Page 48 of You’re The One (Saints Hockey #2)
FORTY-FOUR
I came to Ryan’s with a plan.
Take twenty-four hours to regroup, convince him to lend me enough money for a ticket to… anywhere but here, and shake off this heavy weight sinking over me.
I’m almost certain it’s been twenty-four hours, but I can’t be sure.
Other than bathroom breaks and Hannah force-feeding me, I’ve done nothing but mope in bed.
I never even asked Ryan to help. The idea of walking down a single flight of stairs feels exhausting, let alone leaving the house.
Somewhere new? No thanks.
Maybe I should’ve gone straight to somewhere . But I wasn’t thinking clearly. I could only focus on moving. On leaving.
That plan didn’t exactly work. I traded being stuck at a luxury Hawaiian resort for being stuck in my brother’s guest room in Chicago.
I’m starting to think there are some feelings I can’t outrun.
I pick up my phone for what feels like the hundredth time—but it’s probably closer to the fifth in the past hour—still unable to decide whether Googling Dominic and the show will make me feel better or worse.
There won’t be any news about how the show ends; the finale won’t air for months. But I could always torture myself with the public’s opinion from the teaser clips… and try to decide whether Dominic was giving me withering looks or amused ones every time I was a brat.
I toss it back on the nightstand, concluding that I can hold off punishing myself for one more day.
Tomorrow will be better.
A soft knock sounds at the door the next morning—or afternoon, I’m not sure—followed by Hannah’s voice. “Can I come in?”
No isn’t an acceptable answer, so I say, “Sure.”
She sets a glass of water on the nightstand and adds another granola bar to the growing pile.
“How’re you feeling? Mind if I sit?”
She doesn’t wait for me to answer, just climbs onto the other side of the bed and leans back against the headboard.
“Your brother’s worried,” she starts.
I roll toward her on my side. “Tell him not to.”
She shakes her head, smiling softly. “Do you know him?”
I return her smile, but laughing feels just out of reach. “You’re right.”
“Talking might help,” she murmurs.
Will it?
Even that feels like it would take too much energy. I don’t feel sad exactly, more numb. All I want to do is sink deeper under the covers and hope the next nap will cure me. That the feeling will pass, at least enough to gain a little momentum.
This isn’t the first time I’ve felt this way, obviously. But it’s been a while since I’ve sunk this low. Even when I had a moment a couple of weeks ago in the house, I managed to pull myself out of it.
This feels… different.
And I can’t figure out why.
I can’t help but think it’s because I let him get too close. Relied too much on another person. I spent twenty-two years avoiding that, and now…
Of all people to get through my walls.
“Have you called your therapist?” Hannah interrupts my spiral.
“Yeah. I’m talking to her in a couple of days.”
I will not cancel. I will not cancel. I will not cancel.
“What can I do?” Hannah asks, her voice unsure.
This is the part I hate most: the concern on someone else’s face, the guilt for being the reason, the weakness of not being able to fix myself.
“I ruined it,” I finally whisper.
Hannah scoots down, lying on her back beside me. I’m glad she doesn’t turn toward me; if she did, I’m not sure I’d be brave enough to continue.
“I didn’t tell him something I should have. And I couldn’t even explain why… I don’t think I understand it myself.”
“You really like him.” It’s not a question. And like might be an understatement at this point.
I nod.
She rubs my forearm, though I barely feel it through the thick comforter.
She hesitates before asking, “Why did you leave?”
“I think he picked her?—”
“Who?” she cuts me off.
“Emma.”
Her brows pull together, trying to place the name. “The literary agent who likes birds…”
“I didn’t know she liked birds,” I murmur, swallowing past the lump in my throat.
God, if liking birds is what finally sends me into hiccupping sobs…
“Mia,” she begins gently, cutting through my thoughts.
I swallow again, grateful for the interruption. “Sorry.”
She studies me, probably unsure of what to say or how to make this better. And really, it’s not her job. I need to fix this myself. I’ve dug out before. I’ll do it again.
I will.
“I think I’m going to take a nap.”
Translation: I want to be alone.
“How about we watch a movie?” she tries.
“Not right now.” I force a smile. “I’m okay.”
The furrow between her brows deepens.
“Promise,” I add.
She nods slowly, rising from the bed. “You’ll let me know if you need anything?”
“Yeah.”
Right before she shuts the door behind her, she turns back and tells me, “You didn’t ruin it.” And God, I hope she’s right. But she can’t know that.
I exhale, sinking deeper into the pillows, the weight of everything pressing down on me.
Tomorrow will be better.
When sunlight sneaks through the curtains the next morning, I curse the nice weather. I wish for a summer storm to rip through Chicago, something to match my mood. But the sun keeps shining, taunting me all day.
Another reminder that I’m not like most people—enjoying summer, enjoying life .
Ryan stops by with tough love, trying to coax me out of bed.
Hannah follows, softer and more patient.
Neither works.
Tomorrow will be better.