I open my laptop. Buy two tickets for tomorrow night’s game. Lower bowl, near the penalty box. Close enough that he might see me.
Then I pick up my phone. Text Jessa.
Chloe
When you get home, I need your help with something.
Jessa
Anything. What’s up?
Chloe
I’m going to make the biggest spectacle of my life.
eighteen
brody
I have a game tonight.
I should be thinking about defensive formations, Chicago’s offensive strategy, how to shut down their power play.
Instead, I’m sitting in my car outside Serenity Hills Treatment Center, staring at my phone, wondering if it’s possible to die from missing someone.
Probably not. But it feels like it might be.
My dad is getting released today. Thirty days sober. Completed the program.
And I should be celebrating that. Should be focused on him.
But all I can think about is that today is also day thirty of not talking to Chloe.
Day thirty.
The contract is officially over at midnight. Thirty days of mandatory silence. Thirty days of torture.
I’ve written and deleted the same text message forty-seven times this morning.
The message keeps changing:
Brody
I’m sorry
(too simple)
Can we talk?
(too casual)
I miss you
(too weak)
I love you and I’m an idiot
(too desperate, also true)
