Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
“Asher, I wanted all that too. All that was lovely. The studio is amazing. There’s nothing wrong with that.” Her voice cracks, like something inside her is breaking, and the sound guts me.
Maybe there was nothing wrong with that, but it sure as shit feels like there’s something wrong with me.
I remember what she said nearly two months ago, the day she agreed to stay until the end of the season. I don’t want to lose our friendship.
I remember, too, when she said Sex is complicated.
And then I replay what she said just a few minutes ago: You’re my best friend.
And I didn’t listen.
I figured if I loved her hard enough, if I cooked for her, made the house feel like a home, created a space for her art, she’d love me back. If I showered her in the support she deserves, in praise and words, she’d fall just as hard.
But you can’t love someone into loving you back.
I’ve made promises, though—to her brother, to myself—to protect her. And maybe that means stepping back. Honoring the boundaries she’s tried to set, even if it breaks me. “You’ve said all along that our friendship is important to you, and Maeve, I don’t want to screw that up more than I have.”
“You’re not screwing it up. I swear you’re not,” she pleads, and she sounds desperate now, terribly worried. I step closer and hope she knows this isn’t her fault. “You’re amazing. You’re incredible. You’re…everything,” I choke out and that’s the closest I’ve come to voicing my feelings, even though now is not the time. “But I’m the problem. My head is a mess right now, and I need to figure this out before I lose more than I can handle.”
She swallows hard, closing her eyes, like pain’s passing through her, hitting her, but not knocking her down. But when she opens them, she says, “I get it.”
And of course she does.
Ironic, how she thought she’d be too much for someone like me. But the truth is—it’s me. I’m the one who’s too much.
Fifteen minutes later, my travel bag is packed—hours before our afternoon flight to Seattle for tomorrow’s game—and I go out the front door, stepping into the blue light of dawn, leaving my car behind. Maeve doesn’t have one—they’re expensive, of course, but she also doesn’t love driving in the city. Duffel in hand, I walk down the block toward Beckett’s gym. But he might be there, and I can’t face him like this.
He’ll know something’s wrong, and he’s too close to the situation. The arena’s not open for another couple hours.
I could go to a coffee shop of course. But as my feet take me toward Doctor Insomnia’s, I groan. No way do I want to go there, with that name, right after Maeve suggested that that’s my issue.
Besides, my fingers have a mind of their own, and they’re scrolling for Miles’s number.
It rings. Long and foreboding. His phone’s probably on silent. But he answers on the fourth ring, with a groggy, “How much bail do you need?”
And that, right there, tells me everything.
This is bad.
“I need to crash at your place for a few hours.”
There’s only silence for three seconds, then he says, “Just texted you the address in case you need it.”
I remember it, but even so, gratitude for his friendship floods me. “Thanks.”
I call a Lyft, and after ten minutes of cruising through the quiet city streets as fog snakes along the hilly roads, and over the shrouded bridge along the horizon, we’re pulling up to his home in the Marina.
I thank the driver.
“No problem. And good luck in Seattle,” he says.
“Thanks, man,” I say, but it feels too surreal to talk to a fan right now.
It feels too surreal to talk to anyone. When I knock on Miles’s door, he opens it immediately. He’s dressed in sweatpants and his black glasses. Yawning, he gives me a quick once-over, shaking his head before he says, “You look like shit.”
Guy code for what the fuck is wrong?
But I barely know where to start. I sink down on the couch, drag a hand through my hair, and say, “I feel like it too.”
At least I’m being honest.
53
THE REST IS JUST UNFINISHED
Maeve
It’s early—barely seven, maybe eight in the morning. The house feels too quiet, like it’s holding its breath. I wander through the living room, unsettled, and Ruby Rooster follows close behind, trotting along, head tilted as if she’s waiting for me to decide something.
For someone who worships at the altar of pillows and beds, I’m now the one who can’t sleep. I don’t even try. My mind keeps replaying the morning, trying to figure out if I could have done something differently. Is it weird to stay while he’s on the road, given what just happened between us? But what did happen between us? What are we even doing? I don’t know.