Page 35 of His Last Shot
But it’s all just a fantasy. One that will never come to fruition. The more time I spend with Rachel, the more she feels unattainable, like a rare, amazing dream you don’t want to wake up from. One that’s so real and colorful when you’re in the thick of it. But as soon as you wake, the beauty of it is over. The sooner I realize how make-believe this is, the less it will hurt each time I’m with her.
I reach out and tilt her chin upward, our eyes locking with unspoken words. My hand lingers on her chin, holding onto the dream just a little longer. I don’t want to wake up. “Please text me and let me know you made it home safe, okay?” I implore her.
She only nods and steps away. As she climbs into her car, hesitation stalls her for a moment; she pivots and grins. “You should do it. Teach pool. You’re really good at it.” The car door clicks shut, and she pulls away from the curb, ready to leave me behind. But not before pausing, peering at me one last time, a silent farewell heavy in the air. A grimace contorts her features, a landscape of pain, sorrow, and regret. I give her a slight wave goodbye.
Twenty minutes later, as I careen along the highway, my phone dings. As soon as I stop at a red light, I pull it out.
Rachel: I’m home.
Rachel: Please forgive me.
I don’t reply. I can’t.
But also, there is nothing to forgive.
10
You're Kinda Creepy
Johnny
Four days have come and gone since Rachel’s pool lesson. And we haven’t spoken.
There has been no communication, and I’m surprised how unsettling that feels. These past two months, her voice has become a familiar comfort, a rhythm in my daily life. But now, nothing.
Also, the wedding was two days ago.
Maybe she and Drew reconnected and got back together.
My knuckles whiten as my grip tightens around the smooth, cool pool stick.
I aim my cue at the white ball on the table in my garage.
They probably danced the night away in each other’s arms, then kissed as they said goodnight. Or they didn’t say goodnight.
With anger, I hit the white ball, miss the twelve I was aiming for, and scratch.
God, my mind is all over the place. I’m obsessing over this woman like I’m a lovesick freshman in high school.
I try to shake my head of these jealous thoughts piercing through me because this is so unlike me.
But at the end of the day, I worry about her. Like yesterday, for example. It was a tournament night at the bar, and she wasn’t there. Randy told me she called off.
Did she call off because of her RA? Is she having a flare-up? Or is she avoiding me?
None of those reasons puts my mind at ease.
I wonder if she is working tonight. Although it was difficult, I decided to stay home rather than drive over there to help her. I’m sure she’s anxious and questioning my whereabouts; the truth is, I desperately need some solitude to gather my thoughts.
With my next shot in focus, I strike. The one ball bounces off the corner of the pocket, and the cue ball goes in instead.
Another scratch.
I rest my forehead on my hand as it grips my cue. I’m mentally checked out, lost in thought, and unengaged with the game tonight. And this is my happy place. After a day of work and then some dinner, you can find me out here shooting around with my coffee. Just me, my thoughts, and the table.
Lately, all I can think about is that tall brunette with her dark silky hair and eyes so intense they burn into my soul. I’m not even in a relationship with her, and yet I know I could fall in love with her.
Hell, maybe I already am.
