"I'm not inviting anyone, but I'll make sure I'm not in your way too often. You and Simon can have a very nice time without yourfather looking over your shoulder."
"And I—it's not that I don't appreciate that, but—" She huffs and clears her throat again. I'm entirely reinvested in this conversation because she's never had this much trouble speaking. "Can I ask you a question?"
I laugh just loud enough for her to hear me through the phone. "A lack of permission hasn't slowed you down yet. I'm not sure why you think you need it now."
"Because this isn't—" She stops there, and I play with ways to finish her sentence.This isn't any of my business.This isn't the kind of thing we talk about.This isn't a question I think you'll answer. As it turns out, she gives up on whatever she'd started to say, and takes my breath away instead.
"Are you not inviting him because you think I'd have a problem with it?"
Fuck.
"No, pixie," I say softly. "It's because I thinkhewould."
The thing is, Mateo and I still talk. We exchange texts and a short voice note or two. We're friends, so everything feels almost right, even on the nights the sharp edges sting. I listen to him until his voice is absorbed into my marrow, and I think there's a chance he can heal the most broken things between here and there.
When it's been a couple of weeks since my team's abrupt playoff ousting, and the pain of it isn't so fresh, I give Mateo a call. He sounds relieved to hear from me, and we stay on the phone for almost an hour, just catching up. We're consciously careful about it, because he doesn't tell me about Logan. I don't tell him nobody's held me since he and I shared a bed at the lake house. But I hearabout all the work he has ahead before another class of seniors graduates—he has freshmen finishing their first year, too—and about a soccer clinic he's going to run for the district in early July. He mentions the idea of asking Harper to help if she'll be home. I encourage him to reach out to her. It's easy then to tell him about our upcoming vacation and warn him that Simon may come as part of a package deal. Mateo laughs, and just like his voice, it's a hell of a balm. By the time I confirm that I'll be staying where I am throughout another summer, we're both as ready for it as we can be.
"Do you think that'll ever change?" he asks. "Or is that home now?"
"Does it matter?"
There's something ugly I've left unsaid, and it sounds a lot likeIf you're fucking your grandparents' neighbor, why do you care where I live?It's loud enough that I'm sure he heard it, too. Maybe his answer takes care of both.
"Whatever else has happened, I've never stopped missing you. I'd always rather have you here with me."
More balm, but my leg aches and I couldn't say why. "So, maybe we should make plans for you to visit again. Maybe you can see where I live."
"Maybe we should, and maybe I can."
But then we don't. And so he can't.
Harper, Simon, and I go on our trip and return home before Mateo's even done with his school year. She's agreed to help him with anything he needs while she's in California for the next several weeks. I don't get involved in the arrangements they make, nor do I question the relationship they're building without me. I find trouble while they stay out of it, suddenly eager to accept when Taylor offers to set me up one night. Then another. And another.
"Look at you, Sinclair," he smirks. "It only took you two years ofbeing my assistant coach to decide you might like to have some fun outside of my basement. I was afraid the player I once knew had suffered more than a broken leg."
Two years of being his assistant. Four since I let Bailey McKeon introduce me to her friend. Lara or Lena or Lana. Almost six since I craved greasy food and a friendly face, and kissed a man I might've loved before believing something that magical ever happens outside of fairy tales.
"Look at me," I say. "I'm hardly broken at all."
Amazingly, I don't actually sleep with the first woman. I couldn't say why. She's exactly the type I used to show off at awards dinners or official team parties. On our date, I take her out to dinner, and she makes it known she'd be happy to follow me home for dessert. I charm her as I turn her down, and get a kiss on my cheek for my efforts and make promises that will remain unfulfilled. Once I've returned to my house alone, I crawl into a hoodie that I shouldn't need in this heat. I get off while wearing it, and I shouldn't need that either.
The next woman and I meet at a bar in the lobby of her hotel, and fucking her takes very little effort. A short elevator ride and a condom are all we need once we've had a couple of drinks and a few forced laughs. I don't think she's any better or worse than the last woman I went out with, but I arrived knowing I can't go home with a hard dick again. I want to come with a stranger's name on my tongue, and she's the ex-wife of someone Taylor played with years ago, so I don't think I'm supposed to fall head over heels or anything. The sex is nice.
I like the third one more than I want to. She's a teacher, and we meet up at a silly street fair. We share funnel cake and talk about oceans and lakes. There are only a few rides here, but I mumble something about heights when she asks me to go on the Ferris wheel,and we keep both feet on the ground. She talks about her family and doesn't really give a shit about hockey. I'm relieved when she doesn't give a shit about soccer either. Strands of her dark hair fall free from her ponytail, and I resist the urge to tuck them behind her ear. Then she smiles and asks me if I'd like to go home with her, and I say yes because I think I would. I do. That sex is nice, too.
It feels good to be touched again.
She's pretty.
It's a lonely morning. I have a mug of tasteless coffee in one hand and my phone in the other. I squeeze my eyes shut at Mateo's text as if that will make it disappear when I open them again. It doesn't, though I've done a decent job blurring it some. I don't know which woman he's referring to—which probably says a lot about how little I've changed—nor do I know where he saw me with anyone. Cameras are everywhere. He and I are lucky we spent time together after I'd been mostly forgotten, and before I was remembered again. Far fewer people cared.
But he cares now, and my next exhale is shaky. I try to be funny. Or something.
Prettier than I am?
Impossible, sweetheart.
I don't respond to that because I'm too close to ending up with tears on my face or a mess on my hands. I want to be drinking coffee with him, one of us in the other's lap, sleepy and lazy about it when we kiss. My hands would be in his hair, soothing until I need to pull his head back and suck at his neck. He'd keep us rocking together, both of us soft for a while because everything is so slow and so gentle.