Page 15 of Hypothetical Heart
“You should go to bed, Win,” I tell her when I faintly see her yawn.
I can’t make out many details from across the yard, but I can see an outline of my favorite girl, her knees pulled to her chest and her chin resting atop them.
At my suggestion, she stands, grabbing her blanket and climbing back through her window while I watch her carefully. All of my instincts are telling me to move further toward her, to hold her, but there’s about a thirty-foot drop between us stopping me.
“Can you drive me to school tomorrow?” she asks once she’s standing safely in her bedroom. “My dad wants to take my car to the repair shop.”
“Finally getting her fixed, huh?” A few weeks ago, Winnie had an incident while driving home from ballet. It was raining pretty hard, and she hydroplaned straight into a ditch.
Her dad was still at work, in the middle of performing heart surgery, and from what I’ve heard through the grapevine, he demanded that Winnie call me to come get her, but of course she didn’t listen.
Instead, she called Genevieve, and I only heard aboutwhat happened once she was safe and back at Genevieve’s house that night.
She was shaken up and couldn’t go back to her house for a week following it–the same reaction she had when her mom died–but she’s been seeing her therapist every day about it, and I’m happy she’s realizing that the accident was out of control because she needs to understand she’s not a danger to herself.
I was livid when I found out because I wish she would have called me, but Winnie knew I would have flown off the handle if she called me while sitting in a ditch and didn’t want me driving in that condition.
Looking back at that night, I’m glad that Winnie didn’t call me because I would have been so terrified that I likely would have been the next patient in her dad’s ER.
So now, her pink Volkswagen Beetle is in the shop, and I would guess it needs both front fenders replaced.
“Yup, and my dad won’t let me pay for it, so that’s a whole other issue.”
“It wasn’t your fault. If your dad wants to pay for it, then let him.”
She shrugs, still not liking the idea of waving around the daddy’s money flag. “So, can you take me tomorrow?”
“Of course,” I say, climbing back through my window. “I’ll be in your driveway at seven.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “I am perfectly capable of walking next door, Logan.”
“I’m going to pass your house on the way out of the neighborhood, anyway. It’s fine.”
I assure her it’s not a big deal a few more times, and she finally concedes.
“Seeyou in the morning, Win.”
“Goodnight.” She blows an exaggerated kiss toward me before closing her window and blinds.
The gesture knocks me back for a moment, causing me to linger in front of my window for a moment, almost like I’m waiting for her to reappear before I snap out of my haze and close my window.
It’s well known among our friend group that my mom has always rooted for Winnie and me to one day end up together.
She and Winnie’s mom used to talk about what it would be like to see us together, to go to our wedding, to meet our kids. It was a dream of theirs, and when Susan died, my mom only wanted Winnie and me together even more, almost like she was carrying on their dream in her best friend’s honor.
It's never been shocking. The fact that two best friends wanted their kids to grow up next door to one another and end up together seems like a fairy tale.
A fairy tale that I’ve been willing to make true–likely just as long as my mom has–because for as long as I can remember, my life has been a constant waiting game.
Waiting for everything to fall into place, waiting for Winnie to feel the same way,waiting, waiting, waiting.
We tried it once, and it was the wrong time. And while right now isn’t the right time either—with graduation on the forefront of our minds and the both of us heading to college later this year—I’m confident that one day, the hypotheticals of Winnie and I will become probable.
I just have to keep waiting.
5
“Right, Logan, turn right,” Genevieve says, leaning forward from the backseat to lean on the console.
