I want to throw my phone across the bedroom, but I have to respond to Sophie first.
I had no idea.
When I don't call Jamie by midday, he triescalling me. I don't answer.
I get a series of texts throughout the afternoon.
Are you awake?
Can you call me?
I need to talk to you
I should've talked to you last night
I guess this means you know
Nobody was supposed to say anything until Monday
Please Mateo
Call me
I ignore those, too.
Sophie comes over and we watch terrible movies that don't remind me of love. Other than her apology for sending me the hockey link without thinking it through, she says nothing about Jamie's new job, nor does she tell me I need to talk to him. I already know that.
I consider calling in sick on Monday, but then Harper would tell Jamie I wasn't there, and I don't need him showing up at my door. I'm a little surprised he hasn't done that already, but maybe he knows holding my hand and turning away will only get us so far. In class, I make myself as busy as possible, but Harper's already talking to a small group of students around her, and I get pulled in. Dragged, really.
"It's so perfect. The timing? I was a little nervous about moving away for school, but if he's moving away too, we'll both have big adventures. And yeah, it means he'll probably only make it to a few of my games early in the season, which definitely sucks because he was gonna fly up a few different times, but he's missed being on a team, so I know he's really excited to be back." She pauses and looks at me. "Did you hear, Mr. Z? My dad's gonna be coaching? He'll be on the ice again. I mean, not like,playing. But you know."
"I heard, yeah," I say. "And I know."
Over the next few days, I think about how much I know now, and always have. Two years ago, we sat with our feet in his pool while we talked about Taylor McKeon, and how much Jamie missed hockey, and the idea of him coaching someday. Then it was only a year ago that we sat on the bench, and I realized he'd only chosen me because I wasn't competing with an arena full of everything he'd lost.
That isn't true anymore.
As the nausea fades and something like exhaustion settles in, I finally pick up my phone.
"Mateo," Jamie breathes, his relief washing over me more than I'd like it to. "Thank you, I—fuck, I didn't—"
"Please stop," I interrupt.
"Okay."
"I don't want to do this over the phone."
"Okay," he says again. "Can we meet on the bench?"
It would be so easy to say yes to him. It's where we started, and if our story has to end, I think it should happen there, too. But we spent that first night together because neither of us wanted to walk away from feelings we barely understood, and I don't want to walk away from the bench now that I understand everything too well.
"No, let me come over. When Harper is at work or with friends or whatever. Let me into your house."
"You say that like you haven't come over any other nights," Jamie sighs. "Or like I haven't wanted you to stay until morning after every one of them."
"I won't stay this time."
"That's fair. I didn't stay on prom night."