I asked her to come with me to my first appointment. Meave held my hand as I recounted what happened. Squeezed it when I explained how I had been feeling since. It was nice to not be alone in what I was going through.
I watch Cooper and I don’t want him to be alone in this.
There’s a breath of relief that fills me when I remember he confessed that he wants this for himself, that this isn’t him helping me but the other way around. It might not be the complete therapy he needs, but maybe this is his way of asking to not be alone.
I reach out my hand to him. “Here.”
There’s a moment of disbelief. I see it crash over him and the fight he’s internally battling. Eyes fluttering open, wider each time till brown eyes rimmed in red look deep into mine.
He grips my hand like it’s a floatation device, like I could save him.
Then interlaces his fingers with mine.
I don’t scoot closer to him. Giving him space and waiting for his direction with this. But I do place our hands in my lap, rub my thumb over his knuckles.
“Breathe,” I coach. “In and out.” I repeat this several times. “Breathe. In and out.” Watching as his breathing slows, and he starts to come down from the rollercoaster that panic attacks can be.
I readjust my legs, uncrossing and recrossing them.
“Don’t leave me,” he mumbles. “Not yet.”
“I won’t.”
His hair is long enough that a loose strand is stuck to the center of his forehead. I lift my hand, gently pushing it back, and run my hand down his face.
Cooper stops me, cupping my hand. Holding it against his face.
“I hate this. I hate all of it. You’ll he-help me, please.”
“I’ll help you, Coop.”
EIGHT
COOPER
The bellabove the door to The Mean Bean, everyone’s favorite coffee shop in downtown Bensen, chimes as I open it. There’s a group of three girls balancing to-go cups, books, and their phones in their hands not paying attention. I keep the door open for them, assuming they’d run into it otherwise.
It’s busy, no surprise. Most of the tables are taken, couples sitting in each other’s laps on the mismatched couches. I scan the place, searching for deep auburn curls.
My gaze sweeps over people I recognize, and some I should but don’t. I flash my golden smile at them either way, increasing it when two girls studying in the large bay window wave at me—I went out to dinner and hooked up with the brunette once freshman year.
I check in the back and amongst the hidden nooks for Sutton, ensuring my smile stays plastered to my face. I’m the confident, golden hockey captain they expect me to be. By the time I conclude she isn’t here yet, I’m exhausted.
Making a final sweep of the place, I find a wooden table near the back with a chipped checkerboard painted on it. Slightly secluded, tucked partially behind a large bookshelf that has books and games you can borrow.
I drop my backpack into one of the chairs and tuck my hockey duffle behind the table. We agreed to meet this morning between my morning skate and classes. I walked here after practice, preferring to park at the rink. Made it in record time.
Did I think I’d beat here her? No.
Is there a part of me that’s delighted, and possibly wants to brag, that I beat her? Absolutely.
I could use the spare minutes. My upper-level math classes are kicking my ass. We’ve barely made a dent into the semester, and I’m already reminded why most athletes choose to go the route of communications, or something not as time consuming or daunting.
But college has always been important to me. Not just playing, my education, too—even more so when Sutton’s plans were flipped upside down because of her injury.
I thought she’d recover. If anyone has the grit and ambition to come back from multiple complex tears and a blade to the upper thigh, it’s her. The amount of emotion she pours into everything she does is contagious. Admirable. Even when it’s hating me.
And she did recover…or so everyone thought.
