Page 20 of Puck Me Back to Life

I blink hard.

Jesus Christ. Get it together.

They're cookies. I’m crying over cookies.

Angela's expression softens, a sad smile on her mouth.

“Thank you.” The words come out rougher than I intended.

Angela shrugs again. “No worries. You can pay me back with Grant's number.”

The cat stares at me like he personally baked them. “Tell Cleveland thank you too.”

Angela snorts. “Cleveland contributed nothing.”

The cat meows. Offended.

She pats the fat cat's head. “That's exactly what somebody who contributed nothing would say.”

I laugh quietly. The warmth in my chest grows. For the first time all day, the arena feels far away.

Angela points at me. “Get some sleep.”

I immediately make a face.

She points harder. “I mean it.”

“You're not my mother.”

“No.” She narrows her eyes. “But somebody has to parent you.”

I shake my head.

Angela smiles.

“Goodnight, Kai.”

“Goodnight, Ange.”

She heads back toward her apartment. Cleveland's tail disappears around the corner a second later.

Then I'm alone again. The hallway falls silent. I step inside my apartment and close the door behind me.

For a few moments, I simply stand there. The container of cookies remains warm in my hands. The apartment feels different somehow. Not less lonely. Just less empty. I set the cookies on the counter and carefully remove the towel. Peanut butter, my favorite.

Of course she remembered. My vision blurs unexpectedly. I sit down at the kitchen table before my legs can give out beneath me. The tears arrive quietly.

The cookies are still sitting on my kitchen counter when midnight comes and goes. I ate two of them. They were excellent. For about fifteen minutes, they even managed to distract me. Then the quiet returned.

Now I'm standing on my balcony in sweatpants and a T-shirt, staring out over the city while insomnia works its way through me like a disease. The lights below blur together into streaks of white and gold, and a cool breeze moves between the buildings. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails before fading into the background noise of the city.

The world keeps moving.

I don't.

Sleep feels impossible tonight. Every time I close my eyes, the game starts replaying in my head. My brain has never been interested in preserving the good moments. It doesn't care about the pass I threaded through traffic or the applause afterward. It doesn't care that I played well.

Instead, it collects the worst parts and sharpens them.