He pulls me into his arms and holds me so tight that I can barely breathe. I bury my face in his chest and let myself fall apart. I feel the grief and the rage and the terrible relief of finally being honest with ourselves and everyone else.
An assistant coach passes us, and I step away from Patterson.
“I need to go.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“You can’t.” I cup his face in my hands.
“I’ll quit the team,” he whispers. “Say the words.”
“No.” I press my lips to his. “Don’t you dare. I’ve already made a big enough mess of this. I really have to get out of here. We’ll talk later,” I say before I completely break down.
I pull away and rush down the hallway. My legs are like gelatin. The portraits I painted hang on the walls, watching me leave—Callan’s determined stare, Hunter’s cocky grin, Patterson’s intensity.
Behind me, I hear my father’s office door open and slam shut so hard that the sound echoes through the empty corridor.
It’s followed by yelling. My father’s versus Patterson’s.
I keep walking until I’m outside, sucking in fresh air.
The sobs come out ugly, followed by gasps. I press my hand over my mouth to muffle them, but they keep coming, wave after wave. All I see when I close my eyes is my father’s disappointment. He couldn’t even look at me.
I chose this. I knew it might cost me everything, and I did it anyway. Nothing could prepare me for feeling this.
My phone feels like it weighs a hundred pounds when I pull it from my dress pocket and call Addison.
She picks up on the second ring. “Weird. I was thinking about you.”
I try to speak, but all that comes out is a sound I don’t recognize.
“Kendall? What’s wrong? Where are you?”
“Can I come over?” I manage.
“Of course. Do you want me to meet you?”
“No. I’m coming.”
The ride there is a blur. Streetlights smear through my tears. By the time I’m dropped off in front of her building, I’m numb. Before I can knock, she opens the door.
“Oh my God. What happened?”
“I … I …”
She guides me inside and leads me to her couch. I curl up in the corner, knees drawn up, with mascara painting black rivers down my cheeks. Addison has a box of tissues in her lap, and she hands me one after another. She doesn’t ask questions or demand I explain myself. She waits patiently while I fall apart.
When the worst of it has passed, when my breath comes in hiccups instead of sobs, I look at her.
“Did you and Jamie break up?”
“I need to tell you something. And I’m so afraid you’re going to hate me,” I admit, crying again.
Addison’s expression shifts from concern to something more guarded. But she doesn’t look away or pull back.
“Never. Now, tell me everything.”
33
