“Yes, I agree,” Laura says, patting my shoulder briskly. “And we should have a long talk about that later, but for now let’s concentrate on getting you camera ready.”
“Camera ready?” I squeak, eyes going wide.
“Your hair looks great, as usual—you’re so lucky to have such thick hair. But your nose is a little shiny,” Laura adds, moving around her desk. “Let me grab my makeup bag. I know your skin is darker, but I’ve got this great translucent powder that—”
“Laura, I’m not going on camera. I’m going to text Justin to let him know I’ll be waiting for him outside the locker room when—”
Laura pops up from behind her desk, clapping her hands together as her eyes light up. “Not a text! A sign! Like his, but with no farts in it because I agree with Brendan that there is nothing romantic about the F-word.”
“Fart isn’t the F-word,” Chloe helpfully points out. “The F-word is—”
“We know,” I say at the same time Laura says, “Don’t say it, Chloe, or your dad will kill me. And I don’t have time for death right now. I have people who love each other to bring together.”
“No, Laura.” I cross my arms over my chest and shake my head. “I’m not turning this into some publicity stunt. This is important and private and—”
“It’s not a stunt,” Laura says, whipping out her powder and dabbing a brush lightly into the lid. “It’s an act of celebration and inspiration, a beacon of hope for all of us still swimming in the rough waters of casual dating, getting mauled by sharks.”
“Or pecked by seagulls,” Chloe says, coming to stand next to Laura as my sister fixes my face against my will.
“Yes, or pecked by seagulls,” Laura agrees. “What was your dad thinking, taking you to feed seagulls? They are so freaking scary. They’re like sky rats, but bigger and meaner.”
“You’re telling me,” Chloe mutters, eyes narrowing as Laura moves on to the blush. “Makeup is kind of like coloring, isn’t it?”
“It is.” Laura smiles down at Chloe with affection. “You want to do mine for me sometime?
Chloe grins. “Yes. Definitely. Tomorrow.”
Laura laughs. “How about Tuesday? You can ask your dad to bring you to practice and we can hang out.”
“This all sounds very nice for the two of you.” I hold up a hand as Laura whips out something called a moon glow rod that looks sticky, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want on my face. “And while I believe in spreading hope, I don’t think—”
“Then you’re not thinking hard enough.” Laura drops the moon glow rod back in her bag and leans down, holding my gaze with an intensity that makes me blink in surprise. “I’ve been dating for over a decade, Libby, and I have never had a man look as hopeful and adorably desperate over me as Justin looked holding up that stupid poem for you. Hearts all over the country are breaking for that goofy, handsome fool, and when you go out there with your sign that says you love him, too, you’re going to put those hearts back together again. And you’re going to give them a reason to believe that maybe their own happily-ever-afters aren’t a hopeless cause after all.”
I stare into my sister’s eyes, seeing the romantic dreamer hiding behind the PR guru, and sigh. “Okay. But I’m doing this my way.”
Chloe takes my hand and nods seriously. “You should always do art your way. And you can use my markers. I have crayons, too, but they can be harder to see.”
I grin. “Thank you, wise redhead number two.”
Laura claps her hands together. “Wise redhead number one will get you cleared to head up the tunnel as soon as the clock runs out, and then be right back!”
Ten minutes later, I’ve got my own poem ready to go. It’s the quickest thing I’ve ever written, but it feels right. At moments like these, words don’t have to be elaborate or fancy or arranged in groups they’ve never been arranged in before.
They just need to be true and from the heart.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Justin
We’re up by six, with two minutes left on the clock, but I’m back on the ice again because apparently ripping my heart open and showing all the gooey insides to an entire arena full of people makes me score like nobody’s business. All I’m thinking about is Libby and whether or not she saw the poem and whether or not she’s happy or pissed or embarrassed or secretly hating me for taking something that should have been between the two of us and making it a big public deal.