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I would have accepted any of those. Anything at all.

“Did it ever occur to you that I might worry?”

“I’m sorry, Kam.”

Those fucking words again.

“Yeah, I can tell!” I hated that my voice wavered. And I hated it even more that I didn’t have the guts to ask what I really wanted to know.

I needed her to tell me if we were finished. If it wasn’t the race, or the disaster of my party, or my so-called friends, or this fucked up existence I lived in… But instead, if it was me—plain and simple. And if we were done.

But I couldn’t bring myself to voice the concern. Not today, with Leeds in less than forty-eight hours. As angry as I was, I didn’t want to burden her with any added stress. Any moreadditional pressure than she was already going through. After the race, whichever way it went… I’d ask her then.

For now, I needed to be supportive. To try and understand.

I took a deep breath. “I know you’ve got a lot on your mind—and when you’re in this mood, you can’t think about anyone but yourself—” okay, so I threw in one last dig. I couldn’t help myself. “But please remember—there are a lot of people who love and care about you. Please don’t close us out.”

She was quiet.

“Well, okay, then. Good talk. I guess I’ll hear from you when I hear from you—”

“Kam?”

I quieted. And waited.

And waited.

She didn’t continue.

“Was there anything else?”

There was a longer silence. I could hear her swallow on the other end of the line. “Sorry, no. I’ll call you after the race, okay?”

“You promise?” I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

“Yeah.”

So much of me wanted to tell her everything would be alright. She was going to make it. If there was one thing I knew about her, it was she could do anything she put her mind to. After all: she was Dillon Fucking Sinclair.

But I didn’t say any of it. I don’t know why. Instead, I just said goodnight. She told me goodnight. And we hung up.

It was the first time in longer than I could remember that I hadn’t told her I loved her when we said goodbye.

I wanted to hit redial. To tell her I was sorry. To beg her to let me come and support her. I didn’t have to come to the race—the headlines about the two of us had finally subsided—I could just be there. Be near. In whatever capacity she’d allow me to be.

But I didn’t call her back. I knew what she would say. It would be easier for her to focus without me there. Just give her until Saturday.

I got up and poured a glass of wine, deciding to bring the whole bottle back to the balcony.

I’d forgotten to tell her about Mia Hamm. Steven Spielberg.

It didn’t matter. I’d tell her after she qualified.

Because shewouldqualify. Shehadto.

And after that, everything would be okay.

Wewere okay. She wasn’t done with me. I knew that in my heart. She was just being Dillon. And I was just being dramatic.