Page 52 of Wallflower
Charlie rolls her lips and pales a little. “Maybe not, but life hasn’t been fair to me either. It’s been hard, and I’ve worked through it all. Alone—and fine, without much to show for it—butit’s all I’ve got. And at least you go to sleep at night knowing you made Mom and Dad proud.”
Tears spring up in her bright blue eyes, and my throat grows tight. I raise a hand in her direction. “Charlie—”
“Forget it.” She raises her palms to fend me off. “I can’t stop you from coming home. I can’t stop you from loading your money into this place andsavingit from me, but I won’t tell you it’s okay. It won’t erase all the years you weren’t here. I’m not Mom or Dad. You don’t get a free pass. Not this time.”
I only notice she’s still in her Silver Leaf uniform—black shirt, dark jeans, boots—as I watch her stride from the room and rush up the stairs.
I stare into nothing and think about what she said. Did I try to give Charlie money because I felt guilty about not being here? Maybe… but it just never felt that nuanced to me. My family had a problem, it caused pain for the people I loved, and money could fix it.Icould fix it. I didn’t give any thought to what offers of cash would look like to Charlie or what she thought they meant. I didn’t think I had to. My motivations weren’t that complicated.
I run a frustrated hand through my hair. I’ve screwed up a lot of things in my life—my career, my captaincy, my romantic relationships, my family—but for the first time in as long as I can remember, the weight of each of those things doesn’t tip the scales the way they used to.
I think about Violet and the things she’s given up for her father. I don’t agree with it, I don’t approve of it, but right now, I’m closer to understanding it.
twenty-three
Violet
DAY 20 AT SILVER LEAF... ONLY 66 TO GO
Chord is unusually quieton our trip to San Francisco. It’s not the cold, intimidating silence that made him famous. It’s an introspective kind of quiet like he’s lost in his own thoughts. And it makes me anxious.
I’ve told myself his behavior is not about me at least a dozen times over the last five hours. In the car on the drive to San Francisco. When we inspected the first apartment on my list of potential new homes. And the second. And the third. But now, as we stand in silence on the street outside the building of Potential New Home Number Three, I’ve swung back to believing that he’s having second thoughts about me. About us.
He’s staring at his phone like he’s forgotten I’m here, and all I want is to run away from the awkward humiliation and hug my dad.
After a long moment passes without Chord looking up, I rock forward on my toes and try a tight, uncertain smile. “So, what did you think of this one?”
“Hm?” He frowns at his phone before locking the screen and stowing it in his pocket. He glances up at the residential building behind us, squinting toward the wall of glass on the penthouse floor. “It’s nice. Definitely the largest of the three we’ve seen today. What do you think?”
“Me?” This is the first time he’s asked for my opinion, and I’m not sure what to say. Compared to my cramped, aging apartment, all three properties are palatial. “Oh. Um, I like them all.”
Chord crosses his arms, and for the first time today, a little life warms his blue eyes. The flutter of anxiety in my middle swirls into butterflies.
“But if you had to choose…?” he leads.
I frown. “If I had to choose… what?”
His mouth ticks up. “Which would it be?”
I take a moment to consider it. He’s asking for professional advice from his personal assistant, so I forget about my own preferences and think about it from his point of view.
“Well, apartment number threeisthe largest,” I reason out loud. “It’s the most modern, and it’s the closest to the arena. It has great security, and it’s the most expensive, which means it’s probably the best… right?”
Chord shrugs. “Probably, but that’s not what I asked. Out of the three we saw today, where wouldyouchoose to live?”
“Me?”
At his amused nod, I bite my lip and recall the first place we saw. It was the smallest by far, but it had the most warmth with its cream-colored walls and living room with built-in bookcases and wood-burning fireplace, vintage fittings everywhere, exquisite natural light, and a beautiful view over a park.
Chord rolls his lips against a smile. “It’s apartment number one, isn’t it?”
I press a palm to the heat on my face. “Am I that obvious?”
“No. I’m just getting better at reading you.”
Out of nowhere, Chord takes my hand, threading his thick, callused fingers through mine and latching on tight. Tiny, teeming, white-hot sparks burst through my body, not only at his touch but at being touched like this in public. Because people arelooking.
Wherever he goes, people look at Chord. They may or may not know he’s the best hockey player of his generation, but they do know a beautiful face when they see one. And it’s his energy. His magnetism. He demands attention. It’s easy to forget that when it’s just the two of us alone in his house, or when we’re with Daisy and Izzy. His family doesn’t look at Chord the way strangers do.
