Page 108 of You Had Me at Hockey

I think about Carter.

I think about Easton.

And I think about Sara.

I also think about myself and what everything means, and how can I be better. How can I live up to Carter’s admiration for me? I want to be like him—going through the worst hell possible and still being cheerful and positive. How can I be a man who deserves Easton’s friendship again? Can I ever be good enough to deserve Sara’s love?

I sip the glass of tequila as I consider these questions, and other questions, like, what if I’d never been traded to New York? What if the worst thing that could happen to me turned out to be the best thing? What does that mean for all the other things I don’t want to change? What if change makes things…better?

Sara told me how important honesty is to her. She lives her life so honestly. I need to do the same.

I remember her reading me that poem, “To a Mouse.” And what she’d said after, about reflecting on the past when things didn’t go as planned…which is what I’ve spent the last eight years doing. And anticipating the future…except I didn’t anticipate the future…I planned it, and hated it unless I knew exactly what was going to happen.

But we’re all vulnerable to forces beyond our control.Seeing Carter with his illness, something he sure as hell never expected, refusing to let it limit him…Sara dealing with depression and not letting it stop her from being who she wants to be…they faced things they couldn’t plan for.

I need to be a warrior.

Chapter 26

Sara

Hello darkness, my old friend.

I’ve been watching Dr. Pimple Popper videos and eating Jacques Torres bonbons since Sunday morning. It’s Tuesday now. I think.

I had the idea of going out to Ignite Cycle, but that seemed like too much trouble. I should be editing the video I made with Layla last week, where we talked about body positivity and the progress the fashion industry has made, but also how there’s still work to do. That also seems like too much trouble. I haven’t checked my emails or social media since Saturday, other than watching for a reply from Josh to the text I sent him.

I don’t get a reply.

My eyes are gritty from all the tears I’ve cried. My chest aches and my whole body feels weighed down.

I should have known that I would screw things up somehow. Most guys figure out how weird I am early on. It just took Josh longer. I also should have known better than to think he could love me. I’ve always known I’m so messed up no one will ever love me.

I’d been cruising along happily focused on my career, growing my viewership and listeners and followers, and everything was great. What on earth made me think I could have any kind of relationship, never mind with someone like Josh—talented, dedicated to his sport, smart, and funny, but also wounded, still carrying scars of a tragedy that happened years ago?

Which is what got us into this mess.

I pluck another chocolate from the box and take a bite.

I thought I was learning to slow down and analyze things better before acting. I shouldn’t have assumed that Josh and I had the kind of relationship where I could get all up in his business.

I realize that I’m beating myself up over this and that’s not going to help. I’ll just let myself stay immersed in this misery for, oh…a year or so. Ha ha, kidding—just for a couple of days. Then I’ll get back on my stationary bike and pedal hard and work hard and just be happy with what I’ve got.

Suuuuuure.

I can’t help but relive so many Josh moments—our dirty hockey talk recording my podcast, making him go on the bumper cars, him teaching me to skate with so much patience. Him finding out I was a virgin and being so gentle and thoughtful.

My insides go all soft and mushy again, even as my heart cracks open wider. Telling yourself you shouldn’t have fallen in love is easy, but getting over it doesn’t happen just like that. Especially when I’m pretty sure I found my guy. My person. And that’s so, so sad.

The hockey game starts at seven. They’re in Columbus tonight. Maybe I’ll watch it. I probably shouldn’t. Nah, I won’t. I’ll watch more Dr. Pimple Popper videos, although I think I’ve now seen them all. More than once.

I know I’m going to watch the game.

I drag myself off the couch and make popcorn, just to change things up from chocolate and rosé wine. Then I snuggle back into my fluffy blanket, wearing the same PJs I put on Saturday night. I should probably shower at some point.

That seems like a lot of trouble, too.

The game is nuts. I mean, in a good way. The Bears score twenty-six seconds into the game. Then again about five minutes later. And again near the end of the first period. They’re on fucking fire.

---