Page 47 of Off Court Fix

Rolling his eyes, Crosby shakes his head. “And Maxine?”

“She wasn’t in the car that night.”

“Who’s here with me now? I really fancied Amy.”

I pinch his side, and he lowers himself closer but maintains space.

Pressing a hand to his chest, I run my hand over it as I collect my thoughts before speaking, “I was afraid I’d wantmore. Of you. Of someone else. I need to be focused on tennis, especially now. I thought if... it was only physical, I could leave it there, you know? Does that sound crazy? I didn’t want to be a slave to something...”

What I want to say, but don’t, is that I was worried if I had everything I wanted in that moment—intimacy, closeness, passion—I’d fall victim to it. It’s the same way I feel about medication. I’m terrified that slapping a Band-Aid on an open wound will make me crave the high of how good it feels when the bleeding stops.

Sometimes, it never does.

I’ve had the world’s best surgeon fix my ankle. I’ve spent an enormous amount of money on physical therapy, on the best trainers. And yet I still want more solutions to the pain I carry. I’m the last person in the world afraid of hard work, but that doesn’t mean I don’t wish there was an easier fix. But deep down, I’m not sure there is.

What I fear is maybe I carry more pain than I realize—more than I want to admit—and what if, by masking the physical pain, I trick myself into loving how it feels to mask the emotional one too?

What happened to my mother and brother tells me I’m at risk for that.

“It would’ve made me weak,” I admit. I know it now. If I had tasted Crosby, known how good it would feel to have his face pressed against mine as he moved inside me, I would’ve been left empty rather than empowered when it ended.

I try to hide the frown because it still can turn out that way. But at this point, knowing the feel of Crosby’s body on mine, the noises it pulls from deep inside me, I can’t easily walk away from it.

“You’re not weak,” Crosby whispers. “But if you really feel that way, you should toughen up. Because I’m going to kiss you again.”

And in just a split second, we’re deep—deep—into this moment of making out like we’re teenagers trying to get the most out of the last two minutes of curfew when something lands just above my head. It doesn’t seem to bother Crosby because he’s got his face buried in my neck, his lips nipping. I turn my head, which gives him deeper access and brings a groan and the slightest jut of his hips, and I start laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Crosby mumbles against my skin between breaths and kisses, and I place my hand on his shoulder so he lifts his head.

I look between him and the seagull digging its beak through the brown paper bag, producing half of his bagel, then dropping it on the blanket before it begins pecking away at pieces of the sesame-crusted dough.

I giggle.

“Carry on,” Crosby quips at the bird before he silences my laughter with his lips. “I plan to.”

* * *

“Everything is just so...white.”

I throw another brand-new tennis dress into the suitcase. “It’s Wimbledon, Alyssa. You can only wear white on the court.”

“Lame,” Alyssa sings, falling back on my bed. “You sure it’s okay if I stay here while you’re gone.”

“Totally,” I tell her. “Someone should enjoy it. And you can water my plants.”

Alyssa props herself up on an elbow. “You really did such a great job with it,” she tells me. “It doesn’t even look like the same house from the photos you showed me.”

The truth is, it feels less like the old house, but I can’t say for certain it’s because of the updates or new furniture. Maybe I’m just different in it, stronger now, more at peace. Because the bones are the same—the foundation continues to hold the core of my childhood memories, echoes of laughter along with the shadows of the worst day of my life.

And here I am. Still standing.

“Good. That’s the exact vibe I was going for.”

Dad said I should’ve cut my losses. But it never was about finances—I have enough put away to keep this house forever. What I was trying to cut was a tragedy I thought the house would take with it when sold. But memories aren’t rooted in one place. I feel just as sad, as disappointed with myself and how I treated my brother no matter where I am. I miss him just as much, hurt for him just as much.

And this was Mason’s place as much as it was mine. There are pieces of him here—good and bad. I have to exist with the bad parts to remember the good. After weeks, I feel solid in my decision to gut the place but keep the charm—the fireplaces, the layout, the original molding in the dining room I’ve yet to use. Grandma always used to say it’s all about the bones. Anything can stand with good support.

“What’s this?” Alyssa asks, dragging me from my thoughts. I look over to find her holding a lace-up brace for my ankle. “This isn’t some sort of BDSM shit, is it?”

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