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“This is your life now, Andie, live it, and live it well,” I say to myself, thinking that’s probably what my mom would say to me at this moment.

Walking into the kitchen, I pour my coffee inside a travel mug, and set out to build my stupid gym. Because I don’t give up and wallow in self-pity, and neither would Mom.

I’m going to thrive, and I'm going to be strong. For myself and for Noah.

I last one hour before I’m on the guest room floor sweaty, sore and crying again. The pieces of my new squat rack are strewn about the room along with weights and nuts and bolts. It’s chaos.

This home gym is now a reflection of my life. I’m laying on my back staring at the ceiling when I yell, “I give up, okay!? I can’t be you, Mom!”

I instantly feel guilty… and childish.

So I’m not a travel nurse anymore? Big deal. So I can’t go out whenever I want? Whatever. So I don’t even have time to date and I’m flirting with my little brother's coach? Okay, that one’s borderline desperate.

But none of it matters when my parents are gone. I’d give up a million more freedoms if I could have them back… for Noah to have them back.

There’s no feeling more desperate, more gut-wrenching… than being completely and utterly overwhelmed in life, and having zero options to change the circumstances to make things easier… lighter. The fact is, this is heavy. This is hard. And I just have to learn to deal with it all gracefully.

When all I really want to do is lay here on the floor and cry and feel sorry for myself. I don’t want to be strong and resilient… I want to live out my days as the fun, carefree sister who travels all over the country doing the job she loves.

And yet, here I am… forced into being strong and resilient.

Slowly, I force myself into a sitting position and then stand up. I groan at the mess around me, turning and walking out of my bedroom—er, guestroom. Wait, it’s now the home gym. Okay, ‘home gym’ is a major exaggeration in its current state—then close the door firmly behind me.

When I’m back in the kitchen, my eyes go straight to the bright pink container labeled sassy jar. It sits there in its glittery bedazzled glory, mocking me. I want to smash it on the ground into a million little pieces and curse at it.

Yeah, I know… the irony is not lost on me.

With a deep breath, I think of three things I'm grateful for today: Ronda, audiobooks, and my gym equipment. (My feelings on that last are iffy).

I can do this. Me and Noah? We’ve got this. A few swear words and an unfinished home gym won’t stop us.

* * *

That evening at hockey practice, I sit alone. The perfect end to my day full of emotional breakdowns. We’re allowed one of those days every once in a while, right?

Tori smiled at me when she walked in, but Steph has avoided eye contact. I sit there, watching Noah—and Mitch—wishing I knew how to handle the Steph situation. And feeling melancholy and alone.

I’ve never wanted a hug so badly in my life.

The only thing that brings a smile to my face today, is watching the familiarity between Noah and Mitch tonight. It’s like they went from mean coach and annoying student, to big brother and little brother… in their own subdued, broody way. I never realized before how alike their personalities are. Maybe that’s why they butted heads at first. Or perhaps, they just really bonded during their one-on-one time.

But tonight, Mitch seems softer somehow, kinder. Like this coaching gig is teaching him just as much as it is the kids. Like he’s learning right along with them.

Mitch glances over at me and catches me staring. I’m too emotionally and physically exhausted to jerk my eyes away and pretend I wasn’t looking at him, so I pull a Mitch and nod my head once. He gives me a barely perceptible smirk back, something so small I wouldn’t have considered it a smile a few weeks ago. But the more I interact with Mitch, I notice the small things that most people wouldn’t.

It’s like my Mitch-related senses are heightened because I have to really look, really pay attention, to notice his reactions. The shine of his eyes when he’s teasing, the twitch of his mouth when he’s smiling, the clench of his jaw when he’s irritated—which happens frequently—yeah, Mitch ‘The Machine’ isn’t a robot at all. Everything besides his temper, and the sheer size of him, is just understated.

CHAPTER 15

MITCH

Andie’s puffy, sad eyes make my chest ache. My chest that’s supposed to be a locked-down, barricaded monstrosity. Somehow, my stupid therapy is making me feel things, even though I haven’t really opened up to Dr. Curtis that much. Or maybe it’s Andie that’s making me feel things.

The problem is, I don’t want to feel this way. But at the same time, it feels good.

No, good isn’t the right word. It feels terrifying, but in a not-bad way, like getting your first tattoo.

I notice Noah glancing at his sister a few times as well, his brows scrunching together in concern.