‘But you didn’t,’ she continues. ‘You didn’t ask me. You didn’t say goodbye to me, either. Why didn’t you say goodbye, Colt? Huh?’
I remember it as clearly as day. The hallway, the glimpse of May out of the corner of my vision. Of the tears in her eyes, of the pleading. Just like that, fear had taken me over. ‘If I had said goodbye to you,’ I tell her, ‘come hell or high water, I probably would have picked everything up and put it right back in my parents’ house and refused to move to Boston. Just so I could stay with you.’
‘Oh, Colt.’ May’s voice is barely a whisper. ‘Why on God’s greenearthdid you never, ever tell me any of that?’
‘Is it a good enough answer to say ’cause Dylan Wright was yourchambelan?’
‘Oh my …’ May reaches out and smacks my arm. ‘Shut up. Will you go on and tell me?’
‘Because …’No time like the present, Colt. Come on.
This is only the bit I’ve waited years to tell her. The tiny little crumb of information that has pretty much defined my life ever since May set foot in my world in that ridiculous pink equestrian jacket. I’ve guarded it with my life, for what feels like for ever.
‘Do you – do you remember when I was stuck on that goal for days? Sophomore year? Close to sectionals?’
May’s eyes narrow in thought, but she nods tentatively. ‘Yeah … How could I forget? You were insufferable. You kept goin’ back there every night. I was about sick of it.’
That last part almost makes me chuckle. I’d spend the evenings after school on the Prosperity soccer field, stuck in a rut, just me and the goal I’d set up on the grass. I couldn’t get that shot, no matter how hard I tried: it was the no-look twizzler.
‘And you remember when you finally gottotallysick of it?’ I continue. I’m practically sitting on my hands to combat the nerves.
Thankfully, her face lights up in recognition. ‘I went with you sometime round ten days after you started that desperate quest of yours.’
‘And you got pissed ’cause I’d just stand there,’ I recall with a laugh.
She rolls her eyes, but a wistful smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. ‘Thought you’d be able to make that goal score itself.’
‘Except you said something.’ I swallow hard. ‘About how I wouldn’t know if I’d be able to make it or not if I didn’t try. You said, “Just take the fucking shot, Colt.”’
May hums in acknowledgement. ‘That was one of my finer moments. It was …’ Her voice trails off as her eyes meet mine. I kind of hope she reads me, right then and there. Saves me thenerves that threaten to pull me under when I think about what I’m a sentence from telling her. But I have to do it now. I’ve already put it off five years longer than I should’ve.
‘May, I-I guess I didn’t take your advice.’ I let out a bitter laugh, one that’s more upset at myself than anyone else. ‘I got scared instead of taking the shot. You were my closest friend, man. I didn’t know if you would look at me like I was an idiot when I told you I couldn’t even bring myself to say bye to you because that’s how terrified I was of screwing up our friendship. Because May, I kinda didn’t realize just how much I needed you until that damn plane took off. And when the stupid wheels left the ground …’ My throat stings, my vision going blurry. It’s as unfamiliar to me as timidity is to May. ‘That’s when I realized I’d fallen for you. Now, granted, I’ve clearly taken a couple hard falls in my life, some more kneecap-ending than others …’
Now it’s May’s turn to stifle a laugh, but her eyes look a lot like mine feel. Full of tears.
‘… but I’ve never fallen as hard as I did when I sat on that plane and looked out of the window. Out at where I was leavin’ you behind.’
‘Just take the shot,’ May echoes her own words quietly, and we share a tentative smile. ‘God. You must be great at giving those pep talks to the Woodchucks before games. Have you ever moved your team to bawling before?’
‘Once or twice.’
She chuckles, shaking her head, and bats a tear from her cheek. ‘You’re acharacter, do you know that? With this – this dialogue about wheels? Colt, wheels? Where do you get this?’ May looks up, a hand to her forehead, and then back to me. ‘Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?’
‘For what?’
‘Allof this.’ May does some wildly vague waving of hands. ‘So everything that we did this season, to … to pretend—’
‘Maybe we were supposed to be pretending,’ I put in. Another tear trickles down May’s cheek, and I reach over, thumb it away. She doesn’t stop me. ‘But damn if I wasn’t faking a thing.’
She grips my hand, gives it a squeeze. ‘Can I tell you somethinginsane?’
I nod.
‘I think I’ve stopped hating you. But I’m still jealous.’
Wait.Jealous?
I probably have the blankest look on my face as I regard May, and things begin to come together. Starting with that sting of envy in her voice when we’d sat and talked out on the porch after the tornado. ‘You were jealous?’
