Page 23 of The Game Plan
Shifting in my peripheral vision causes me to break eye contact with Savannah. “Listen, I’m happy to do all the carrying, but can you guys move aside and stare at each other? These boxes are heavy.”
Shaking out of my stupor, I shift aside, gesturing for Savannah and Ridge to come inside.
“Where’s this going?” Ridge asks, moving through the space.
Pointing in the direction of the guest room, I answer him. “She’s in the room on the right.”
The next hour is a blur of carrying boxes. She doesn’t have much—clothes, books, and a few decorations. She left the bigger furniture behind. Ridge and I move boxes as Savannah directs, keeping her from heavy lifting. Even with the chaos of boxes and her potted plants, the apartment feels warmer, more lived-in.
I watch from the kitchen as Ridge and Savannah say their goodbyes, trying not to eavesdrop and giving them their privacy.
“Call if you need anything, okay?” I hear him say. She nods, her eyes lingering on the floor. Ridge turns his attention to me. A mask falls over his face, a different version of himself. Harder, protective, intimidating—the same look I’ve worn many times.
“Take care of her.” No demands, but in those words, there’s a hidden threat.
Take care of her, or else.
I give him a stiff nod. “Safe travels.”
And with one final hug to Savannah, he shuts the door behind him.
She’s been holed up in the guest room for hours. With the door closed, the only sign of life has been the occasional rustle of boxes and the soft sounds of music filtering out. When she told me she was going to unpack, I made sure she knew I’d be here all day and that I’d move anything she needed. She promised not to lift anything too heavy.
Every time I walked past her door, my hand hovered near the frame, ready to knock. But I didn’t. I respected that she needed time, space, and a moment to breathe.
At almost six o’clock, the sun is cascading into the apartment in a golden glow. Before long, the sun will be setting, and the quietness you only get on Sunday nights will fill the air. Dinner is in the oven, the time ticking down. I’ve cleaned the kitchen…again. Rearranged the pantry. Even folded a load of laundry that could’ve waited.
I can’t take the silence anymore. Wiping my hands on a dish towel, I fold it neatly over the oven handle instead of tossing it into a ball like I normally do.
Raising my fist, I place two light knocks on her door.
A beat of silence passes, and I wonder if she’s drifted off. I wouldn’t be surprised—not after the last forty-eight hours and everything that’s happened. Not to mention, the exhaustion of the third trimester, which I learned about last night in my endless searching.
“Yeah?” her soft voice calls out.
Twisting the handle, I push the door open, leaning on the frame. My hands find the pockets of my athletic shorts. Eyesscanning the room, I take in the mess of boxes, but it’s the little things that she’s placed around the room, making it feel homier. Picture frames, books, throw pillows, and plants fill the room, giving it her Savannah flair. Inhaling, I breathe in her scent—peaches and vanilla—and smile to myself. But it’s her in the room that steals my attention.
Sav is curled on top of the bed, legs tucked into her belly as best as she can, scrolling through her phone. Her hair’s fallen out of the bun she was wearing, and her shirt has ridden up her hips, exposing the skin of her growing belly. That slight sliver does something to me.
She gazes up at me, looking better than she did earlier—less lost, more rooted.
“Just wanted to check in,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual. “Haven’t seen you much. You good?”
She shrugs. “I’ll get there.”
I give her a soft smile. “Fair.”
Pressing up, she brings herself into a sitting position, glancing around the room. “I didn’t want to be in the way.”
Taken aback by her words, I shake my head. “You’re not in the way, Sav.”
“I mean…” She sighs. “I didn’t want to take up space that isn’t mine.”
“It’s yours now.” I step farther into the room. “This whole place is. Couch, kitchen, TV remote, all of it is yours. If there’s anything you need, tell me. You’re not a guest—you live here.”
Her lips press together, like she’s holding back emotion, and I hate that she even needs that reminder.
“I made dinner,” I add, changing the subject. “You hungry?”
