Page 121 of Changing the Playbook
“No.” The honesty surprises me. “I’m really not.”
His hand finds mine across the console. “Want to talk?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“That’s OK.” He squeezes. “We can just drive.”
So we do. Silent except for the engine, my thundering pulse and my brain screaming at me. But as I silently spiral, his thumb traces circles on my palm, that tiny contact keeping me from flying apart.
The right person doesn’t leave when things get hard.
I study Mike’s profile in the dashboard light. He dropped everything. Brought coffee. Discussed beetles with devastating sincerity. Never once made this about him. And, digesting all that, I conclude that maybe my mom is right.
“Where’d you go?” Mike asks.
“Nowhere good.” I manage a shaky breath. “I’m kind of a disaster.”
“I like your disaster.”
“That’s because you haven’t seen the full show yet.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“I don’t want to be alone,” I admit, words scraping raw.
“Then you won’t be.”
Simple. Like staying is just something people do.
And, maybe for him, it is.
thirty-three
MIKE
Pine Hill Lookoutspreads below us in darkness, the Pine Barren town lights fragile against the vast black beyond. I discovered this spot during my photography phase—another brilliant “try new things” failure that at least yielded one success, finding the perfect place to escape when the world gets loud.
But tonight, Sophie needs the quiet more than I do.
She hasn’t said more than ten words since we left the hospital. Her knuckles are white around her phone, thumb jabbing the power button every thirty seconds to check for messages that aren’t there. And each time the screen stays empty, her shoulders tighten another fraction.
Coach Pearson’s face burns behind my eyes, that raw, naked relief when he saw me steering Sophie toward the door. This was a father drowning in his own helplessness, grateful someone else could throw his daughter a lifeline when his own hands were full.
I kill the engine. The sudden silence makes her flinch.
“They’ll call if anything changes,” I say.
“I know.” She checks the phone again anyway, tilting it toward her face.
“Come on,” I say. “Fresh air beats hospital recycling.”
The night chill bites through my shirt the moment I step out. Sophie follows, and when I drape my jacket over her shoulders, she burrows into it immediately, pulling the collar up to her nose. The sight of her drowning in my jacket—face barely visible, hands lost in the sleeves—creates a sharp ache in my chest.
The wooden bench groans under our weight. Sophie curls against me instantly, pressing her face into my neck. Her breath comes in shaky puffs against my skin, not quite crying but nowhere near steady. I wrap both arms around her and rest my chin on her head.
“You haven’t eaten in hours,” I murmur into her hair.
She shakes her head, the movement tiny against my collarbone. “No big deal.”
