Page 72 of Sweet Little Lies
“I’m really proud of you, Britton,” he said, clasping me on the shoulder with his wide palm. “You’ve made a comeback that many people don’t make. You’ve worked hard and I know it’s not been easy not being able to play during games. But I’ve seen your leadership blossom from the sidelines and you’ve been a great mentor to these younger guys.”
I think I actually blush, which is something I’ve never done before.
“Thanks, Coach. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to do it.”
He flicks his hand. “Didn’t give you anything you weren’t ready for. You’ve earned it.”
Looking back, I realize that I needed someone outside my circle of friends to tell me they saw the good in me, because it didn’t come from my dad. It was something missing in my life for years and I hadn’t realized how much it played on my self-confidence and self-worth.
It’s going to be a long road, but one I’m now equipped to travel with the tools my new counselor has provided me. Coach Parker is the one who referred me to Dr. Carson.
Coach Parker is one of the first people I apologized to during my NA step. I’ve slowly been working my way through the list and I’m now ready to talk to Mica. Whether she wants to hear from me at this point is another story, but I can’t let that stop me.
With shaky hands, I pick up the phone and dial her number.
The phone rings twice and then her sweet voice fills my ear.
“Hola?”
She greets me in Spanish, which tells me she either didn’t check the phone display or she’s deleted my number after all this time and I’m now an Unknown number to her.
I clear my throat, swallowing down the emotion blocking my airwaves. A frisson runs through my blood stream and I can scarcely breathe.
“Mica, it’s me. Lance.”
A gasp.
Then silence.
I expect her to hang up on me, but she doesn’t. I thank God and all that’s good and holy she doesn’t.
“Hi,” she says, her voice tremulous. But it’s hard to interpret what she feels about my call.
“How are you?”
Dumb thing to ask, but I don’t know how else to start the conversation. I’ve practiced it a thousand times and it all sounds stupid to my own ears.
“Estoy bien,” she responds in Spanish. It makes me wonder if this is her mechanism to keep things civil. To create a barrier between us. Although I understand what she says, that she uses her native language creates distance and is distracting.
“That’s good. I’m glad,” I take a cleansing breath and continue. “Mica,lo siento. I’m so sorry. I need to talk to you. To see you. I need to explain things to you and tell you in person how sorry I am for everything I’ve put you through.”
I expect her to say no. To tell me to fuck off for hurting her and not responding to any of her letters. For cutting her off and out of my life completely.
But instead, she does what only Mica would do.
“Of course. I had hoped…” There’s a hiccup on the other end of the line and I wonder if she’s crying. She sounds so dubious.
Fuck, I’ve made her cry.
Of course, you have, idiot. What’d you expect?
“When? When can I see you?” Suddenly, it can’t be soon enough. I need to right this minute.
I check the time on the clock and realize it’s after nine p.m. and she’s probably at her apartment studying.
She keeps me waiting for a second. “Um, what about tomorrow? Breakfast?”
I nod emphatically like a dumbshit. “Okay, yeah, that sounds good. Where should I meet you?”
