Page 42

Wheels Up

Colt

‘ A nd I talked to my parents. You’re welcome to stay until the house is—’

‘I know, Colt.’

May, clearly pushing away her emotions, stands with fists planted on her hips, in her trusty denim shorts and Riders T-shirt combo, the shirt with a jagged hem that curls up, product of a DIY crop-top job. Her hair, thrown into two low space buns at the back of her head, reflects the setting Oklahoma sun, glowing a brown-red as she steps forward, pointing to the truck. ‘Go on.’

I cough awkwardly. She’s seen me in pretty much every form of broken at this point: physical, mental, emotional.

‘May—’

‘Do you want me to call your parents up so I can tell them their son’s stalling?’ She raises an eyebrow, deadpan.

‘Please don’t,’ I say way too quickly.

‘That’s what I thought.’ She crosses one leg over the other, leaning against my truck. ‘Gonna get a move on, then?’

‘I guess I have to.’ I drag a hand through my hair, glancing up at the clear blue sky. God. Clear blue sky. Huge family dinners. May and I walking to class together. Constellations like you never see in New England that are perfectly visible at night.

I have missed home.

She opens the door to the driver’s side of the cab. ‘I’ve put a can of Red Bull in your bag. Drink it before you get to TSA. But wait a minute, actually.’

May turns back to the house, and she bolts so fast I think she’s going to lose a sandal. She’s back within the minute, with a big gift bag. ‘May, I can’t take this.’

‘You can. Here.’ She shoves the bag into my arms. ‘If you’re going to take for ever to leave like this, you might as well open it now.’

I sigh, but I remove the tissue paper from the top. I pull out the gift. A custom, genuine straw cowboy hat, with a brown leather band etched with flowers. Roses.

‘May.’ I take a sharp breath in through my nose as my fingers run over the roses. Just like the ones on her Roper Rivalry suit. ‘This is …’

‘It’s just a little something we wanted to leave you with.’ She looks away, clearing her throat. ‘All right. Get in the truck.’

I oblige and step up into the truck, one foot at a time. But I don’t want to. I want to share a million more moments with May.

I want to go for a ride with her down the Prosperity trail. I want to crack open seltzers and play a round of lacrosse under the dim lights of our backyard. I want to take her out to dinner and then laugh so hard at something she says that my drink almost snorts out my nose. I want to walk around town with her, wearing her jersey, so everyone knows I’m hers. I want to hear my name leave her lips like it did that night in the back of the truck, over and over and over. I want to see her smile when she makes a perfect goal, and the dry Oklahoma wind blows just right, and she looks like an angel, beaming as the sun beats down and the breeze tussles with her ponytail. I want to ask her if she’s ready for bed, and I want her to tell me she has to finish the chapter first. I want her in her glasses. In nothing but her giant Diamond Quad map shirt. I want her in pantsuits, in lacrosse uniforms, in Wranglers, in boots with butterflies on them. I want her in the first house we buy. I want her in my heart. I want her in my life.

‘Thanks,’ I say as I start the car.

Her brow furrows, her full lips turning downward. ‘Well, yeah, of course. We couldn’t send you back without a proper hat.’

I shake my head. ‘Not just for the hat, May. For everything else. For finding the room in your heart to forgive me.’

She laughs, one that dissolves quickly. Sweeping a hair from her forehead, she looks down at her sandals. ‘There was always room for you there. Always will be. If you ever feel like comin’ back.’

God . It’s been five years, and I’d still drop everything, cancel my flight, fuck my contract over, just so I could stay here with her.

I do the next best thing. I swing myself down from the truck, and I let the space in my heart I’ve always saved for her do the talking. I take her face in my hands, and I press my lips to hers. I move my hands to her waist, and hers loop behind my neck, tangling themselves in my hair. We kiss like we’re in a bid for oxygen, and the only place we can get it is from each other. Her cropped shirt comes up, the both of us so close together that my belt buckle presses right against her body. My grip on her creeps up to her ribs, just skimming the bottom of her bra. When I pull away, I feel like she takes a part of me with her.

‘I’m always gonna feel like coming back,’ I whisper, my lips brushing her ear. ‘Save a room for me in the new house.’

‘I will.’ Her chest rises and falls against mine, and she steps back so I can climb into the truck once more, driver’s seat, click on my seat belt. The engine thrums. I grip the handle of the door.

‘Win that championship.’

She bites her lip, but she nods. ‘We’ll try.’

‘Try?’

‘We will,’ she corrects herself with a chuckle, wrapping her arms around herself. ‘Don’t forget to clear your head, Colt.’

‘I won’t,’ I assure her.

‘Bye.’

‘See ya.’

I finally close the door and, with it, I get that dumb stinging feeling in my throat. Maybe I’m allergic to goodbyes.

May waves as I pull out of the driveway, and I wave back. I do my damnedest to save the image of her in front of my house, with those messy space buns and that chopped-up shirt of hers; to save every detail I can remember of her face, down to the way her eyes, shaped like almonds, tip up just slightly, and her eyebrows talk before she does, every trace of her on my skin, every feeling, every note of her perfume. Every piece of her.

I get to the airport right on time. I down the Red Bull that May gave me in under five minutes before I hustle through security, whipping my carry-on and my lacrosse bag around behind me until I reach my gate just as boarding starts. I wait for them to call business class, and once I’m on the plane, I finally relax, collapsing in the leather seat.

I’m all good until a heavy wave of guilt hits me as the plane taxis down the runway, picking up speed.

The wheels of the plane go up when it takes off. Just like the first time I left this place, I think to myself – as I leave Oklahoma, as I leave May – that I’ve fallen that much harder, all over again. I think about the fact that I’m never going to be able to clear my head completely when I play. I can’t. There’s still one thing I have to think about when I pick up my stick, always.

Her.