Page 131 of Her Goal
“Then let’s have our first and only married couple fight.”
She shakes her head slowly. “We can’t fight because everyone will join in. It’ll be bedlam, also let’s call it one and done.”
“So we are going to fight? I’m not much of a fighter,” I confess.
“Tell that to the LA Lions. You destroyed them.”
She has a point.
Leah draws a deep breath. “This might be the deal breaker. For real.”
To lighten the mood, I whisper into her ear, “Leah, if it’s about passing gas, everyone does it. Plus, you can just blame it on Tinker.”
Her eyes widen. “Smith-Torres women have a rule. Husbands, brothers, nephews, even the babies toot outside!”
“Seriously?”
Her smile suggests it’s more of a suggestion.
“I think it’s adorable that you’re trying to find an objection here. In the movies, when the minister or priest asks if anyone objects, isn’t it usually one of the guests, not the bride?”
Leah faces me, gaze set on mine, searching for courage and the truth. “What I thought was my nickname was bad, but the bet tipped me over the edge.”
“I apologize. I wish I’d been more mature and just talked to you about what Hunter was doing.”
“Yeah. Communication. Well, I found a way to express to you how I felt.” She tells me about spotting my yearbook one afternoon and writing a note in the back, then what followed.
My jaw slackens, my suspicions confirmed. “So that was you?”
She nods slowly.
“Which means you lay claim to those emails.” I had a hunch given the recent content of the emails.
“When I typed up the first one, I never meant to press send.”
“They kept coming.”
“Despite the fear of guilt and regret, it felt good to direct my frustrations in life somewhere.”
I let out a long exhale. “We’ve got to get you to a boxing gym.”
As Leah continues her confession, I tell her that I’m not even slightly surprised. I should be angry. The emotion is dull like a distant memory that’s no longer relevant—like what I wore to picture day in fifth grade or school lunch on Tuesdays. It just doesn’t matter anymore. The recent emails were rather endearing and I admire her fortitude for keeping them coming all that time.
“Hudson. I’m your secret adversary. Why are you still here?”
“This tart isn’t half bad.” I take another bite.
“Don’t you hate me?”
“Quite the contrary.”
“Why aren’t you running for the hills?”
I answer, “This is Nebraska. It’s pretty flat around here.”
“Wipe that lazy half-smile off your face and be mad at me.”
I don’t obey, but I do meet her eyes. “We’re not exactly who we were back then.”
