“No.” Shay holds up her hand and cuts me off. Her features contort at my unspoken words, with unshed tears gleaming in the light. “Don’t say it. I can’t… I can’t think about that.”
I want to roll my eyes, fight, and scream that itneedsto be discussed. Scary or not, it’s my reality. I don’t have the luxury of ignoring it.
“I’m not trying to minimize it,” she promises. “I just want to think about your next steps. We can talk about ways to move forward.”
“Like what? Strapping my diabetes kit around my neck so I never forget it again?”
“Relax, Ms. Drama.” Shay urges me to take another bite before continuing. “Maybe it’s time for an insulin pump? I saw you researching them the other day.”
I cuddle my knees into my chest. “Are you saying this as my friend?”
“I’m saying this as your copilot and best friend. We promised to tell each other the truth, and I think it’s time. I can’t lose you, Mally. Not now. Not ever.”
Part of me wants to protest. Then I remember I ran home in a pure panic to get my lifeline. Having it with me at all times could be better.
She drops my phone in my lap. “I think he’s expecting your call.”
Unlocking it, I scan the messages lined up against my wallpaper. All from Kenneth. Each one is more worried than the last. The last one sent twelve minutes ago is only two words.
The Worst Color Ever
Please, Eddie.
I swipe them away and open Dr. Morand’s contact card.
Here goes nothing.
Chapter Seventeen
This has been theworst spring break to date.
It’s been one whole week without a word from Mallory. With every message I send, I’m taunted by the read receipt and no response. I forced myself to stop texting her three days ago. Even though I’m not sending them, I keep drafting ten-page apologies before deleting the message moments later. I would settle for a middle finger emoji as a response.
But as much as I deserve it, she deserves space even more.
Turning onto the road to the pool, I adjust my rear-view mirror. Practice today should be short considering the meet tomorrow is important.
Well, all of them are, but this is my last chance to qualify for the National Championship meet in two weeks. Last season, I missed the qualifying standard by nine seconds. I stood behind the podium, looking longingly at the group of proud athletes who had qualified.
Year one I made it. Year two I was scared. Year three is the year I turn it all around.
Since my not-so-pep-talk with Coach Brown, my weekly counseling sessions and Mallory’s reminder have helped me not completely suck in my last three races. Although I didn’t place at the conference meet, I feellike I’m finally on an upward trajectory now that I’m making a real effort to fight my fears.
The thought of using a championship win as a point in the Brain Bowl flits across my mind for a second, vanishing the moment I spot neon-green tennis shoes.
With legs bare against the wind, turquoise KT tape runs down her hamstrings. Her laugh dances through my open windows, drowning the Paramore song blaring from the stadium speakers with something even more nostalgic.
Mallory is okay. Happy. Safe.
My brain begs me to stop and think, but I ignore it. I turn on my hazard lights, park my truck, throw open the door, and take off running straight toward the woman who has every reason to hate me.
By the time Cade’s warning to let her come to me flashes in my head, it’s too late. I’m a yard away, and the scent of sunscreen, grass, and vanilla keeps pulling me in.
Even if she tells me to leave, I need to apologize.
“Hi.”
Mallory freezes, and the smile I’ve missed slips off her face as she takes me in. It feels like a punch to the groin, but at least it’s from her.
