“WHERE TO?” the driver asks when I get into the taxi at the Vancouver airport.
I rattle off my address, and we drive in silence while I stare out the window.
The charity skating event is tomorrow. Will she still show up, after the video I sent? Even though she’d never admit it, I know she’s proud of learning to skate. My stomach sinks lower with disappointment.
My phone chirps with the ring tone reserved for Hazel. My pulse jumps as I pull it from my pocket, expecting the worst. Expecting her to tell me we’re done, or that she never wants to talk to me again.
Instead, it’s a picture of some weird mess of black yarn on her duvet. Or maybe they’re shoestrings. My face screws up in confusion.
Not sure about this one, Miller. It needs an instruction manual.
“What?” I murmur, zooming in.
Within the mess of shoestrings is a clothing tag. My gut drops through the floor.
It’s not shoestrings. It’s lingerie, but I didn’t buy that for Hazel.
You’ll see, McKinnon said yesterday.
Jealous rage thunders through me. He sent her a fucking piece of lingerie. I regret not punching McKinnon in the face last night as I stare daggers at the picture.
I’m going to kill that guy.
First, though, I’m going to make sure Hazel knows exactly who sent it. “Change of plans,” I tell the driver. “I’m going to my girlfriend’s place
instead.”
I rattle off Hazel’s address and fold my arms over my chest, seething with jealousy and possessive feelings as we drive.
Hazel is mine.
