"No, it wasn't. You were scared then too." Hunter moves closer, his expression serious now. "Listen. Wanting Scout doesn't make you weak. But being scared of wanting her does."
Beck stands, stretching. "We can sit here all night talking about feelings, or you can accept that you fucked up, she needs time, and that doesn't mean your world is ending."
"Thanks, man."
They start to filter out, but Hunter hangs back. He waits until the others are gone before speaking again.
"She'll come home tomorrow," he says quietly. "And when she does, you need to be ready to have a real conversation. I don’t mean just you eating shit. You need to actually talk about why you did what you did."
"I know."
"Good." He claps me on the shoulder. "Come hit the weight room when you’re ready.”
I sit in the empty film room for another hour. The game tape runs on silent now, players moving across the screen in patterns I'm not really seeing.
I think about Scout's face when she left. Not angry, not vindictive, just tired. Tired of carrying my fears along with her own. Tired of being the only one taking risks.
My phone sits heavy in my pocket. I pull it out and stare at our last text exchange from this morning. She sent me a reminder about my PT appointment. I sent back a thumbs up.
I don't text her. Not yet. She asked for space and I'm going to give it to her. But I don't delete our conversation or block her number or any of the other self-destructive things I would've done before.
Hunter's right about one thing. Nothing has actually ended yet.
The thought is terrifying.
It's also the first hope I've felt in two hours.
I close the laptop and stand, my body stiff from sitting in the same position too long.
My whole life I've treated every mistake like a death sentence. Every argument was like the end of the world. But the guys are right. Couples fight and survive. People hurt each other and heal.
For now, I head to the locker room to change into my workout gear and haul myself into the gym.
Chapter Thirty-One
Scout
Proud Mary is packed with the Sunday brunch crowd. Sable managed to snag us a corner table anyway because she knows the owner. She's wearing perfectly tailored black pants and a silk blouse that probably costs more than my rent. I'm in yesterday's leggings and one of her cashmere sweaters that she lent me.
A server drops off our drinks. Sable ordered a matcha latte with oat milk. I got the creamiest coffee on the menu and asked them to make it a double. This place is somewhere at the juncture between snooty and hipster. Fine by me as they make a mean bananas foster latte.
"So," Sable says, stirring her matcha with precision. "Silas Huxley is StatMan."
"Yep."
"And you didn't know for months."
"Nope."
She takes a delicate sip of her drink. "That's really fucked up, Scout."
"I know." I take a long drink of coffee. "I'm so angry at him. But I also miss him, which makes me feel pathetic."
"You're not pathetic." Sable examines the menu even though she always orders the same thing here. "You're in love. Those are different things."
"Love shouldn't make me this stupid."
"Love makes everyone stupid. That's kind of the whole deal." She signals the server and orders the avocado toast with poached eggs and microgreens. I get the breakfast burrito because I need actual sustenance. "Have you figured out what you want to do?"
