The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)
Chapter 38

Josie

One week turns into another one, then one more. When Wesley’s in town, we volunteer at Little Friends Dog Rescue, transporting dogs to foster homes while they wait for adoptions. Wesley’s car has two dog beds in the backseat. When he drives, he peeks in the rearview mirror and says things to the passengers like, “You’re the best boy” and “Aren’t you a good little cutie” and “You deserve all the treats in the world.”

He might be at his happiest when he’s buckling in rescue pups. It’s a pure kind of joy, and it makes my heart sing to see it.

Other times, we do mundane office chores together. Like review applications for adoption. But we split those tasks, leaning into what each of us does best. I read and screen them, then he makes phone calls and vets prospective adopters for the rescue. Soon, we’ll cross off number six officially, and then we’ll do number seven—explore a new skill. We’d debated that one for a while, as I made a list of our options—candle-making, cocktail mixing, or pottery classes, while he suggested kayaking, a foraging for food in the woods workshop, and badminton.

“You made a list for a list,” he’d said, laughing one night when I showed him my suggestions for number seven.

“I can’t help it if the list is spawning,” I said, but then surveyed his choices while tapping a pen against my chin. “Sorry, Wes. Kayaking is too cold, the outdoors is not my friend, and I’d get hit in the eye with a birdie.”

“Let me get this right—you’ve vetoed all mine? Just like that?”

“I prefer to think of it like this—I’m letting you pick from my three very excellent choices.”

He laughed. “Good thing I like you,” he said, then leaned down and captured my mouth in a kiss before whispering, “And I’m picking cocktail mixing for explore a new skill so I can taste the flavors on these perfect lips.”

“I guess number seven will be foreplay then too,” I said.

But we haven’t been able to do that yet since the next-cocktail mixing class that works out for both of us is next week, shortly before Christmas. It can wait since first Wes has to get through this punishing road trip he’s on right now to Minnesota, Chicago and Calgary—punishing is right since they’ve lost two games so far. That sucks, especially since the coach has played him on the first line a few times. But Wesley hasn’t talked much about the team or his performance, so I haven’t pressed. He gets enough pressure from his dad about his performance and doesn’t need it from me. I try to focus on us and making the most of our time together. Like when I make plans for number eight on the list. That’s coming around the corner, but it’s easy to fit that in when the mood strikes.

That might be the one I’m most looking forward to—dancing in the park.

It’s so seemingly random, but so not. My aunt and I used to do that when I was a kid. She’d take me to the park for a picnic, and we’d run around the slides and jungle gym—the extent of my athletic skills was mastering the monkey bars. Then she’d declare it was time for impromptu dance party. And we danced our butts off in the park, using her iPod and corded headphones, always finishing with Bill Withers’ “Lovely Day.” It wasn’t even her favorite song. She told me it was my song. Wes and I will probably tackle that next week, too, since he’ll be in town.

While Wes is traveling, we text and sext as much as we can. One night in December, I start a new series of photos for him, showing off the shoes I tried on for Everly’s class, before the Internet schooled me—you don’t need to wear heels for your first pole-dancing class. Or your second. That’s definitely for the best. They’re seven-inch platforms and it’s possible I might die in them. But they do look hot, so I took a pic at the thrift shop and now I’m sending it along.

Josie: I’m in my pole era. Or I’m trying to be.

Wesley: I’d like you to be in the wrap those shoes around your man’s face era.

My man. Somehow, that’s what he’s become. Mine. Or really, mine for now.

Josie: Why am I not surprised that’s your first thought?

Wesley: Why would you think I’d think anything else when you send me a photo of you in hot shoes?

Josie: Fair point. But where’s my pic?

Wesley: You want to see my shoes? Whatever works for you. I’m on the plane right now, in a pair of suede loafers. (Cruelty-free suede, of course.)

Josie: No! I want to see your face!

I want to add I love your face but I’m careful not to use the L word. I’ve been careful about the F word, too—F as in falling, like falling for you. But Wes is careful as well. He hasn’t said either of those words either. I think I know why. Because of the other four-letter word.

Time.

There’s not enough of it. There’s never enough of it. It just keeps marching inexorably forward, and with it so do the days when I don’t hear from The Violet Delia Foundation for Library Digital Empowerment, and when I get turned down from the few openings in the area, and when I don’t replace any new ones to apply for.

And when I want one more and more.

Especially when Wes sends me a picture of his face. He’s on the plane, resting his head against the window, giving an easy smile. His scruff is scruffier than usual, and his eyes are tired but brighter than when I’ve seen him on TV playing these last few games. My heart jumps. This is getting to be ridiculous. I’m falling too hard for him.

But the look in those eyes tells me he’s falling too.

How utterly inconvenient. I don’t think falling in love for the first time was on my aunt’s list.

When I’m walking to work on a Tuesday morning, listening to a podcast about how to be unforgettable in your job search, an email lands that makes my breath halt. I stop short outside the fire station, my fingers tingling. I try to remember to breathe as I open this email with far too much hope flowing through my veins.

It’s from the foundation.

Dear Josie,

We’re writing to let you know we received your application and have reviewed it. Do you have time for an interview sometime this week?

All the best,

Violet

The head of the foundation herself? This is almost too good to be true. Maybe this means I’m getting that extension. Maybe I can stay on at my branch with this. I hit reply, sending them the times I’m available.

Then, I float into the library. Maybe this long shot isn’t such a long one after all.

I walk toward the reference desk, past the trees decorated with ornaments of books, and smile at my co-workers.

“What’s that look for?” Eddie asks.

I flutter my lashes. “I have an interview,” I say, then tell them the details.

Eddie knocks fists with me, and Thalia gives an approving nod.

“Would either of you be willing to do a mock interview with me? To help me prep?”

