before I forget,” Parker says. She slides the stack of books toward me across the counter. “These are yours. Thanks for loaning them to me.” “No problem.” I pick up the books and carry them toward the bookshelf. I slow as I reach the far end of the living room—the end closest to Gracie’s apartment. Gracie is practicing, the sounds of her cello floating through the wall and wrapping around me like some kind of warm weighted blanket. After our game yesterday, I was halfway convinced that Gracie not liking hockey was a dealbreaker. The second I hear her playing, all that flies out the window. I
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