I wondered if there was some small part of him that wanted to talk about it with me. He wouldn’t have told me about how he missed having someone come watch him play if he hadn’t wanted me to know about whatever it was that he kept hidden. He could have easily told me he wanted me to wear his jersey for couple credibility and left it at that, but he hadn’t.
Or maybe all these thoughts were a mix of overthinking and wishful thinking.
We were still staring at one another when he said, “You know what I do want to talk about? Me living up to my reputation and how we’re going to prove to that roommate of yours that we’re doing exactly what she thinks we’re doing in here.”
“Slate,” I said calmly, knowing he was purposefully trying to pivot the conversation. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
I gently squeezed his arm. “Cover up that you’re hurting. At least not with me.”
He seemed surprised at my words. Our eyes were still locked, his eyes turning glassy before he turned to look up at the ceiling, his Adam’s apple moving up and down as he swallowed.
“I can’t talk about it, Isla. I can’t talk about her.” His voice was so tortured, I felt my own eyes tearing up even though I still didn’t know what had happened to him or who “her” was.
I sat up and crossed my legs, looking down at Slate. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand. And I know we haven’t been friends as long as you and Wilder, but I’m here if you ever need someone to listen.”
He gave me a wry smile. “That’s the weird thing about all this. There is a part of me that wants to tell you, that wants you to know.” He looked away. “It was like that with her too. She could get anything out of me, and I don’t even know how she did it. There was something about her that made me want to tell her everything.” He turned back to me. “And sometimes I feel that same way with you.”
I had an idea who “she” was, but I asked anyway. “Who is ‘she’?”
“My mom.” He returned his gaze to the ceiling, like it was too hard for him to look at me while he spoke about something that was so painful for him. “She died in a car accident almost six years ago.”
“Oh, Slate,” I said, my heart hurting for him. “I can’t even imagine how hard that must have been. And still is.”
“Yeah,” he said a little above a whisper, as if he couldn’t say any more.
I stayed silent, waiting for him to guide the conversation. I could tell it had been hard for him to tell me that, his body tight and his jaw clenched. He was working to take slow, steady breaths, and I sat still, not knowing what else to do but to just be there. Not that my mere presence would have any hope of relieving some of his pain, but maybe just opening up to another person could help him carry this heavy load around. I wanted to hug him, to provide some type of comfort, but I didn’t know how he would feel about that, so I stayed where I was, letting him have the space he needed.
Slowly he reached out and took my hand in his, like he needed something to hang on to, a tether of some sort. “I was fifteen. It was New Year’s Eve. She and my dad had gone to some fancy party.” He spoke in short robotic sentences, as if he was trying to disconnect himself from what he was saying, trying not to feel. “She never came home.”
A single tear escaped my eye. Thinking of a younger Slate finding out his mom would never be coming home again broke my heart. Imagining losing my own mother, especially at a young age, had me hurting at the thought alone. I couldn’t even begin to understand what Slate had gone through.
I continued to wait, to see if he would tell me more, but he suddenly dropped my hand and sat up, looking around like he had just woken up from a bad dream. “Gosh, I didn’t come over to tell you all this.” He ran one of his hands over his face. “I just wanted to give you my jersey so you would look legit as my girlfriend at the game this weekend.”
I hurried to swipe at the tear on my cheek, giving him a smile. “I’ll be at the game on Saturday, sporting your number and yelling, ‘You can’t outrun DonaWHO? Donahue!’”
A laugh escaped him, instantly making me happy I was able to get him laughing.
He patted my leg, still smiling. “Let’s just have the cheerleaders say the cheers.”
Chuckling, I said, “That’s probably for the best.”
He moved to the edge of the bed, but before he stood up he said, “Oh, I also came over to tell you I told Wilder about us.”
“And?” I asked, curious to know how that conversation went.
He let out a huff. “To say he was beyond shocked is an understatement.”
“Like good shocked or bad shocked?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “A little of both. He’s glad I stuck up for you with Josh and that I’m following through with it since I’m the one who started this whole thing. But then he’s worried about you.” His eyes softened as he looked at me. “He’s worried you’re going to get hurt. Or more correctly,I’mgoing to hurt you.”
I was worried about that too, more than I wanted to admit, but I steeled my expression, not wanting to give any emotion away. “I’m not going to get hurt,” I assured him—and maybe a little to also assure myself. “I know where we both stand. We’re friends, we’re going to stay friends, and there is nothing else to worry about.”
I was the biggest liar. Like, liar, liar, pants on fire.
His upper body relaxed, a sure sign of relief. “That’s what I told him. I said that we’re on the same page, and remaining just friends is what we both want.”
