Page 39

Flying two thousand miles to watch someone from the parking lot is either romantic gesture or restraining order territory, and I’m honestly not sure which.

The Phoenix Community Center sits in a strip mall between a Dollar Tree and a place that advertises “Tax Prep & Tacos,” which sounds like the most Arizona combination possible.

I’m leaning against my rental car in ninety-degree heat that makes Boston feel like the Arctic, watching through floor-to-ceiling windows as Chelsea commands a room full of teenagers who look like they’d rather be literally anywhere else.

She’s wearing jeans and a Suns t-shirt, hair pulled back in a ponytail that makes her look younger than the polished professional I remember.

No blazer armor, no carefully constructed Dr. Clark persona.

Just Chelsea, animated and passionate, gesturing with her whole body as she makes some point about resilience that has a kid in the front row nodding like she’s revealing the secrets of the universe.

I’ve been here twenty minutes, and she hasn’t noticed me. Good. This isn’t about her seeing me—it’s about me seeing her happy. Proof that the life she built from our ashes is worth something. That maybe telling the truth was the right choice, even if it cost me everything.

“You gonna stand there all day looking creepy, or you gonna go in?”

I turn to find an old man in Suns shorts and a “World’s Greatest Grandpa” shirt studying me with the kind of direct assessment that comes from decades of dealing with bullshit.

“Just watching,” I say.

“That’s what makes it creepy.” He extends a hand. “Frank Morales. And you’re Reed Hendrix, unless there’s another six-foot-three white boy lurking around community centers looking at Dr. Clark like she hung the moon.”

Shit. “How did you—”

“Kid, I’ve been coaching teenage athletes for forty years. You think I don’t recognize that particular brand of pining?” He grins. “Plus, your face was all over ESPN for months. You’re not exactly incognito.”

“I’m not stalking her.”

“Didn’t say you were. But standing in a parking lot watching someone through windows hits about a seven on the restraining order scale.”

“She doesn’t know I’m here.”

“I figured. Chelsea’s not exactly subtle when she’s surprised. Girl wears every emotion on her sleeve.” Frank studies the community center, then me. “So what’s the plan? Keep watching her through glass like some sad zoo exhibit?”

“I don’t have a plan. I’m supposed to be in Boston. Team thinks I’m visiting my brother in Vegas.”

“But you’re here.”

“But I’m here.”

“Why?”

The question I’ve been avoiding since I booked this flight on impulse after seeing her text. Why am I here? What did I think would happen? That I’d see her from across a parking lot and suddenly know how to fix everything we broke?

“Wanted to see if she was okay,” I admit. “After the interview. After everything.”

“And?”

I watch Chelsea laugh at something a kid says, her whole face lighting up with genuine joy. She looks... settled. Not happy exactly, but content in a way she never looked in Chicago. Like someone who’s figured out how to want what she has instead of mourning what she lost.

“She’s better than okay,” I say.

“Yep. Took her a while to get there, but she found her footing.” Frank pauses. “Question is, what’re you gonna do about it?”

“Nothing. This isn’t about me.”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said bullshit. You don’t fly halfway across the country to watch someone through windows unless it’s about you. At least partially.” He leans against my rental car, making himself comfortable. “So what do you want, Hendrix?”

“I want her to be happy.”

“She is happy. Well, getting there anyway. Try again.”

“I want to tell her I’m sorry. For how everything ended. For the cost.”

“That it?”

I look back at the community center, at Chelsea in her element, and feel the truth clawing its way up my throat.

“I want to tell her I miss her. That the interview wasn’t just about fairness—it was about still being in love with someone I can’t have. That every good thing I’ve done since Chicago has been me trying to become someone worthy of what we had.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Frank studies me with sharp eyes. “You planning to tell her any of that?”

“No. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you here?”

Before I can answer, the community center doors open and teenagers start filing out, probably heading to whatever teenage wasteland awaits them in Phoenix strip malls.

I should leave. Should get back in my rental car and pretend this whole trip was about visiting Matty, who’s doing better in Vegas rehab but still has no idea his brother is having geographic breakdown in the desert.

Instead, I reach into my backseat and pull out the flowers I bought at a gas station an hour ago. Sunflowers, because they seemed appropriately Arizona and because Chelsea once mentioned loving them during some session where we were supposed to be discussing my anger management techniques.

“Flowers,” Frank observes. “Classic move.”

“They’re not... it’s not romantic. They’re just—”

“Son, you bought flowers for a woman you flew two thousand miles to watch through windows. If that’s not romantic, romance is dead.”

Chelsea appears in the doorway, saying goodbye to the last few kids, ruffling hair and promising to see them next week. She looks tired but satisfied, like someone who’s done meaningful work and knows it.

“You should go talk to her,” Frank says.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because what if she doesn’t want to see me? What if I make her life complicated again? What if—”

“What if you grow a pair and find out?”

But I’m already walking toward the building, flowers clutched like a shield against whatever’s about to happen. Chelsea’s back is to me as she locks up, keys jangling in the kind of quiet that makes every footstep sound like thunder.

I get within ten feet before I lose my nerve.

This is stupid. Selfish. She’s built something good here, found peace in this desert exile, and I’m about to contaminate it with my presence. Like a virus that destroys everything it touches.

