Page 189 of Make the Play

“I’m trying,” I say finally.

“I know you are,” she says. “And I’m proud of you.”

The words land heavy, the kind that make you breathe deeper.

I don’t say goodbye, just eventually murmur something about getting sleep. But when the call ends, I stay on the couch for a long time, listening to the quiet. Letting it rise around me, trying to welcome it.

And for the first time in days, I don’t want to punch through it.

Chapter thirty-six

When my center of gravity’s not in the room

Zoe

Ihaven’t left my apartment in seventy-two hours.

I called in sick Monday morning and haven’t stopped lying since. Told Charlie the truth, then told everyone else at Pulse and the Storm it was the flu. Told myself that if I could just go a full twenty-four hours without crying or checking my phone or replaying Chase’s kiss in my head like it’s the last one I’ll ever get, I’d be fine.

So far, I’m 0 for 3.

Four bouquets sit in various vases around my apartment. All carnations, all oranges and pinks and peaches.

Fascination. Admiration.Affection.

There’s no red and certainly no white, so he’s toeing the line.

I haven’t thrown them away, either, which says something. I also haven’t replied to most of his texts.

He sends them anyway. Morning check-ins. Game day updates. The occasional bad meme that doesn’t make me laugh but still makes my chest ache.

And every time I see his name light up my screen, I think about the look on his face when I walked out. The way I twisted the knife with words I didn’t mean.

I told him I regretted us, and I haven’t stopped regrettingthatsince.

Sometimes, when I think he’s close to losing it, I’ll respond. One word, just enough to ensure he knows I’m okay.

Still here.

I’m safe.

Don’t worry.

But Iamworried.

About the elevator footage, about the fallout. About how much I miss him, and how much worse it feels knowing he’s probably blaming himself.

He shouldn’t. He tried to hold all of it—me, the fallout, the fear—and I was the one who dropped it.

So this morning, after three days of immense wallowing, I made a list.

First item: Get the goddamn footage and destroy it.

I’ve already spoken to someone from building management at Chase’s condo twice. They keep punting me to legal, who hasn’t returned my call. I left another voicemail this afternoon, promising cupcakes and my soul if someone just calls me the fuck back.

Nothing yet.

Now I’m curled up on the couch in a hoodie that might still smell like Chase, watching his game on mute. It’s a home game, which means I could be there.Shouldbe there.

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