Page 204 of Make the Play

Charlie nods again, resting her hand on his chest for just a second, then Jake turns to me. His eyes soften as they land on my cheek, clocking the bruise up close.

“You look after my menace in a blanket, okay?” He leans in and gently presses a kiss to my forehead and tenderly strokes his son’s cheek.

All I can do is swallow and nod. Then Jake turns to Chase and doesn’t say anything at first, just assesses him for a beat.

“Take a second. Say what you need to.” He claps a hand on Chase’s shoulder—firm, grounding—and leaves to wait in the hallway.

Chase hesitates, halfway between the hallway and the living room, and then he steps forward.

I don’t look up right away, not until his shoes stop near the couch, and I feel him hovering. I finally glance up, and his eyes find mine, searching. His voice barely makes it out.

“I’m gonna head out. Give you time with Charlie.”

I nod, he doesn’t. His hand twitches at his side like he wants to reach for me, and I think he might do it. And then he does, just barely.

Fingertips brush the ends of my hair, tucking a strand behind my ear. A breath of a touch along my jaw, and I lean into it before I can stop myself. His eyes close for half a second, like even that tiny contact physically hurts. Then he leans down, and I think he’s going to say something, but instead, he presses a kiss to my temple. It feels warm and lingering and devastating.

When he pulls back, our eyes meet again, and there’s something in his, something fraying at the edges. He doesn’t speak, just straightens and gives Charlie the softest nod. Then he turns and walks out, the front door clicking shut behind him.

This time, the quiethurts.

It's a silence I created, one I can’t fix with a joke or a clever line. I don’t even know how to reach for him right now, not when I feel like all the best parts of me have gone missing.

“I hate that I did that to him,” I whisper, voice breaking.

Charlie doesn’t say anything, but I can feel it in the way her hand finds mine, her fingers settling lightly over my knuckles and threading gently through them.

“I told my dad,” I say quietly, still staring at Theo.

She hums, waiting for me to continue.

“I texted him from the hospital. Told him I was okay, told him not to come.” I swallow hard. “He said okay, but he signed it off with a thumbs-up emoji, and I feel like I could hear his heartbreak. Like it got trapped between the pixels.”

My throat tightens.

“I didn’t want him to relive it, Char. The hospital and the dread. Didn’t wanna put another ache in his chest.”

Charlie squeezes my hand, warm and sure.

“You didn’t put that ache in his chest,” she murmurs. “You’re just someone worth aching for.”

That cracks something open in me, and I don’t even try to hold it together anymore.

Charlie moves slowly, gently prying Theo from my arms with the kind of practiced calm that only a mom who’s learned to operate in emotional warzones can pull off. She settles him back into his carrier, tucking the blanket around him, and then she comes back.

She wraps her arms around me, and I cling to her like I’m drowning. I cry so hard I can’t breathe, can’t speak, can’t even think beyond the ache tearing through my chest, trying to make room for all the things I haven’t said.

My best friend doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rush. She just holds me, her hand steady between my shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of my head like I’m something fragile and sacred.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out between sobs. “I’m sorry I’m not okay, I’m sorry I keep pulling away, I’m sorry I let this happen—”

“Zoe,” she cuts in gently but firmly, pulling back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are glassy, too. “No. Don’t you dare carry this.”

My lips tremble as I wipe at my cheeks. “Everything feels different. Something’s cracked, and now I’m just... leaking. I don’t feel like me.”

I left her in the alley. The girl who made people laugh, who knew how to own a room, who had a spin for everything—she got stuck there, and I’m what’s left. Someone who doesn’t know how to laugh in the face of pain. Who can’t crack a joke or waveit off with a clever quip. I feel weirdly see-through, like all the scaffolding fell down and no one warned me.

“You’re still you,” she whispers. “You’re just hurting and processing. But you’re still the bravest, brightest person I know.”

---