I back away, then turn and walk quickly toward the parking lot before she can notice me. But flowers don’t exactly blend into Arizona landscaping, and I’m holding them like evidence of my emotional crimes.

“Hey!” Chelsea’s voice, sharp with surprise.

I freeze, caught between running and turning around. The smart choice is running. The smart choice is always running when it comes to Chelsea Clark.

I turn around.

She’s standing in the doorway, hand shading her eyes against the desert sun, looking exactly like every dream I’ve had since Chicago. Older maybe, more settled, but still fundamentally her in ways that make my chest tight.

“Vegas?” she says.

I smile at that. “Hi.”

“What are you—” She looks at the flowers, then at me, then at Frank who’s watching this disaster unfold with obvious entertainment. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“In Phoenix? In the Phoenix neighborhood? In Arizona?”

“Okay, I flew here specifically to see you.”

“What? Why?”

The question hangs between us like a challenge.

I could lie, make this about closure or friendship or some bullshit that doesn’t involve admitting I’m still catastrophically in love with her.

But I flew two thousand miles to stand in a strip mall parking lot.

Might as well commit to the honesty that got me here.

“Because after the interview, after you texted, I couldn’t stop thinking about whether you were okay. Really okay.”

“And?”

“And I needed to see for myself.”

She steps closer, close enough that I can smell her perfume—different from Chicago, lighter, like she’s trying on a new version of herself.

Close enough to see the small scar on her chin from falling off her bike at seven, the one she told me about during a session where we were definitely not staying professional.

“You could have called.”

“You would have answered?”

“Probably not.”

“That’s why I came here instead.”

We stand there in uncomfortable silence while Frank presumably takes notes for whatever coaching autobiography he’s probably writing. Chelsea looks at the flowers again, and I realize I’ve been holding them like a weapon instead of a gift.

“These are for you,” I say, extending them awkwardly. “They’re not... I mean, they’re not supposed to mean anything. I just saw them and thought...”

“Thought what?”

“That you used to like sunflowers.”

“I still do.”

She takes them carefully, like they might hurt. Our fingers brush during the transfer, and the contact burns like live wire.

“Thank you. For the interview. For telling the truth. For...” She gestures vaguely at the flowers, the community center, the space between us. “All of it.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do. It mattered. What you said, how you said it. It changed things.”

“Good things?”

“My father called. We’re talking again. Slowly, but talking.”

“That’s good. That’s really good.”

“Yeah.” She smiles, and it’s genuine but careful. “So how long are you in town?”

“Flying out tonight. Red-eye back to Boston.”

“You came here for the day?”

“I came here for an hour. To see you speak, to know you were okay, to give you those and leave.”

“But you didn’t leave.”

“You spotted me before I could make my escape.”

“Lucky me.”

The words hang between us, loaded with possibility and history and the growing realization that we’re having a conversation we’ve both been avoiding for months.

“Reed,” she says carefully, “why are you really here?”

“I told you—”

“The real reason.”

I look at her standing there in the Arizona sun, holding sunflowers and waiting for honesty I’m not sure I’m brave enough to give. Behind her, Frank has apparently decided this is better than cable television and settled in to watch the whole show.

“Because I miss you,” I admit. “Because every good thing I’ve done since Chicago has been me trying to become someone you could be proud of. Because I told the truth on national television, but the biggest truth is that I’m still in love with you and probably always will be.”

Chelsea’s eyes widen. The flowers tremble in her hands.

“Reed—”

“I’m not asking for anything,” I continue quickly. “I’m not here to complicate your life or ask you to forgive me or pretend we can fix what we broke. I just needed you to know that you mattered. That what we had mattered. That you didn’t just destroy my life—you saved it.”

She’s crying now, silent tears that track down her cheeks while she clutches sunflowers like a lifeline.

“You can’t just—” She stops, takes a shaky breath. “You can’t just show up here and say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m finally okay. I’m finally building something that works, something that’s mine, something that doesn’t require choosing between my heart and my future.”

“I know. That’s why I was leaving.”

“But you’re not leaving. You’re standing here telling me you love me.”

“Because you asked for the truth.”

“I didn’t ask for that truth.”

“What truth did you want?”

She looks at me for a long moment, sunflowers forgotten, tears drying in desert heat.

“I wanted you to tell me you were happy,” she whispers. “That you’d moved on. That the interview was closure, not...” She gestures helplessly. “This.”

“Are you happy?” I ask.

She huffs, glancing around. She wipes her eyes. “I don’t know. I’m getting there.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s enough.”

“Is it?”

She doesn’t answer, which is answer enough. We stand here in the parking lot of a Phoenix strip mall, surrounded by the debris of everything we’ve lost and the possibility of everything we might still choose.

“I should go,” I say finally.

“You should.”

“Take care of yourself, Chelsea.”

“You, too.”

I turn and walk toward my rental car, keys heavy in my pocket, already planning the text to Matty about visiting tomorrow before my flight. Anything to make this trip feel less like romantic suicide and more like geographic coincidence.

I’m almost to the car when she calls my name.

“Reed.”

I turn, hope and terror warring in my chest.

She’s still holding the sunflowers, still crying a little, still looking like every mistake and miracle I’ve ever made.

“I missed you too,” she says quietly.

And then the world shifts, just slightly, but enough to change everything.