And again.
I smile at his words sometimes. Other times, I feel my lips tremble.
Mostly, I just stare into the distance while standing on top of the cliff where I almost lost him once. On the anniversary of his mother’s death.
When he was so out of it.
Maybe it started then. The fixation, the obsession, the need to protect him from a world that doesn’t deserve him.
I still lost him anyway, so now what?
Listen to his voice on repeat, that’s what.
“You’ve reached emotional terrorist and part-time hockey legend, Preston Armstrong…”
Again.
Andagain.
One more time.
My body’s growing numb from the icy wind as I listen to his voice on speaker, leaning against my bike and staring at the photo on my screen.
It’s one of the few selfies he took with my phone. This one was when we went out with Mom for coffee. She had to go to the hospital for an emergency, and I thought he’d ask for the date to end since, well, Mom was no longer available as a buffer. However, Preston just sat there with me in a coffee shop full of people.
He slid his foot up my thigh and talked shit about my sweater. He made me drink spiced hot chocolate and wiped the foam off my lips. Then, when we were in the parking lot, he said we needed to take a picture.
He held the phone up and snapped so many as we stood by the bike. In one, he put me in a headlock. In another one, we both smiled at the camera. But my favorite is this one.
Where he kissed the corner of my mouth, his cheeks creasing with dimples, his eyes nearly closed.
“You’ve reached emotional terrorist and part-time hockey legend, Preston Armstrong…”
Again.
“How long are you going to listen to that hideous voice?” Preston murmurs from beside me.
I gulp, my throat working up and down, but I force myself to stare at the town’s lights.
“God, I sound so pretentious.” He laughs.
“Don’t call your voice hideous. It’s my favorite voice. And you’re not pretentious.”
“Wow, if cliché were ever to hit you upside the head, this would be it, dude.”
I feel the weight of his hand on my shoulder. “Go home, Marcus. It’s cold.”
“I don’t want to. Mom will be waiting for me. She keeps trying to make me talk about you.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Yeah, you’ve been gone for two weeks, and…I can’t talk about it. I justcan’t. I refuse to process it.”
“But it’s freezing.” He wraps both arms around my waist, leaning his head against my shoulder, but I feel no warmth whatsoever.
“It’s not freezing enough.”
“You plan to join me or something?”
