“You can blame that on me if you want,” she assures me, then eats a spoonful of ice cream, whipped cream, and marshmallows.
By the time I pull into the driveway of my childhood home, Izzie is passed out in the back seat, so I put her backpack over my shoulder and carry her inside to her bedroom. Mom is asleep in front of the TV when I walk by, so I make a mental note to turn it off and throw a blanket over her before leaving.
“Do you think we can do that again?” Izzie asks sleepily, her head still pressed to my shoulder.
“I don’t think anyone should ever consume that much sugar.” I tease.
“I meant watching you play.” She yawns. “Maybe I could come to a real game sometime?”
My heart sinks.
“I’m not sure, Iz. I can ask Mom and see what her schedule looks like…” Her face drops, because we both know Mom isn’t stepping into that arena, no matter her schedule. She couldn’t even face the parking lot to bring Izzie to practice. “A lot of our games end too late for you anyway.” I’m not sure if this softens the blow, or if I just don’t want her to be mad at our mother. I can maybe ask Darren if his mom can bring her next time she comes.
Izzie doesn’t say anything, so for a minute, I think she went back to sleep, which is probably better than the ‘it’s okay, don’t worry about it,’ I usually get, because it’s not okay that Mom will never bring her, and I do fucking worry, because I don’t know how many things Izzie is giving up to make Mom’s life easier and so she doesn’t feel like a burden. I don’t want her pretending it doesn’t matter, because that’s what I did, and I promised I wouldn’t let her grow up like that, because it does fucking matter.
“Please?”
My heart breaks. Iz wasn’t asleep, she just had to work up the courage to ask me not to shut her down like everyone else does.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I say, but it’s as good as a promise.
Chapter Seven
Savannah
A Babysitter
The library is quiet for a Wednesday night, so I put my headphones on and listen to Taylor Swift while working on my psych paper. I love the library for studying, and I think my mom likes it when the Find My Friends app shows me anywhere other than my dorm, but the weather outside is gross, which makes it more likely a serial killer will find me here than a new friend. But I can’t take out their reference copy of the DSM-V, and Anna had friends over earlier, so I took refuge here to not be a weird fifth wheel creeper.
I blame all these things on why, when someone puts their hand on my shoulder, I scream instead of just taking out an earbud and looking to see who’s there.
I have my hands raised as if to karate chop my opponent when I see it’s Noah, the hockey player I’ve come to picture whenever I draft my new – hockey themed – romance. Losing my notebook has been devastating, so I’m trying to take notes on my phone, which syncs to the cloud, but I hate plotting digitally. And I feel like a limb is missing.
I didn’t think using Noah as a reference would be a problem, because I wasn’t planning on seeing him again, at least not up close and personal. Except he’s standing in front of me, hands raised in surrender, and for a second, I can’t breathe. Then I notice what he’s holding.
“My notebook!” I exclaim, reaching for it in a move that pulls the headphones out of my ears. “You found it.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Noah apologizes, handing over my notebook as he takes the seat beside me. “Or to steal that. It somehow found its way into Izzie’s backpack, and I’ve been trying to return it to you ever since.”
“Thank you so much, this book is my life. I’ve been going crazy without it.” I stop admiring the pages and look up at him, even more afraid than when he tapped me on the shoulder. “You didn’t read it, right?” I try not to sound accusatory.
“I opened it to see if it was yours, which took less than half a page,” he assures me, but he’s smiling.
I want to ask which one, because half a page is more than incriminating enough to mortify me for the rest of my life, but I don’t think I want to know.
“Thank you.” I swallow, telling myself it’s relief, but it’s also the fact that he’s been carrying it around campus, looking for me, which is sweet. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“It’s no trouble at all.” He waves it off, not exactly uncomfortable, but like he doesn’t think it’s worth mentioning. “Donovan has this notebook he’s always writing in, and they took it last year as a prank, replacing it with a blank one that looked the same. I swear to God, I thought the entire team would either be dead or in jail by the end of it.”
“I’m not that bad, and it was mostly empty, but…it just feels like a lot of wasted potential. Even if everything in here sucks, in my mind they were my best ideas that I would never get back.”
“Ideas for what?” Noah asks, but I don’t answer. “I was also hoping I would find you, because I still owe you one for Sunday.”
“No, you saved me. And this,” I say, holding the notebook to my chest, “is above and beyond. You’re set for life.”
“We both know you were never in any real danger. And this was the least I could do after stealing it in the first place.”
“We’re good. Even Steven,” I assure him, but he presses his lips together like he doesn’t agree.
