He hums an agreement, and that’s my final straw.
“Are you mad at me?”
“Of course not. Why would I be mad at you?”
If he were anyone else, if we were discussing anything except us, I’d commend him for how neatly he turned the tables on me.
“Because of LA.”
“What about LA?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. “You know what.”
“If you want to talk about LA, tell me what part you want to talk about.”
“I-I shouldn’t have shown up at your hotel room.”
“You should not have,” he agrees.
“S-sorry,” I stutter, taken aback by that response.
“You do not want me to treat you differently from any other player, right?”
“Right.”
“Then we should stop these sessions. If you need extra assistance, work with Meg.”
“I didn’t ask for your help,” I snap. “Coach Taylor asked?—”
“I will talk to Eliza.”
“And tell her…”
Otto scoffs. He might have claimed not to be mad, but he looks pissed. “Do not worry. I will not mention Paris. What is there to say about it?”
Nothing.
There’s nothing to say about Paris. We didn’t part on confusing terms. We ended it. We said goodbye. And six years later, I still can’t find any closure where Otto Berger is concerned. Worse, since he showed up, any finality I felt continues to slip away. I’m more confused every moment we spend together.
“See you tomorrow,” he says, veering toward his car before I can summon any sort of response.
I watch him walk away, the set of his shoulders strong and imperious.
It seems impossible that I could offer Otto Berger anything he doesn’t already have. It’s been well established that our lives were—are—incompatible. I know it. He knows it. So, why is he acting like I let him down in some way by saying so?
I trudge toward my own car, my mood sour despite the sunny weather. Standing around, wondering, isn’t an option. I have to pick up Tommy from preschool, and then I was planning to drive to Echo Glen to visit Mom. There are sprawling gardens surrounding the care facility we can walk through. The dahlias in the yard are beginning to bloom, and I snapped a photo before leaving the house this morning to show Mom.
I climb into the sedan, turn the key, and…nothing. I repeat the motion, thinking it was a fluke. Still, silence.
“Fuck,” I mumble, resting my forehead against the steering wheel and blowing a long breath that releases every bit of air from my lungs.
I pop my door open, walk to the front of the car, and lift the hood. Everything looks normal, not that I’d know if it didn’t.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, deliberating whether to call Lydia to ask if she can get Tommy or abandon my car here and order an Uber to get to Little Red Wagon.
“It didn’t start?”
My stomach sinks all the way to the asphalt.
