Page 87 of The Assist
“Obviously I’m a fan of the latter,” he states dryly. “But I’ll be here for you either way. Whatever you need.”
Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I can only nod.
I steer the conversation to lighter topics. Between bites, we talk about classes and he tells me a little about how he’s helping at practices. It’s comfortable and easy to be with him, but there’s the slightest tension in the way we interact. We’re careful to keep our hands to ourselves, and the one time he bumps my leg under the table, I jump so high in my seat he apologizes like he’s wounded me deeply.
We’re us, but we aren’t. This isn’t Bless it’s Weir—the weird, nonsensical version of our cooler couple alter ego.
“Thank you for—” I start to speak at the same time he does.
“Listen, I—”
“You first,” we say at the same time and smile.
I open my palm toward him in a silent offering for him to go first.
“I owe you an explanation for the way I acted. After my injury, you were trying to be there for me and I wouldn’t let you. I pushed you away. I destroyed what we had.”
“You were dealing,” I say simply. I always knew the why, but his apology doesn’t fix the hurt it caused or the pain he inflicted when he removed himself from my life.
“It wasn’t just that.” He lets out a shaky breath and meets my eyes. His blue stare is melancholy and regret. “I wanted to hurt you. You pushed your way into my life, bringing your optimism and joy, and it changed me. I made room for something in my life besides ball. But then I was laying in that hospital bed, hearing your bubbly voice tell me to flip the negativity and see the positive, and I didn’t want to. I wasn’t ready to do anything but be angry and bitter.”
“No one expected you to see the positive in this. Least of all me.”
“I know.” He shakes his head. “It was petty and childish. I’m sorry it took me so long to realize it. I miss you. Fuck, I miss you. I’m just not sure who I am or what I’m doing anymore. I don’t want to be this miserable guy who is pissed at the world, not when I’m with you. You deserve better than that.”
“You’re allowed to have bad days or months. This isn’t exactly my banner year so far.” I wave my hands as I speak. “Relationships are ugly sometimes.” I shrug and inwardly cringe because I just used the word relationship when we never put a label on whatever we were before.
He reaches across the table and takes my hand. The warmth of his fingers soothes something that’s been aching without his touch. “I’m crazy about you, but I gotta be honest that I’m still going through some shit.”
“Well, I can handle your grumpiness if you can put up with my optimism and spunk.”
“Deal.”
My heart swells with that one word.Deal.
It isn’t until we’ve said goodnight that I realize I have no idea what we just agreed to. Are we in a relationship? Are we friends?
He didn’t kiss me. We said goodbye with a long hug and a promise to hang out tomorrow afternoon, but did I just agree to a friendly hang out or Netflix and chill?
I’m still wondering as I sit on his bed the following day, watching him pack for a team away game.
Joel knocks on the door and pokes his head in. “You still have that Spanish textbook from last year?”
Wes nods toward his bookshelf. “Yeah, it’s on the shelf. What’s up?”
“I told someone I’d help her. Just want to get an idea of how much they’re covering in introductory Spanish.”
“You’re tutoring someone?” Wes asks, his tone as disbelieving as the thoughts running through my head.
“Shut up,” Joel grumbles.
Wes crosses the room and pulls the book from the shelf. He stops in front of Joel and holds the book, obviously using it as bait for more information.
Joel mutters, “I guess I promised her I’d help with Spanish to get her to sleep with me. There, happy now?”
We laugh at his expense. “Dude, that’s low even for you.”
“Shut the fuck up. I don’t even remember saying it . . . or doing it for that matter.” He shakes his head. “She says we hung out at the baseball party last week. I was so drunk that night I crashed on Mario’s couch, so anything is possible.” Joel looks at me. “This is your fault. You told me chicks dig the Spanish.”
