Not happy.
Tired.
“That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to want to come.”
“I said I’d come.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
The fridge hummed. Somewhere upstairs, my neighbor dropped something heavy enough to shake the ceiling. My skin felt too tight, my thoughts already sprinting ahead, Aspen, practice, Declan, Olivia, flight schedules, Vanessa in a hotel bed, my mouth remembering beard burn.
Vanessa watched me with quiet hurt, and it landed in a place I’d been trying to keep numb.
“Are you even here anymore?” she asked.
I had no answer.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Looked at the coffee mug in front of her, the one with my number on it that she’d bought as a joke before she ever knew how little I liked seeing myself on things in my own apartment.
“I don’t know,” I said finally.
Her eyes went shiny, but she didn’t cry. Somehow that made me feel worse.
“Is it me?” she asked.
“No.”
“Is that honest?”
I rubbed the heel of my hand against my forehead. Too hard. “It’s not you doing something wrong.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
“Then answer what I asked.”
The problem was there were too many answers, and none of them fit in my mouth without destroying everything.
“You like the life,” I said, and regretted it before the sentence finished.
She flinched. “Wow.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Vanessa.”
“No, don’t smooth it over because you feel bad.” She got off the stool. “I do like parts of your life. I like going places with you. I like dressing up. I like the photos. I like that people know who you are. I’ve never pretended otherwise.”
“I know.”
“But I also learned your pregame food order. I know you can’t sleep after West Coast games, so I don’t start serious conversations when you get home at two in the morning. I know you forget laundry in the washer and then get mad because it smells weird. I know you need me to text twice if something matters because the first one disappears into whatever hurricane is happening in your head.”
