Chapter 170
And shoots.
Top corner. Clink. Goal.
The room erupts.
I scream. Angel screams louder. Mrs. Beckett’s on her feet, clapping like it’s church on Easter Sunday.
The Titans swarm the ice. Cam tackles Liam. The screen cuts to their coach yelling. The final score flashes.
3-2.
My chest swells with so much pride and affection I think I might actually burst.
As the post–game analysis starts, I finally grab my bag, shaking my head with a grin. “Alright, before I crash right here on your couch-”
“You’re welcome anytime, love,” Mrs. Beckett says, kissing my cheek.
I reach for my phone. Notifications buzz across the lock screen orders from the bakery, a text from Tessa.
And then-
Private Number:
Look into me again and I’ll mail you your friend, Kara’s, little, manicured finger. Got it?
—
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That answers that.
How she grew up. Whether she still hates me. Whether she’d blow up my bakery with me in it.
The nausea creeps up first. Then the chill.
I stare down at the screen. My thumbs move on instinct.
Me:
Dia, how are you?
EMILIA
―
Tessa’s text is, to no one’s surprise, not an apology or even a human- sounding sentence. Just a long, passive–aggressive grocery list most of which I strongly suspect she typed while glaring at my last message. I’d bet my left eyebrow she deliberately left out chocolate. And the number of vanilla–scented candles? Concerning. That’s her stress tell. Has been since undergrad.
No “please,” no “is this convenient?” Just a bank transfer for half the total and radio silence after that. Classic Tessa.
She’s testing me. I know she is. I do three breathing exercises in the space of a block and whisper an incantation for patience I found on Pinterest. Then I duck into the nearest convenience store, grab her list (plus a bar of chocolate for myself, I’m not a saint), and head out again, arms full and temper running thin.
By the time I reach her/building, I’m freezing, annoyed, and 90% sure I’ll be ghosting her the next time she asks for a favour. I forgot the scarf Liam gave me at the bakery it’s now my favourite one, soft grey with subtle embroidery and now my nose is red and my fingers are stiff from juggling four scented candle bags and a half–litre of overpriced
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almond milk.
I almost miss him. The middle–aged man standing outside her apartment door, looking just as impatient as I feel.
I set the bags down and fumble through my purse for my key card, already planning how to guilt Tessa into carrying her own damn candles next time, when a man steps toward me.
“Excuse me,” he says, polite but clipped. “Do you live here?”
–
I glance up and do a slight double take. He’s holding a bouquet of tulips and a heavy–looking paper bag stamped with the logo from Tessa’s favourite overpriced Italian place. He’s in a delivery. uniform, scowling like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“I do,” I say cautiously, offering a small smile. “Can I help you?”
His neutral expression vanishes in an instant. “Are you Tessa Arlof?” he demands Tessa would faint if she knew how badly he’s
–
–
butchering her last name already reaching for a stack of papers. wedged under his armpit.
“No, but I-”
“Friend, roommate, whatever. Close enough. Here. Sign this. And this. And this one too.” He starts shoving the forms at me with the
exasperated energy of someone who’s three seconds away from quitting.
I blink, caught off guard. He mutters under his breath as I skim the clipboard.
“Kids these days,” he buffs. “No manners, no respect. I’ve been dragging myself out here every day for the past three weeks. Three! Flowers, dinner, sometimes both. I ring. I knock. No answer.”
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He doesn’t even wait for me to respond – just barrels ahead, voice rising like he’s been saving this rant all week.
–
—
“Last Thursday, she finally comes to the door – and I think, great, finally, some progress and do you know what she says?” He lowers his voice to mimic Tessa, high–pitched and disdainful: “You can start throwing them out.‘ Throwing them out!”
I wince in sympathy.
“I told Mr. Cobalt-” he spits the name like it’s sour- “that she clearly isn’t interested, but does he listen? No. He says, ‘Just one more delivery, she’ll come around.’ Well, she’s not coming around. And I am this close to snapping.”
He holds up two fingers, dangerously close together.
I sign the paper before he combusts. “Right. Thank you. I’ll make sure she gets these.”
“God bless,” he mutters, turning on his heel and marching off like a soldier retreating from war.
I glance down at the tulips. Pink. Her favourite.
