I’m glad I told Shay that Jon never made sure I was comfortable when speaking to the media. To him, it was my job to makethemcomfortable. But today, I got my locs retwisted, met the owner of my favorite haircare brand, answered questions that didn’t make me feel sick to my stomach, and spent the day with Shay.
Even if she hated every second, I had the time of my life.
“Thanks for today,” I breathe. “I needed that.”
She doesn’t reach for the handle. “What are the odds?”
I blink hard. Those words didn’t come out of my mouth. “What did you just say, Shay?”
Covering her face, she lets out a dry laugh. “I know I’m breaking rule three, but I need to. What are the odds you’ll tell me something honest and real?”
Pressure gathers in my chest at the thought. My shadows have never had a safe place. I’m expected to be comforting, not complicated. Steady, not struggling. Caring, not worrisome. That’s why I’m always fine and happy. But if I play our game, I have to be honest.
I must be quiet for too long because she speaks again. “Never mind. It was a dumb idea—”
“I’ll play.” I hold up my fist. “If you win, I’ll tell you something.”
“With no deflecting.” The corners of her mouth twitch, and a surge of pride fills me at being able to do that.
“On three.” I count on my fingers.One, two, three.
“Two!” we scream, and I don’t hate the idea of opening up to her.
“Ask away,” I say. “What do you want to know?”
I hope she asks if I regret not coming home, because the answer is yes. Every single day.
“You pick,” is what she says instead. “Big or small. Serious or silly. Tell me something I don’t know. All I want is something real.”
It’s not that I don’t trust my friends and family with what goes on in my head. The golden boy isn’t a mask I wear for a morale boost. I loved the title and all its assigned traits until it became an expectation rather than a choice. An identity rather than a personality, and the moment I admit it aloud, it will become real and not something I want to believe is all in my head. It has always been easier to hide than explain the invisible heaviness that drowns me.
But Shay sees it. I think she always has. I worried what would happen if she realized I wasn’t as golden as my image portrays, so I ran away fromher, shouldering the weight alone like I thought I had to. Yet here she is. Listening. Waiting. With me.
So tonight, I want to start with a small step.
“I hate yellow legal pads.”
The interior of the car goes silent, only the sound of the hazard lights clicking rhythmically filling the space. As silly as it sounds, it’s the realest thing I can say, and I hope she sees that I’m trying.
She sits up in the seat. “Is that why you were upset after the game? You saw my notepad?”
I nod solemnly. “I’m sorry again.”
It’s clear she wants to ask more questions, but she respects the game enough not to. “Don’t be. I’ll never use them again.” Digging through her bag, she doesn’t break eye contact. “Thank you for being honest with me twice today.”
Our elbows brush as I lean onto the console. “Thank you for listening to me twice today.”
The only response that comes is the melodic scratch of pen to paper. It’s a calming sound, especially when paired with her slightly off-tune rendition of “Love On Top.”
The pen clicks, and she slides it behind her ear. “If I do or say something that bothers you, tell me. I don’t want to hurt you.” The interior lights flicker on as she swings the car door open and presses two pink sticky notes to the glove box. “Goodnight, Cade.”
Once she makes it inside the house, I reach for her notes.
Rules are important. Stop breaking them
I grin, but my heart stutters when I read the next one.
Screw yellow legal pads. Pink is better. Thanks for being honest
