No one’s ever said anything like that to me before. Everyone in my life has always seen me as the goalie first, the person second.
But not her.
“You really believe that?” I ask, swallowing back a wave of emotion.
“I know it,” she says simply. “Because I see it every day.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just listen to her breathe on the other end of the line.
“I get it,” she says after a moment. “Feeling defined by one thing, I mean. I felt that way for a long time with Steven. I started seeing myself as… I don’t know. Broken. Damaged. Someone who’d made terrible choices and had to live with the consequences. It took me years to realize I was more than what happened to me. That I could redefine myself on my own terms.”
“You did more than that,” I tell her. “You rebuilt your entire life from nothing.”
“It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It felt like I was drowning every day.” Her voice drops lower. “Some days it still does. I still flinch at loud voices sometimes, even though I know I’m safe. My brain still tries to trick me even though I know Steven can’t touch me anymore.”
The thought of anyone making her afraid makes me want to pull her into my arms and keep her there. “If he ever comes near you again?—”
“He won’t,” she says quickly. “And if he does, I’ll handle it. I’m not that scared woman anymore. But I’m also not going to pretend I don’t still carry pieces of it with me.”
I shift against the pillows and stare up at the ceiling. “I think I know how you feel. Losing my parents changed me as a person, and I’ll always carry that with me. But I’m learning to try not to let that grief define me. Trying to growwithmy trauma, not justpastit.”
“Maybe we can figure it out together,” she says. “I didn’t know how to let myself be happy for a long time, and it sounds like you didn’t either. But I think maybe we’re learning.”
I close my eyes and let her words settle deep in my chest. “Yeah. Maybe we are.”
Our conversation wanders from topic to topic, as she tells me about April’s latest obsession with making friendship bracelets, and I tell her about the rookie who keeps leaving his gear scattered all over the locker room. Small things. Normal things. The kind of conversation I never thought I’d want, let alone need.
But with her, it’s different. Everything is different.
“It’s getting late,” she finally says, but there’s no urgency in her voice.
“Yeah.”
We both go silent again, but neither of us tries to end the call.
“Do we have to hang up?” she asks after another minute or two.
“I don’t want to,” I admit.
“Me neither.”
So we don’t. I settle deeper into the pillows, keeping the phone pressed to my ear. I can hear the rustle of sheets on her end, and the soft sounds she always makes when she’s really getting comfortable in bed.
“Tell me about tomorrow,” she says, her voice getting drowsy. “What time is your flight?”
“Noon. We’ll get back around three.”
“Will you come home after?”
Home. The word makes me smile. “Yeah. I’ll come home.”
“Good,” she murmurs. “April wants to show you her science project. Something about volcanoes.”
“I’m already looking forward to it.”
Her breathing starts to even out, getting slower and deeper. I should hang up now and let her sleep, but I can’t make myself do it.
Instead, I just listen to the steady rhythm of her breath and the occasional soft murmur as she moves an arm or a leg in her sleep. Being connected to her like this on the phone, even in complete silence, is intimate in a way I’ve never experienced before and never could have anticipated.
