Page 68 of Lighting the Lamp
“It’s nice to know my personal crisis is meme-worthy.”
“Everyone cares, Beau.”
I don’t answer. There’s too much lodged in my throat. Words I never said, regrets I can’t take back, the sting of her voice in my ears telling me to go.
“You looked like hell at practice,” Cole adds, quieter now. “You barely spoke after talking to Cooper. You just sat on the bench, watching the ice like your life ended without it.”
“I told you.” My voice is rough, cracked open with emotion. “I can’t play. I’m stuck. And the only thing that made it make sense was—” I stop, swallowing hard, the words backing up behind my teeth like a dam that won’t break.
“You still there?” he asks gently.
“Yeah. Still here.”
“You mean in the truck, or in general?” Cole chuckles as I glance at the porch light again, its glow lingering even in the daylight.
“In the truck, parked out front. I haven’t moved.”
“Okay, so what happened?” Cole asks, teasingly, like he already knows the answer.
“She opened the door.”
“Oh, no.”
“She talked to me, and then she closed it again.”
“Oof.”
The sound that escapes me isn’t really a laugh, just something hollow cracking out of my chest. I drag a hand down my face like I can rub the failure off me, attempting to wake myself up from this aching version of reality where I said too much too late. “Yeah.”
“You left the gummy bears?”
“Yeah.”
“You sit dramatically on the porch like a sad little love-struck Victorian heroine?”
“Yep.”
“Damn. Hate to say it, but that sounds like an epic fail.”
“Thanks, Cole. Super helpful.”
“I’m just saying. You made a move, and it got shut down. That’s tough.”
I don’t answer, and the silence between us stretches thin, trembling on the edge of breaking. It feels like the entire world can hear the crack in my voice that doesn’t exist yet or the jagged thing in my chest I keep swallowing down. Instead of making another jab or joke about what happened, Cole’s response surprises me.
“For what it’s worth? I think she’s scared.”
“She is scared.” My voice tears out of me like it has to claw its way past my ribs to be heard.
“And she loves you.”
I close my eyes, letting my head fall back against the headrest. The word love is a bruise that won’t heal. Every time I touch it, it pulses, sharp and unrelenting. My chest tightens around it, ribs curling inward like they’re trying to protect something I already lost.
“That’s not the problem.”
“No,” he agrees, quieter now. “It’s that she thinks loving you will make your life harder.”
“It probably will.”
