Page 23 of Powerless
Moments later, all the tags are cut and Jasper walks me out into the store, seeming a little calmer than he did before.
“Just a few more things.”
He says nothing, which I usually take as his assent. So I walk ahead, veering for the makeup aisle. After seeing myself under those neon lights, I desperately need a little something to cover up the bags and general zombie look I have going on.
Concealer is my first stop. I try to pick a brand but realize I know none of them. I’ve come to Walmart for laundry detergent, not makeup. Picking one up, I assess it. If it wasn’t for the label, it would look exactly like my go-to concealer.
I turn to Jasper. “Do you think what’s inside ofthese is really all that different? Like, I usually pay $50 for a tube the same size. Do you think they just slap different labels on them in the same factory and then laugh at the rich people who pay more for the same shit?”
His lips twitch as he watches me closely. “I love the way your brain works, Sunny.”
“I’m serious! This isfivedollars, Jas. That is a ninety percent discount!”
“Well, you can’t fault that fancy private school education.”
I snort and wag my head. “I’m testing it. This could be life changing.”
“Mm-hmm.”
He sounds like he doesn’t believe me. “Jas. Have you seen this translucent skin? The nice blue vein that runs under my right eye? Concealer is my best friend.”
“I thought I was your best friend.” The statement is so simple and yet it winds me.
I turn back to the wall of alarmingly affordable concealer and scoff. “You can both be. It’s mutually beneficial really. You don’t want to see me too often without concealer.”
“You always look good to me. Concealer, no concealer. Fancy dress, Harvey’s sweat suit. Smooth hair”—his hand waves over me with a low chuckle—“whateverthisis. It doesn’t matter. You’re you.”
I swallow and try my best not to melt onto the floorinto a squishy pile of mush. “That’s probably what you tell all the girls, Gervais.”
“Nah, Sunny. You’re my only girl.”
A tinny, awkward laugh filters up out of my throat as I reach for what I think will be a close-enough color match. I do the same with a soft, shimmery pink blush and a plain, blackest-black mascara.
Then I hustle out of that aisle, hoping Jasper will follow and leave that uncomfortable exchange behind.
Joke’s on me, though, because next stop is underwear, and my wish came true. Jasper followed. Right up behind me.
I stare back at the shelf full of different cuts of black underwear. “Booty short, bikini cut, or thong? Or does your rule of everything looks good on me apply here too?” I blurt out in an attempt at making this less awkward than it is in my head right now.
I fail. Things are officially not less awkward.
Jasper makes a low groaning noise and avoids eye contact. “It applies,” is his strangled reply.
When I peek back at him, I don’t miss the pink stain on his cheeks, and I laugh, all shrill and forced, really trying to salvage myself after what I just asked him out loud.
Then I swipe a pack of thongs and a matching bra, avoiding Jasper’s eyes as I head to the checkout lanes. And within minutes we’re paid up, back in in his SUV, wordlessly heading toward the city—the place neither of us really wants to be.
I watch Jasper skate out of the mouth of a massive, firebreathing bear’s head set up in the corner of the rink. He strikes an imposing image, his pads adding bulk to his already towering height.
Under the flashing lights, he glides across the ice toward his net, every movement somehow matching the beat of the Metallica song blaring from the speakers. His head is down and the crowd is wild.
The Grizzlies are coming off a bad season. A really bad season. Some players left the team, but not Jasper. He’s already got an Olympic gold under his belt, and he’s not the type to jump around chasing a championship any way he can get it. He wants to win here.
I doubted Jasper would ever waive his no-movement clause. He locked in a long contract with the goal of staying close to his family—to the ranch—probably until the end of his career.
What little boy doesn’t dream of playing for his hometown team?
Between the pipes, he starts at one end of his crease, methodically slicing his blades across the space, scratching up the ice surface to give himself extra grip.
