Page 41 of Love and Other Chances

Iride the adrenaline high from my birthday for the next two days. I’m indefinitely putting off any serious thoughts about Brooks until I feel confident about what I should do. Hence, the “indefinite” putting off.

Friday evening, I get home from having dinner at one of the sorority houses to find Gina stretched out on the couch. She’s watching TV with a bowl of popcorn in her lap, which looks like a marvelous way to end the day. I’m about to sit down next to her when she gestures to the table.

“A package came for you earlier,” she says.

I detour to the table, thinking my mom must have sent me a belated birthday gift. Ripping open the cardboard box, I find a Nike shoe box inside.

My breath dies.

I slowly pull out the box and open the top, revealing a pair of white Dunk Low sneakers with pink accents. There’s a gift receipt that simply reads:

Happy Birthday, Teegan.

- Brooks

My lungs are choking in the absence of fresh oxygen, but I can’t remember how to inhale.

Slamming the lid shut, I tuck the box under my arm and clomp toward the door. “I’ll be back later,” I call over my shoulder to Gina.

Shutting myself in my car, I search our small group text thread to find Brooks’ address he sent several weeks ago. Minutes later, I arriveat his apartment complex, not remembering anything about the drive here.

I stomp up the stairs to his top-floor apartment number and bang my fist on the door. When there’s no answer after two seconds, I bang again, harder and unrelenting, until the door opens away from my fist.

“What are you doing sending me these?” I blurt, holding up the shoe box like an accusation.

Brooks’ eyes widen and then furrow. “They’re a birthday gift.”

“I know. The message inside communicated that much,” I say, chest heaving. “You didn’t need to get me a gift. I don’t want these.” I hold the box out toward him.

Maintaining eye contact with me, Brooks raises his hands slightly. “They’re a gift, Teegan. Keep them.”

“I don’t collect Nikes anymore, Brooks,” I explain, voice bitter. “I haven’t worn Nikes since—” I cut myself off, unwilling to confess more. I shove the shoe box hard against Brooks’ chest and turn away.

He grabs my wrist before I can escape, pulling me into his apartment. “Teegan, stop. Come in and talk to me.”

“No!” I yell. He drops my wrist but blocks the door with his arm. I huff. “I want to leave, Brooks.”

“We need to talk, Teegan,” he says, easing the door closed behind me and setting the shoe box down. My eyes are burning, my chest bursting from the shallow breaths I’m panting.

“There’s nothing to say.” My voice shakes. “There’s nothing I can say to you, Brooks,” I whisper.

“There’s everything I want to say to you, Teegan,” he responds, voice calm even as his eyes flash with fire. “I want us to talk through this. Because I wantus.”

The dam behind my eyes fractures, flooding my tear ducts. I press my palms against my eyes, spinning on a heel to hide my face from him.

Brooks wraps an arm around me, pulling my back against his chest. “Teeg,” he whispers. My knees surrender as I sob, and Brooks drops to the floor with me. His knee props up beside me, his arm still cradling me firmly against him as he leans against the wall.

“I can’t, Brooks,” I gasp between sobs.

“You can’t what?” he asks, voice quiet beside my ear.

It takes a minute before I can get another word out through my tears. “You,” I whisper. “All of you. I can’t do it again.”

I focus on Brooks’ right foot extended beside me, noticing the no-show athletic socks he must have worn with his own pair of Dunk Lows. He holds me tight but doesn’t say anything.

“You don’t understand, Brooks. When you ended things in high school, I . . .” I trail off, tamping down another sob. Talking to the wall instead of his face makes it easier to speak, bit by bit. “I wasn’t fine. I completely lost myself for a long time. You were . . . I couldn’t . . .”

He squeezes me tighter against him, notching his face against my shoulder, still silent.

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