“I’m glad,” I say softly, humbly. The idea that I’m bringing her relief—it’s an honor. “You should rest.”
“I’ve rested all day,” she says, eyes closed. “Wait, what day is it?”
“Monday.”
She tries to sit up, but then she moans and drops back down. “It’s Monday?” She gives a rough exhale. “I missed our meeting.”
“I brought the meeting to you,” I say. “That’s the only reason I’m here, obviously.”
She gives a weak laugh. At least, I think it’s a laugh. It could be another whimper. “Keep playing with my hair,” she murmurs.
I keep playing with her hair.
But Alma’s warning from days ago sounds in my ears:“If I find out you two cheat …”
Never, I promise myself, staring with so much longing, it’s pouring out of me.I will pine and fall at this woman’s feet until she kicks me away. I will bring her coffee and comfort and care for her when she’s sick. I’ll be in the dugout, on the bench, waiting for her to put me in until she kicks me off the team.
But I will not cross an actual line.
I will not enter the game until she takes Jake out.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, but it’s long enough that she dozes off. Long enough that I’m able to respond to texts and messages on my socials, edit some content, and even schedule my posts and reels for the week, all one-handed, only half looking at the screen.
Eventually, my stomach starts to growl. I had eggs and a vanilla protein cozy for breakfast, but I haven’t eaten since. I had plans to make Scottie chicken soup, but if she keeps sleeping, I may have to extricate myself from her.
Only, she’s clutching my sweatshirt in one hand, and although I won’t cross a line, I’m too much of a glutton for punishment to want this to end. It’s like her subconscious knows we belong together, even if her—I don’t know, consciousness? Whatever the opposite of subconscious is—doesn’t.
I like Scottie’s subconscious.
We only talked for two minutes, but her guard was down in a way I’ve never seen. It’s like her sickness has made her more open, willing to be vulnerable.
If only her subconscious would admit we’re perfect for each other.
No crossing lines. Getting her to admit she’s only dating Jake because he’s rich or good-looking—or whatever—is definitely crossing a line,I tell myself.
I stare at her beautiful colorless face while I stroke her hair like she asked. She’s asleep, so at least I don’t have to feel guilty for thinking things I’d never say out loud. The only person I’m hurting right now is me.
“Why are you dating him, Quinn?” The words slip out in a pained whisper as I stroke her hair.
“Because he needs me,” she mutters, and I stop in my tracks, eyes wide, hand frozen in her hair.
She’s awake? How long has she been awake? She rocks her head back and forth and whines just enough that I know she’s telling me to play with her hair again.
So I do.
I’m almost speechless.He needs her?That’s a terrible reason to be dating. Does she know that? I can’t convince her—won’t even try—but does she have someone in her life who will?
“Okay,” I say. It’s all I can manage.
“He always needs me,” she murmurs, like she’s circling back to something she hasn’t quite finished saying. “I’m his Bettyguard.”
Her voice is thin. Fragile.
A deep frown pulls at my mouth. “Quinn, you don’t have to explain yourself.”
“Yes, I do,” she says, sounding uneven and too soft. “Whenever Jake gets in trouble, I’m collateral damage. I thought if I was the best at everything, they’d care. They didn’t. I tried rebelling in middle school. No one noticed. Jake was always in crisis.” Her head shifts again, a small, exhausted movement. “The only time I got attention was if I was helping Jake.”
My hand stills for half a second.
