“The big ones,” I agree.
“And correct me if I’m wrong, but since you met Savannah, you’ve taught her some hockey and took her skating a few times, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And in exchange, she has babysat your sister for you almost every week, helped her with both math and English homework, and made enough healthy and delicious snacks to feed your sister and half the team?”
“If you’re pointing out that I don’t deserve her, I fucking know that. It’s why I’m trying to stay away even if it’s killing me, because I’ll just keep disappointing her, or Izzie, or my mom, and it’s too much.”
“It’s a relationship,” he tells me. “Which, yeah, can be a burden, but you know what else it is? A partnership. Ditch your stupid juggling analogy, because I can’t juggle for shit, no matter how many balls you give me. But say you’re carrying a basket with all those balls you’ve been juggling. It sucks that you have to add the Savannah ball, which dude, she’s in the basket whether she’s your girlfriend or not, and has been for a while, because you love her, even if you’re choosing angst and frustration instead of love and happiness.”
“That’s not?—”
“But in return,” he cuts me off, “she was helping you carry some of the balls you’re stressing out about. By doing shit you should be doing yourself, or taking care of you so you can keep doing it. Bad relationships weigh you down, but someone like Savannah can carry her own fucking weight.”
* * *
I nod and Owen grasps my shoulder, like ‘we’ve got this’, but I don’t. I’m terrified. Maybe Owen’s right, that if I told Sav everything I had going on, she’d understand. She’d help me show up for the people who need me…and show up when I can’t, like she has been for Izzie. Even after everything, there was a Tupperware full of Savannah’s almond pastries when I dropped Izzie off with the cupcakes on Tuesday. But I haven’t relied on anyone since my dad died and Mom checked out. Which feels like it should be enough of a cautionary tale, but I don’t think I want to keep doing this without Sav. With this pain in my chest that gets worse the longer I don’t see her, not better.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Savannah
Like There’s Still Hope
I’ve been standing outside and chewing my lip for the past fifteen minutes. Miss Mabel and Bree left for bingo and offered to drive me anywhere, but I pretended Noah was on his way, two minutes out, so they reluctantly left me. Truth is, I know practice ended thirty minutes ago, because Darren texted Lacey, and I said I would go for a walk so Lacey doesn’t regret letting me crash with her for a few days.
I close my eyes and ring the doorbell, which quiets the voices inside for maybe a second before they pick up again, louder this time. Getting closer.
“Hi,” I say with a nervous smile when Owen, Michael, and Colt stare at me in shock.
“Noah isn’t here,” Colt tells me. “He?—”
Owen elbows him in the stomach and I wince, not from some sympathy pain, but because I’ve seen my brother’s teammates do that when they didn’t want a girl to know the guy was with another woman.
“He’ll be back in an hour or so, if you want to wait. David’s making enchiladas and tortilla soup,” Michael invites me, as if that wouldn’t be the weirdest thing ever. To wait for him to get home from a date.
“That’s okay, I just wanted to drop something off for him.” I hand the manilla envelope containing the manuscript I just finished to Colt, the only one who’ll take it from me. Though the others look more like they want me to give it to Noah myself than like they’re being rude.
“Is this…” Colt’s eyes light up, but he gets another hit, from Mike this time.
“He asked if he could tell you,” I assure him it’s okay.
“Can we read it?” Mike is cautiously excited, but I feel nauseous.
“I’d rather not, until it’s had way more editing, and I’ve applied for my name change and have my UK visa approved. But I guess I am handing it off to you, so if you cheat, just don’t tell me, okay?”
“But Noah can read it?” David clarifies like my freakout is normal, joining the conversation with an apron and a dish towel slung over his shoulder. It’s domestic and would be hot as hell if my heart wasn’t hopelessly in love with his roommate.
I nod. “He offered to. I said I could maybe send over the hockey scenes, he wanted the whole thing. I said he’d have to wait until it came out, he said something insightful about writers needing to share their stories if they want to be heard, so here it is. I highlighted the hockey parts, or there’s a USB if he’d rather read it digitally. He doesn’t have to read it. This isn’t me cashing in on his offer, because the last thing I want to do is add anything else to his plate.”
“Then what is it?” Owen sounds curious, not like he’s judging, but I know I sound insane.
“I’ve written hundreds of stories, but I haven’t published a single one, because I don’t let people read them.” It’s terrifying to let someone read what you wrote, your innermost thoughts and desires, then have to interact with them as if they don’t know how terrible it was. “I don’t want to let fear hold me back from the things I want, so this is me letting him read it. And I guess, in that vein, if any of you really want, you can read the highlighted hockey parts, but you really don’t have to. Shouldn’t really. I want to submit to this contest, and my deadline is next week, but I’m also sure they have hockey people if it doesn’t make sense. And my brother offered to read it and ask a friend whatever he doesn’t know, so it’s fine.”
I’m rambling, but the guys don’t look annoyed; they’re smiling. One knowingly, one with pity, and one to keep from laughing at me, but I don’t think in a mean way.
“We’ll get it to him,” Owen assures me.
