Page 137 of Power Play
Still, I’m doingfine.
Work is busy. My flat is spotless because I’ve developed a frankly concerning relationship with bleach and anti-bac wipes. My makeup game is at an all-time high. If I don’t look like a woman on the verge of an emotional implosion, then I’m winning.
Right?
Tonight is girls’ night again, Dylan will be starting to question our relationship before long, I’m sure. Mia’s already kicked off her boots and made herself comfortable on my sofa, legs tucked beneath her like she’s lived here forever. She’s scrolling through her phone while I bring in the snacks, popcorn, chocolate buttons, and a bottle of wine that claims to have “notes of cherry and regret.” Fitting.
“Have you seen this?” she asks, holding up her phone. “The team’s Instagram posted a clip from training. Ollie fell over trying to high-five Murphy and took out three cones like a newborn giraffe on ice.”
“Sounds about right.”
“You want to watch it?”
“Nope.”
Mia gives me a look, it’s mildly amused, mildly exasperated. She’s getting good at those.
“You know,” she says, her tone far too casual, “there’s a home game tomorrow. Could be fun. Big one too, being televised and all.”
I snort. “I’ll pass.”
“Oh, come on. I’ve got a spare family and friends’ ticket. Front row, your usual seat. Best view in the house.”
“I don’t even like hockey.”
She raises a brow. “Really? You watched every game last season.”
“That was different.”
“Was it?”
I shoot her a withering glare. She sips her wine as though this is all terribly entertaining. “What, exactly, are you getting at, Clarke?”
“Just that for someone who doesn’t care, you sure bring him up a lot.”
“I do not.”
“You do,” she says, annoyingly calm. “Not directly, but it’s all there. In the way you saythis song came on in his car onceorhe hates olives but ate that entire pizza anyway,”
“You’ve made your point.”
She shrugs. “Look, I’m not trying to push you. I just think you’re still figuring out how you feel. And maybe seeing him in his element, doing what he loves, might help you get some clarity. Doesn’t mean you have to talk to him. Doesn’t mean you have to forgive him. But you deserve to know whereyoustand, not just where you’ve decided to dig in.”
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly sprain something. “That was almost profound. Proud of you.”
“Thank you. I’ve been practicing.”
There’s a pause. It’s as if she knows she’s planted a seed and is waiting to see if it’ll sprout.
“I don’t know,” I mumble, picking at a thread on the throw blanket. “What if I go and it just makes everything worse?”
“Then at least you’llknow. Isn’t that better than sitting around wondering if you should’ve?”
Damn her and her gentle logic.
We switch on the movie and let the conversation drift elsewhere, but her words settle in my chest like static. I hate it. I hate that I’m even considering it.
But Iam.
