I’m not home, but I will be. Hour maybe?”
I need you, Sutton.
Sutton
What if I say I’m already here?
FORTY-NINE
SUTTON
I was already searchingfor the spare key when Cooper texted me. Their game wasn’t his finest display of athleticism—honestly, anyone’s. The entire team was off tonight.
Somehow, probably my shaking hands and heart, I broke the pot they keep their Barbie pink key in. Lucky for the fake plant, it’ll survive.
Hot pink and groovy style flowers, this is the house puck bunny key. They will tell a girl where it is, and after she leaves, they change its spot.
Inside, I grab a sports drink from the kitchen and raid the secret snack stash. A bag of white cheddar Cheetos Puffs and a pack of fun-sized M&Ms—please, can we all finally admit, they arethe elitecandy?
I’ve never been an emotional snacker. Maybe overindulging in grapes or strawberries, and the occasional milkshake. But I needed something to occupy my hands, my mind.
After lunch with Dr. Manning, I took one of Elliot’s classes. She proceeded to drive me here after I fumbled my keys, dropping them twice before she snatched them up.
Cooper’s bedroom is clean. Probably because he isn’t one for stuff. He keeps a small bookshelf with books next to his desk,and has a gallery wall of hockey memorabilia that his mom put together when he moved in here.
I sink into his king-sized bed, on my side. The right side. I’ve been staying here enough that there is an additional IKEA metal side table, a phone charger, a book light, and a claw clip clipped onto the ledge. Some mornings—my favorite mornings—it also has a note from Cooper if he has to leave before me. Usually, we wind up here after a long day, wrapping ourselves up in the sheets.
It dawns on me that in the past few months, I’ve never really explored his bedroom.
I climb off his bed, take my bag of candy with me, and walk around his room as if it’s a museum, and it is in ways.
On his desk is a photo of him and his sisters. Meave took it. I remember the day fondly. There’s a photo of Meave and me next to it. She’s on my back, her lanky limbs sticking out like our tongues. There’s another photo, a Polaroid. It’s not in a frame, but stuck to the shelf with tape. It’s him and I in our hockey sweaters.
Sixteen and twenty.
My cheeks heat, prickles dance up my spine, but freeze as my insecurities spin me into their arms next. I love my brain, but right now I wish it would relinquish the hold it has on me and let go of the ropes it’s tugging on. My heart is stumbling over itself trying to maintain its footing.
I keep touring, popping an orange candy into my mouth.
The gallery wall consists of more photos and jerseys in frames. A pendant from school that saysGo Bears!and the team our dads played for. There used to be a vintage poster of his dad on the wall, but it’s backwards. Taped to the back is a piece of notebook paper with his chicken scratch scrolled on it:You are allowed to be different.
It’s one of the first things that I told him when he was assigned to my independent study. The session after he had his panic attack and confessed everything.
I can’t believe he remembered…or that I haven’t noticed this…
His area rug is soft under my feet as I make my way back to his bed when my eyes catch on something on his bedside table.
There’s a bracelet sitting on it. Bright colors clash with the black metal.
That’s…that’s my bracelet. The one that’s been missing for years.
I ditch my snack, crawling to his side of the bed. Snatching it up quickly, I throw my legs over the side of the bed and sit there.
Stunned.
I run my fingers over the beads. The material is familiar against my skin. I’ve missed this bracelet. I truly thought I had lost it, or it had broken off.
Why does he have it? Did he…did he steal it? Is this what he’s always playing with under his sleeve?
