There was no joke this time. Just:
Sloane
Me too.
The dots danced. Reese loved those dots, especially when they were coming from Sloane. She’d wait on them all day if she had to, the flutter in her abdomen her new favorite drug.
Sloane
Four more days ‘til I see you.
I’m staring at the clock. I hate clocks now. They move too slowly.
But something interesting had happened in the time they’d been apart. They got to know each other. Not just the big stuff,but the little things that made a person a person. When you text with someone all day, every day, even staying up into the middle of the night to do so, the pretense comes down in the most wonderful kind of reveal.
Reese learned the patterns of Sloane’s days the way you learned a track, by paying attention. She knew when Sloane’s morning caffeine hit because the texts got sharper, more decisive. She knew when the day had gone sideways because Sloane stopped using punctuation altogether. She learned that Sloane paced when she was thinking, that she folded laundry while on calls she didn’t want to be on, that she hated being idle but loved being still.
Sloane learned Reese, too. Not the public Reese from the polished interviews or the grin that she used to sell for sponsors, but the one who overthought everything at 2:17 a.m. The one who needed reassurance that she pretended she didn’t. The one who talked through corners in her head when she couldn’t sleep, replaying laps she hadn’t even driven yet.
Sloane
You’re spiraling.
I am strategically analyzing.
Sloane
You’re catastrophizing.
Wow. Rude. Accurate. But rude.
They became each other’s first text of the day and last at night without ever naming it as such. In a way, it felt like she was never quite without Sloane, even if she was very much without her.
I think the rear grip issue isn’t the car.
Reese had sent the message just after midnight.
I think it’s me hesitating.
Sloane didn’t answer right away. Then:
Sloane
You don’t hesitate. You check twice. There’s a difference.
That one stuck with Reese. She carried it into the next practice session like a talisman. Sloane had been right. Of course she had.
They talked through everything. Reese’s frustration at being sidelined. Sloane’s exhaustion. They shared photos of hotel rooms, airport lounges, bad catering, a particularly aggressive espresso machine. Once, Reese sent a blurry picture of the sky out her window.
Can’t sleep.
Sloane
Me neither. Tell me what it looks like.
Reese did. She described the color, the quiet, the way the world felt as if it had paused. And Sloane listened. Really listened. The way she always did.
Sloane wasn’t just her girlfriend; she was Reese’s person.
