Page 93 of Game On
“We’re in the same place at the same time now. That doesn’t seem to matter much, does it?”
“It matters to me. I’ve missed you so damn much.” He scratches the back of his neck and takes a deep breath before pressing on. “I feel like I made a rash decision and screwed up something really great. It was a mistake, I think, the way that I did.”
I fold my arms tightly across my chest, my heart pounding. “It was rash, but that’s what you chose to do. You have to accept that and move on. I’m not going back to England for Christmas, anyway.”
“You’re staying here? Alone? That’s a bit ridiculous, don’t you think?”
A flare of irritation warms my cheeks. “My choices—how I spend my time or live my life—aren’t up for your approval anymore.”
He grimaces. “Is this about that guy? The hick with the truck?”
“Oh, my God.” I step forward, my movement sharp, pushing him back out of the doorway. “You need to leave.”
“It is, isn’t it?” He rakes a hand through his perfectly styled curls. “You know I don’t care that you were with him, El! I’ve been with someone else, too. She wasnothinglike you. That’s what made me realize how great we are together. She doesn’t laugh with me, doesn’t boost me up when I’m down. She isn’t ambitious and driven and perfect like you are.”
“I’m not perfect.” My voice is steady as I wipe my palms down the front of my jeans. “And Hudson is nothing like you, either. For me, that’s a good thing.”
“Right. Well, I don’t see him here with you now,” he declares, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. “I can stay in Nashville for the holidays, too. If it means we can spend some time together. If it means you don’t have to be alone.” He steps forward. “I know you’ve always been kept at arm’s length by Simon and Louise, and I want to be there for you.”
He calls my parents by their first names, as if he shares a level of familial closeness with them. We both know that’s not the case.
My parents barely tolerated Jamie the whole time we were together. They’d sit across from him at dinner, their smiles tight, nodding along to his stories about market trends and ski trips, all the while giving me looks that said, “Really, Ella? Him?”
And here’s Jamie now, bordering on pitiful, offering to stay in Nashville just for me.
“I don’t want that,” I say firmly, trying to convey with my tone that this isn’t just a casual dismissal but a concreteending. “You chose for us to break up, Jame. I’ve got used to life without you, and, frankly, I prefer it.”
He rears back as if struck, his blue eyes widening. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” I assert, and as I say it, the words settle deep inside me, a truth I hadn’t fully acknowledged until now. I really am over him. It hurt so much in the beginning, yes, but what I’ve built here over the last six months has already filled the hole he left behind.
“What do I have to do to make it up to you? Get on my knees and beg?” His words hang between us, heavy and awkward.
I stare at him, knowing Jamie Baker would never allow himself such humility, not truly. But then, to my astonishment, he does just that. He drops to his knees right there in the dusky hallway, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, head bowed.
It’s theatrical, and for a moment I’m too shocked to speak. I reach down to pull him up, tugging at his elbows, but he’s solid, immovable—a boulder of stubborn pride.
“Please, just go,” I beg, my voice breaking around the edges.
Finally, he stands, brushing off his knees, his face set in a mask of resignation. “Fine,” he concedes, “but I’m staying nearby for the break. I’ll be around. And when you’re lonely on Christmas Eve, I know who you’ll call.”
When he turns to leave, I slam the door behind him, leaning against it as I slide to the floor. My head is in my hands and my heart is in my throat, a lump I can’t swallow.
I know I’ve relied on Jamie too much in the past, looked to him to fill the voids left by distant parents and a small social circle at Oxford. But I’ve grown, changed, and I won’t make that mistake again.
For the next couple of days, I scramble to occupy every spare minute of my time with reading and journaling. But my attempts to relax are futile. Every creak of the floor, every unexpected thump from the neighbors, stirs a flutter of panic in my chest. I’m on edge, half-expecting to open the door to Jamie again, that same look of raw desperation in his eyes.
As Christmas Eve inches closer, the quiet around me continues to thicken. It’s just four nights out when a sudden thud in the hallway jolts me from my book. It’s past midnight—that time where every tiny creak and echo seems louder, more sinister.
Impulsively, I grab my phone, thumb flicking to Hudson’s contact. I don’t know why, and I don’t have the mental energy to question it right now. I type out a text about how unnerved I am but pause, second-guessing the impulse to share my fears.
My thumb hovers, then retreats. Instead, I type out something lighter.
Ella:
