Page 86 of Unloved

I add a few emojis, until it looks minorly ridiculous. Her phone is on Do Not Disturb, but once she reads the text, the notification disappears and she’s typing.

PRINCESS

Are you at Millay right now?!?!?!

It’s her voice in my head as I read the text slowly. Her typing continues for a long moment, arguably too long for me, before a voice note comes through.

We often send each other voice notes instead of texts—she started it, but I adore them just as much. Not only is it easier for me, faster when I’m in a rush, but I’ve become quite addicted to the sound of her voice.

A few times—when I’ve had to go away for the whole weekend or miss a tutoring session for a two-a-day practice, and especially when studying for an upcoming exam—she sends me audio files to go over the missed topics. I’m sure the guys on the team bus think music is thumping through my ears. But it’s the voice of my favorite girl in the world.

“Heyyy,” she says, dragging out the word, sounding like her mouth is full as she steps away from the phone and back. “I figure this is easier—but what are you doing outside the dorms? You finished practice, like”—she pauses—“less than ten minutes ago. That’s crazy.”

A little giggle and then, “Anyway, I’m coming down. Let me just find my pants. Okay, be right there!”

There’s some rustling before the recording ends and I’m beaming, blushing a little from the unbidden image of Ro without pants—which I shake my head to clear.

Just in time, it seems, to spot a girl in a pretty lavender sweatshirt and pleated white tennis skirt skipping and scurrying down the steps of Millay to my idling car with the hazards on at the curb.

The same curb I dropped her off on the night she doesn’t remember.

I think you’d be really easy to love.

She stops at my rolled-down passenger-side window, leaning into it as she pops up on her toes and smiles at me.

“I couldn’t find pants,” she blurts before biting her lip and shaking her head like that wasn’t what she planned to say.

“I can see that,” I say, shifting in my seat. “Ready to go?”

Her hazel eyes widen. “Do I need to bring anything?”

“Just yourself. Hop in, Ro. We’ve got places to be.”

She acquiesces easily, pulling open the creaking door and sliding into the seat.

She doesn’t ask where we are going, just hooks up her phone to the aux cable like she’s comfortable here with me. Like she’s done this a million times, and settles back against the headrest while “Dizzy on the Comedown” by Turnover plays as I keep the windows rolled down and pull away from the curb.

Ro can’t get a word out, frozen in shock, while I watch her with a grin so big it hurts.

“We can go in whenever you’re ready.”

“How did you even find this?” Her voice is whisper soft, even though it’s just us and the car radio still playing music off her phone as it has for the hour-long drive. She didn’t question me once, noWhere are we going?She didn’t even ask for a hint. Her trust is exhilarating.

I shrug. “I did some digging.”I spent all night searching for something to even slightly show my appreciation for what you’ve done for me. “I thought you’d like it.”

Eyes wide, she’s still staring at the faded yellow building smooshed between plain redbrick storefronts. The awning is green and white striped, with an old pink sign that reads In a Clinch. Painted across the window are the words Sweet, Spicy & Vintage Bodice Ripper Romance.

Ro stumbles a little into the front door, and I grab the loose brass handle to open it for her. The smell of old books mixes lightly withfaint hints of tea, coffee, and butter from the little cafe nestled in the back.

I know it’s there because I called the owner.

Shockingly, the In a Clinch bookstore has little online presence. Opal is the store’s owner, whose number I found on a nearly empty business page after hunting it down. She was kind and sweet answering all my questions, offering more than enough information to know that making the drive with Ro would be worth it.

Just Ro’s reaction on seeing the little bookstore is enough to feed me for a lifetime.

Her fingers drift across the plastic-wrapped special editions displayed by the door, violin music playing overhead. She eyes a few signed editions up front before wandering toward the used books on the far wall.

“Hey, Ro,” I say, snagging her attention. “There’s a cafe in the back. I’m going to get us a coffee and chai if they have it, okay? Take your time looking around.”

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