He nodded once, slow, his eyes steady on hers. He pushed the door open wider, his silence speaking volumes, an unspoken plea for her to reconsider, to give this a chance.
But she couldn’t. She shook her head, retreating a step like a frightened animal.
“Sticks,please…” His voice cracked on the nickname, as if it carried all the unspoken answers between them.
“No—and don’t call me that.” Her voice splintered, ragged as she backed away another step. “We’re not dating. We’re not in a relationship. We’re?—”
“Don’t say it,” he cut in sharply, his tone clipped, pained.
And she didn’t.
The silence that fell between them was heavy, suffocating. Nettie’s hand rose instinctively, this time pressing against her heart as if she could shield it from him. Her breath came shallow, and for a long, trembling moment, they just stared at one another. No words. No movement. Just the thrum of something alive and dangerous stretching between them.
Finally, she moved first. A step back. A retreat.
She saw his throat work, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the force of his swallow. It was the only sign he gave that he was still tethered to the moment, still fighting for control.
“I need time,” she breathed, the admission cracking in the air between them.
“I know.” His voice was quiet, gentle, as if he was afraid any louder and she might shatter. He hesitated, then added softly, “Thank you for dinner.”
“Thank you for the… the car.” The words felt clumsy, wrong, as soon as they left her lips. She winced at how pathetic they sounded, how uneven the exchange was. Dinner wasn’t the same as a car. Not even close.
“My next game is on Wednesday,” he said suddenly, almost as if clinging to a rope to keep from drowning. “Would you like to go?”
“I’ll let you know,” she answered, her voice evasive, carefully neutral. She turned toward the car, her hand already reaching for the door handle, desperate for escape.
“Nettie,” Tate called, and her name on his lips froze her in place.
She stilled, her hand gripping the handle so tightly her knuckles turned white.
“Just because things are tense between us,” he said, his tone low, deliberate, “it doesn’t mean we are forever stuck in the past.”
Her throat closed. She wanted to believe him. Gosh, she wanted to. But the truth was heavier than hope.
“I am. I’m stuck,” she admitted. The simplicity of the words, the raw truth of them, broke her. She felt the tears finally slip free, hot and silent down her cheeks.
“I’m not.”
Her breath hitched. “But it’s not just you in this relationship.”
“I’m not giving up on us.”
Her eyes fluttered shut, and she whispered, “I know.”
The silence pressed in again, thick and aching. She didn’t look back at him. Couldn’t. Not when her heart already felt like it was breaking in her chest all over again.
Nettie pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, but her hands didn’t move from the steering wheel. They stayed there, gripping tight as if letting go meant everything inside her would spill out and drown her. The house sat in front of her, silent and unwelcoming, its windows like eyes watching her hesitate.
She wasn’t ready to go inside. She wasn’t ready to face the silence.
Her phone was facedown on the passenger seat, deliberately ignored. Gina’s name had flashed across the screen over andover again the past hour, her calls persistent, her messages clipped with frustration. Tate had only sent one—just one message on Tuesday—asking if she wanted him to leave tickets at Will Call. As if everything could be solved with a couple of empty seats waiting.
She hadn’t answered.
She hadn’t answered anyone.
It was the same routine each day - like she could ignore the outside world and take solace inside, picking up the pieces of the wall protecting her heart… and that shield wasn’t ready to face him again yet. Time was slipping by, each moment compounded with fragmented memories, hurt feelings, and guilt for pushing him away.
