She’s not wrong about that. I was already picturing going to his funeral and dying of a broken heart. The only reason I haven’t died from that now is the knowledge that he’s alive and well, and the stupid little spark of hope that constantly zaps through me when I think about seeing him again.
“Oddly enough, the TV was already on ESPN when I got here. I guess Pres was watching it last time he was here,” I say, staring at the press conference Lach is having. Thankfully, it’s on mute. I don’t think I can handle seeing and hearing him.
She’s silent for a moment. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I turn my back to the TV.
“Do you want me to cancel Medley’s and come over?” she asks.
“No.” I shut my eyes and shake my head. “I’ll be there at eight.”
“Do you want me to try to reserve somewhere else?” she asks tentatively.
I laugh. “Where in the universe is that news not going to be reported tonight?”
“Fuck,” she breathes.
“I’ll see you at eight. I’m totally fine, I promise.”
We hang up and I slide down the refrigerator door slowly, until my ass is on the floor. I bring my knees up and bury my face in my hands. Isodon’t want to go to Medley’s. I don’t want to do anything. Sadness engulfs me as I sit there. Why would he retire? Maybe he was injured? God, I hope it’s not due to what happened in Fairview. He loves that sport so much, and I already feel awful that he was hurt in the first place.He could have died.My eyes tear up, the way they do every time I think about that. I could have died as well, I know. Sometimes, I wish I had. The all-consuming guilt is something therapy will never fully take away. I know better than anyone that obsessing about the past won’t change it, but it’s hard not to think about every detail that went wrong. After a while, I force myself to stop thinking about it — about him — and make myself eat the yogurt, so I can get ready for the outing I’m already dreading.
* * *
“You’re here!” Marissa says, letting out a quiet shriek as she wraps her arms around me.
“Happy Birthday, bitch.” My voice is muffled in her hair. I spot Prescott and Wade talking by the door when we pull away. “I couldn’t carry your presents, so they’re at my place.”
“Oh, stop it. My present is dressing you, but you did a pretty good job on your own.” She gives me a once-over.
“I learned from the best,” I say.
“You sure did.” She smiles.
“So, are you excited to be another year closer to death?” I link my arm through hers and start walking.
She shoots me a droll look. “Yes, because it means I’ve survived this long.”
“I guess that’s one way to look at it.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks.
“I am.” I take a breath. “I really am.”
“Do you think you’ll be even a little excited tonight?” she asks.
The previous birthdays we’ve celebrated here consisted of me fake smiling, going home early, and listening to Adele on full blast while drinking wine and bawling in my living room. 10/10 do not recommend feelings. They truly suck.
“I’m inwardly excited.”
“Hm.”
“I’m not going to leave early or. . .cry,” I whisper the word. “Tonight.”
“Good to know you won’t show emotion,” she whispers back.
“Jerk.”
She throws her head back in laughter, and I laugh lightly with her. When we finally reach the guys, Pres says hi to me, lifting and twirling me around. He gives me a full once-over and a sharp nod when he sets me down.
