Page 98 of The Longest Shot
But, for me, it's more than that. It's an attempt to melt the ice around my heart just a little, to open the curtains a crack and let the sunlight filter in. It's standing tall in a world that can be so cruel and so painful and accepting the risk because that's the only way happiness and joy and connection can be found.
And in return?
Well, that smile will follow me home. It will live in my chest beside the guilt and fear and this new sensation that might be hope. If hope feels like cracking open. If hope tastes like possibility. If hope has brown eyes and looks at you like you gave him something precious when all you did was buy him a drink.
My hands won’t stop shaking.
The beer remains awful.
But for the first time in maybe three years, I’m not alone.
That’s terrifying.
That’s everything.
thirty-six
ROOK
The grasson North Campus is still damp from yesterday’s rain, moisture seeping through my jeans and creating a wet patch that’s definitely going to leave me looking like I pissed myself. But it'll be worth it if the reason I'm sitting here turns out to be right.
Or turns up at all.
My leg bounces with the frantic energy I can’t seem to burn off—tap-tap-tap-tap, like a meth-addled woodpecker—since my suspension left me with nothing but time and the silence in my head. But at least my hands are occupied by the sociology textbook that I'm at least making half an effort to read.
But my mind is elsewhere. Specifically, it's flashing back to two days ago, at O'Neil's, when she bought me a drink across a crowded bar and gave me a nod that suggested maybe we weren’t completely beyond saving. It felt like an apology given and accepted, a peace offering proposed and agreed upon.
Since then, I’ve been checking my phone every thirty seconds, deleting and rewriting texts I’ll never send, staring at her contact info like telepathy might spontaneously develop if I concentrate hard enough. Then, this morning, she sent amessage that led to my heart attempting a prison break through my throat:
North Campus hill. 4 p.m.
I check my phone. 3:58.
The late-afternoon sun slants across the empty field, turning everything golden and Instagram-worthy. She picked this spot deliberately, a quiet corner where nobody comes except stoners and couples. Because here, there's no audience and no stage for me, and no easy escape routes for her.
Movement catches my eye, and there she is, walking across the field with her hands shoved deep in the pockets of a worn denim jacket I’ve never seen before. My breath catches—actually catches, like someone punched me in the solar plexus—because she looks…
Jesus.
The severe ponytail that usually screams “I will destroy you in both hockey and life” is gone, and in its place her hair falls in loose waves that catch the light like copper fire. For once, her shoulders aren’t squared for battle, and she actually looks… relaxed?
Who is this woman and what has she done with Morgan Riley?
She looks like the girl from that summer, the one who laughed at my terrible jokes and let me kiss her under the stars until our lips were swollen and our heads were spinning. But also the one I drove away with my cowardice, leading to the creation of the iron woman I expected to join me today.
But this version… well… Ilikethis version.
As she gets closer, I can see the denim jacket hangs open to reveal a simple white t-shirt that clings in ways that should require a permit. Every cell in my body tracks her approach—theathletic grace in her walk, the way the fading light turns her skin golden.
She’s almost at the top of the hill now, and my hands are sweating like I’m thirteen and about to ask someone to the middle school dance. But worse is that I have to consciously remind myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. And, all the while, my mind is pinging like crazy.
Don’t fill the silence with jokes.
Don’t make this a performance.
Don’t fuck this up by being yourself?—
Wait, no, that’s terrible advice.
