Page 211 of Make the Play

Me:Coffee’s outside. No pressure to reply. Just wanted you to have your favorite

She doesn’t reply, and I don’t expect her to. I just stand there in my kitchen for a few extra seconds, phone in hand, thinking maybe I’ll feel better for having said something. I don’t. But I’ll keep showing up anyway.

That afternoon, I send her a cinnamon roll from a bakery she made me detour to once after media day. The one she swore had the best glaze-to-bun ratio in Denver. I remember how smug she looked when I admitted she was right.

Still no reply. But the next morning, my phone buzzes.

Zoe:Cinnamon roll was dry. Tell them to up their game

I swear to God, I nearly drop my phone from grinning so hard.

Me:Rude. I’ll escalate to banana bread. Or get Lulu to bake something weird and gluten-free.

Zoe:If she sends me a lavender cookie again, I’ll report her to the FBI.

I smile again, and it feels weird because I don’t think I’ve smiled in days. Not like this. Not because of her. But I don’t say anything else, I let it sit.

The next morning, I hesitate before I send her bagels. I know it’s ridiculous, but it feels like a risk—too much and not enough all at once. But I remember how she once spent five minutes lecturing me on the structural integrity of bagel-to-filling ratio, and I think maybe she’ll remember that, too. I remember she likes the kind with sesame seeds and a shit-ton of cream cheese, so I tell them to double it. I add her coffee, too.

Me:Bagels outside. Seriously considering coming over to steal them, though.

This time, she replies immediately.

Zoe:Already ate 'em. You snooze, you lose.

Me:Unbelievable. I’m never trusting you again.

Zoe:Joke’s on you, I was never trustworthy around a bagel.

It’s stupid. It’s everything.

And for the first time in what feels like weeks, I let out a real laugh—quiet and low, but full of something I hadn’t let myself feel until now.

Hope.

It’s like this for a few days. Tiny messages, small jokes, nothing heavy or sharp. No mention of what happened. No mention of us. Just soft touches and glimpses of who we were before everything cracked open.

I don’t ask to see her. I don’t tell her I miss her, but I fucking do. So much it hurts. It’s a gnawing kind of ache. Constant and sharp in the mornings, dull by nightfall.

But if all I’m allowed right now are two-line texts and silent deliveries to her front door, I’ll gladly take them. Because she’s still choosing to open the door. And maybe one day, she’ll let me be the one standing on the other side.

On Friday, I drop off nail polish at her door. Two bottles. One soft lilac and one seafoam green. No red.

She doesn’t message right away, and I try not to read into it. I clean my kitchen twice. I scroll sports highlights trying to distract myself.

And then right as I’m walking out of the bathroom that night, my phone lights up.

Zoe:They’re cute, especially the green. The lilac’s on probation.

By the end of the week, it’s not just coffee and jokes. It’s her. Bit by bit, the parts of her I know so well are coming back in fragments and flickers. Sharp and soft, ridiculous and radiant. She hasn’t asked to see me, and I haven’t pushed. But I’m starving for more. I dream of her voice in the quiet, I feel her laugh in my chest like muscle memory.

So I send what I can, when I can. Most mornings, I text first. Sometimes she beats me to it. Sometimes she doesn’t reply at all. I let her set the pace, even when every part of me wants to sprint.

I don’t say I miss her, but I hope she finds it in the seafoam green, and the coffees and the cream cheese. And the silence, when that's what she needs.

Other than my focus on her, I focus on hockey. I go to morning skates, hunker down, and try not to cause any trouble on the ice during games. Most of the time, it works.

One afternoon, she sends me a photo of her hand, fingernails painted and one already chipped. I stare at it for so long the screen goes dark.

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