Eddie taps his chin as if in deep thought. “Would you be willing to make those lavender chocolate-chip cookies again?”

“Done,” I say.

“Then we’ll help,” he says, “Right, Thalia?”

“Of course we will. And until then, you’ve got some requests for Your Next Five Reads.”

It’s business as usual, and maybe that’s what my life can be.

“I’m on it,” I say, and I keep myself occupied until it’s time for a mid-morning break. I pop into the bathroom, texting Wes the good news on the way. Once I swing open the door, I nearly jump. Raccoon’s perched on the edge of the sink, licking the faucet.

“Raccoon. You hate being normal, don’t you?” I head over and turn on the tap so he can drink from a light stream.

When he’s done, a reply from Wes lights up my screen.

Wesley: Can we celebrate by skipping number eight?

Josie: Never!

Wesley: Also, fuck yes!

Josie: Well, it hasn’t happened yet. It’s only an interview.

Wesley: It’s the first step.

That afternoon, my colleagues quiz me, and when I leave another email lands—I landed an interview at a library in Petaluma early next week too. It’s about an hour away, but I don’t even care. Everything feels possible.

That night, after I’ve finished all my prep for tomorrow’s Zoom interview with the foundation, I’m hanging out on Maeve’s couch before we meet up with Fable for a paint-and-sip class (which doesn’t count toward learning a new skill because we all mostly know how to paint and we definitely know how to sip). I’m plucking pistachios from their shells while Maeve layers tiny ocean-colored mosaic tiles onto an old tequila bottle. That’s for the lamps she’s been selling at farmers’ markets and night markets around the city.

“I was honestly worried I was going to need to call my mom, tuck my tail between my legs, and go home to Maine in January. Look for work from there,” I say, but then once those words come out, I want to flick a pistachio shell at myself. “Actually, I might still have to do that. Of course that’s what I’ll have to do.” A burst of panic curls inside me, rising higher. “What am I thinking? There’s no guarantee I’m getting this grant. Or even a job here. I should be realistic and assume I won’t and figure I’ll go home and live with my parents while I look for work, like any other person my age these days. Plan for any contingency.”

“You’re right. You might not get the job you want,” Maeve says with supreme focus while she glues in the final tile. Then she looks up. “But thinking positively harmed no one.”

Her attitude doesn’t entirely settle my new worries, but it does distract me. “Maeve, are you a closet optimist?”

“Maybe I am,” she says, dusting one palm against the other. “Especially because I think we tell ourselves not to put our dreams out into the universe, like we’re afraid they won’t happen if we dare to whisper them. But that has nothing to do with whether they come true or not. Look at me—I sell lamps from old liquor bottles at the night market, and I told you eight months ago I wanted to do that.”

I flash back to when I visited her in March, while I was on spring break. Maeve loves painting, but she also loves making art. We visited the market she wanted to get a spot at for the lamps, and she pointed to it, and said, “I want that to be mine so badly.”

Then she did the work and landed the spot recently.

“And look at you now.”

“Well, I’m still catering but I’m getting closer to my dreams. And honestly, I think it’s because I say them out loud. There’s this media company that creates videos to inspire change, and one of the things they did a couple years ago was build a massive custom megaphone. Like twenty-feet long, and they set it up in Union Square with a sign that said Shout Your Dream to the World, and they recorded videos of people doing it all day long. And it’s beautiful,” she says, then pops up on the couch, tracks down the video and shows it to me. In it, people of all shapes, sizes, ages, and colors shout through the megaphone to tell the city, and the world, what they long for. Love, a job that fulfills them, to live debt-free, to make art, to replace the love of their life, to travel the world…everything feels possible after I watch it.

When it’s done, Maeve says, “You should put your dreams out there.”

That sounds well beyond my comfort zone. So I say yes.

The next day, I do the interview and it goes well. I’m prepared, engaged, and full of questions. So is Violet. That night, I gather Maeve, Fable, and Everly, and we head to the foot of the Golden Gate Bridge with a megaphone that Fable borrowed from the Renegades. It’s not a twenty-foot custom megaphone, but it’ll get the job done. Everly didn’t travel with the team this week—one of the guys in the PR department did—so she joins us.

Fable waggles the megaphone. “Who volunteers as tribute?”

My bold outgoing Maeve grabs it first, then turns toward the Pacific Ocean where the waves crash against the rocky shores then stretch all the way to the edge of the inky night horizon.

“The ocean can carry our dreams,” she says, then squares her shoulders, brings the megaphone to her mouth, and shouts, “I want to make art that matters.”

My heart swells, and I squeeze her arm in support.

She gives it to Fable, who takes a deep breath, then goes next, muttering this is crazy, this is crazy, this is crazy. Then she says, “I want to launch my own jewelry line.”

The words echo across the sky and over the water, and I imagine the sea catching them in gratitude.

Everly’s next, and a sadness crosses her eyes, but a steadiness too. A certainty. “I want to live my best life, especially for those who can’t.”

My heart clutches, and I flash back to what she said when we went grocery shopping. Had a friend. I drape an arm around her. While I’d never try to replace anyone, I hope I can be one of her friends in the present and into the future.

She hands it to me. “Your turn.”

I take the red megaphone then look to the stars, thinking of my aunt and the list she gave me. I wasn’t sure what it meant for a while. Was it a connection to her? Was it a pathway through grief? Was it rules to live by? I’m not sure I’ll ever know, and I need to be okay with that. To navigate the world without her guidance, but with her love as a compass. Maybe that’s what the list was all about.

I have a lot of dreams right now, but there’s one dream I’ve had my whole entire life. I give it to the ocean with my voice. “I want to be happy.”

It feels like it might be coming true. But not because I put it out there. Because I’ve been doing the work.