The truthful answer sits heavy on my tongue. No. I don’t want to be alone. Not after that panic attack, which felt like being turned inside out. Not with these cryptic texts and the memory of Richie’s screams still echoing in my head.
“I’ll get us a ride.” She's already pulling out her phone, not waiting for my answer.
I nod again, something loosening in my chest. Normally, this would be the point where I’d get angry at someone for trying to help, for seeing me as weak, for thinking I need to be taken care of. But with Devin... I’m just grateful.
Richie’s parents arrive in a flurry of worry and questions. His mom’s eyes are red-rimmed, his dad’s jaw tight with stress. I brief them on everything the doctor said, assure them Richie’s going to be fine, that it looked worse than it was. They thank me about twelve times before hurrying off to see their son.
Devin and I duck outside to wait for our ride. I call Jeff quickly, let him know not to wait for me since I rode with him to the game. He asks if I’m all right, and I tell him yes even though we both know it’s not entirely true.
The parking lot next to the rink is nearly empty now, just a few cars scattered under the yellow streetlights. Most of the players and spectators cleared out while we were at the hospital.
We climb into her car, and immediately the CD holder on her visor catches my eye. She still has one of those old-school visor organizers with the elastic slots for CDs.
“You still use CDs, huh?” I can’t help but smile. “Very old school.”
She laughs as she starts the engine. “Not all of my favorites are on Spotify.”
That’s when I see it. A blue CD with her name scrawled across it in black Sharpie. My handwriting. My heart stops, then starts again double-time.
It’s the mix CD I made her when we first started dating. Fourteen tracks of songs that reminded me of her, songs I thought she’d like, songs we’d listened to together. I spent hours getting the order just right, making sure each track flowed into the next.
And she kept it. All these years, through our breakup, through moving cities, through everything—she kept it.
Was she doing the same as me? Technically moving on, dating other people, building a new life, but keeping a little part of us tucked away in a safe corner of her heart? Not really planning to do anything about it but unable to fully let go, keeping the flame alive just in case?
“How are you feeling?” She glances over at me as we pull out of the parking lot.
“Good,” I say carefully, though the truth is so much bigger than that word.
I’m the best that I have been in a very, very long time.
Chapter Twenty-One
Devin
Oliver is silent as I unlock and push open my front door, the hinges creaking softly in the quiet night. The weight of his presence behind me feels momentous, having him over to my place, even though I know it’s not. The familiar scent of lavender from my diffuser greets us, mixing with the cooler air from outside.
We’re not a thing, and I didn’t invite him over hoping it would turn into something romantic. That panic attack he had at the hospital was a doozy—his hands shaking, breath coming in short gasps, the way his eyes went unfocused. The thought of sending him home alone makes me queasy. If he’s going to have another episode, I want to make sure he doesn’t have to go through it alone.
“Cute place.” He seems to be genuine, studying the local art on the walls—a watercolor of the mountains I bought at the farmer’s market, an abstract piece from a friend—and the plants filling every available space. His fingers brush the leaves of my monstera as hepasses.
“Thanks.” It’s my first place as an adult that really feels like a home—well, since I moved out of our apartment—and I’m proud of it. The exposed brick wall, the vintage rug I haggled for at an estate sale, the way morning light streams through the east-facing windows.
He’s looking at the decorative throw pillows on the couch, probably because I have way too many—seven, to be exact, in various shades of blue and cream—when I realize there’s no way he can properly sleep on it. He’s a big guy, all broad shoulders and long legs, and it’s almost too narrow for me. The armrest would dig into his ribs. It’ll give his wrist hell.
Shit. Why did I even offer it? What was I thinking?
I’m certainly not sleeping on it. Not with the insomnia I’ve been having.
I clear my throat, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess myself. “Um, if the couch isn’t comfortable, we can share my bed.”
He does his best to hide his shock, but I catch the slight widening of his eyes, the way his Adam’s apple bobs. “Oh. Uh, only if you’re fine with that.”
“Totally.” I hang up my jacket on the hook by the door, trying to sound casual. “I have a king.”
He nods but doesn’t meet my gaze, suddenly fascinated by the grain of my hardwood floors.
“Hungry?” I pull out some frozen casserole—Mom’s chicken and rice recipe—and pop it in the oven. The familiar routine of setting the temperature, hearing the oven tick as it heats, grounds me. It’s been a long day, but I’m still energized, probably running high on all the adrenaline of the night. My hands move automatically, grabbing plates from the cabinet, forks from the drawer and we make small talk while waiting for the casserole to warm.
