She sips her drink. “Did he? Are you planning on skating?”
I shrug. “I have to wear a special helmet now.”
“I didn’t realize that.” Her hand reaches across the table and rests on mine. “Is it because of the…”
“Yeah.” I’m torn between wanting to flip my hand over, grip hers, and pull her toward me for a quick kiss and just absorbing the sensation flowing under my skin at having her fingers reach for mine voluntarily again. “But even if I don’t skate, I’m happy to help out.”
“You’re being so kind.”
“Says the woman who’s involved with—” I pause to scan the labels on her binders. “The library fundraiser. The food drive. Math club grants?” I tilt my head. “How many things do you have your fingers in, exactly?”
“Enough to give back to the people who supported me.”
“A little birdie also indicated your name should be etched on the sports annex,” I add.
Her eyes flick to mine, surprised. “Who told you that?”
“Assistant football coach. He indicated it was from your settlement.”
She huffs out, “My only problem with Willow Creek. An anonymous donation lasts six minutes.”
This time, I give into the urge and clasp her hand between both of mine. “You really gave away your entire settlement?”
“I didn’t want their money, Brennan. I wanted validation.”
“That’s… so you,” I say, meaning it as the compliment it is.
She directs the attention away from herself gracefully, asking, “What about you? What’s it like living here versus OKC?”
The words come out of me before I even know they’re there. “For the first time in a long while, I don’t feel lonely.”
She scoffs, “Oh, come on, Brennan. Lonely?”
“The paparazzi made it look like I was living the dream. Big house. Teammates. Events.”
“Not to mention your dating life.” There’s a bite to her voice I don’t miss.
“I wasn’t a monk, but most were just there for the paparazzi show at Mark’s urging.”
“Still, you were lonely?”
“But there were maybe a handful of people who cared aboutme, not Brennan McCallister from the Kings.” I tick them off on one hand. “My parents and Mark—or so I thought.”
Her hand squeezes mine. “Is he still trying to reach out?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Instead of answering, I unlock my phone and hand it to her after opening the text.
She reads aloud, “‘Listen, I know I should have told you years ago. But I want to talk to you about everything. I messed up. Bad. Text me as soon as you can.’” She hands my phone back before remarking, “Looks like he’s in his guilt era. Do you feel like you need closure? To hear him out again?”
“Right now, I’m working on being a better man for me so I can face myself in the mirror again.”
Her eyes hold mine. “I’d disagree you weren’t a good man, Brennan. If you weren’t, then what happened between us wouldn’t have hurt so much.”
Her words aren’t forgiveness—an honor I don’t feel I’ve come close to earning. Yet, Amy cares even though my bad decisions compounded her own trauma. My head twists to the side. “I don’t deserve your grace, my queen.”
