered around the kitchen, and numbers, of all things, sprouted in my head. 403-772-7272. Rob’s pager. I hadn’t meant to memorize it, but it was the easiest phone number imaginable.

I stared at the phone. If he was working, he’d be near plenty of phones to ring me back. I could give a casual, breezy "Thanks for coming tonight. I appreciate the support" sort of thing. Totally platonic. Just general, societally encouraged manners.

I hesitated, my hand itching to pick up the receiver. But I didn’t pick it up. Because my pulse did not feel general or societally encouraged.

I retreated to my room and took my water bottle with me.

_____

Morning came far too soon, the sun peeking through my curtains and mocking my groggy, sleep-deprived state. I rolled over and checked the time. 11:30 a.m. Oops. So much for my grand plans of rising early and being productive.

I stumbled out of bed and into the kitchen. Rob’s breakfast dishes were in the sink. His door was open.

Right. The Outlaws had an away game in Leduc the next day. Which meant practice in the morning so they had a full day to recover. Then the big invitational meet was next weekend, so Rob and the others would presumably be spending every spare second in the gym or on the ice, grunting and sweating and chugging raw eggs or whatever.

I brewed a pot of coffee and surveyed the living area. Dust on the TV stand. Lint fuzzies on the carpet. The fact that I couldn’t remember the sound of our vacuum didn’t bode well.

I ate breakfast and channelled my recently discovered inner janitor, and two hours later, the floors were mopped, the shelves were dusted, and I'd even scrubbed the mysterious Pollock-esque stains out of the microwave. Housework complete, I treated myself to a long, hot shower and a fresh outfit before venturing out into the chilly December afternoon.

The boutique-lined street near Douglas University twinkled with holiday cheer, ribbons, and garlands adorning every storefront. I popped into a few shops, admiring the handcrafted jewelry and artisanal candles, but nothing screamed "Perfect Gift for Crystal or Maddie." I was about to call it quits when a small display of handmade soaps caught my eye—delicate squares in intoxicating scents like "Winter Citrus" and "Sugar Cookie." I selected a few bars to tuck into gift bags when inspiration finally struck.

Huffing soap somehow gave me superhuman energy, so I stocked up on groceries, picked up a new pair of warm gloves, and snagged the last box of Crystal's favorite peppermint bark at the campus candy store. By the time I lugged my bags back to the townhouse, the sun was setting, painting the sky in streaks of orange creamsicle and pink cotton candy.

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