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Reed throws his keys in a bowl that has Caleb’s handprints painted in royal blue. “So, what’s up? I heard you’ve been sick. Did you have what Lettie had?”
“Have you or Brooke seen her?”
I follow him into the kitchen. He opens the fridge. “Beer, water, or milk?”
“Water.”
He throws the bottle to me and answers, “She called Brooke and said she was sick and needed to go home for a few days.”
“Hmm.” Maybe she’s reconsidering. Grans and Paps are probably giving her some small-town mountain advice.
“You didn’t know?” Then a moment of clarity hits him. “What happened?”
I explain that we had been stretching ourselves thin, and I had been canceling my contract obligations, narrowly getting to practice on time, among other things.
He listens and absorbs. “Last year, when you came close to dying in that fire, I saw firsthand how devastated she was that she couldn’t carry you out of her apartment. Have you thought about how she lost everything she had and nearly lost you? How she withdrew from school? Is it possible that when you were a couple, it scared her at how much you depend on each other.” He takes a drink. “Brooke has told me about Lettie’s parents, so she doesn’t know what a functional relationship looks like.”
“Yeah, they suck ass. It’s been years since they’ve made an appearance.”
“I know a thing or two about bad parents. But I’m also the poster child that it can work out when it’s the right girl at the right time.”
I lean against the counter, processing. It does make sense, but why wouldn’t she just tell me that instead of this bullshit of we’re taking up too much time. We could do a schedule. Fuck, she loves schedules and telling me what to do. In the last two months of high school, there was a senior activity nearly every day. She made a calendar and coded it red with things we would do together; green was for her activities, and blue was mine. Then she hung it on the cork board in my bedroom. She was so proud of it, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at it like it was an acceptance letter to an Ivy League school.
Reed's sympathetic tone breaks through the trashing thoughts that make me want to beat my head against a wall. I turn to face him, trying to keep my emotions in check. "Anything I can do?" he asks, his hand reaching out to pat my back.
I shake my head, not sure if I can even handle talking about it yet. "I don't know if I can be just friends with her... not after everything that's happened. But maybe it's the only way I can have her in my life," I admit, my heart heavy with the pain of a fresh wound.
“When I was going through my shit last year, Brooke’s dad said just keep the lines of communication open. It wasn’t about Brooke and me, but it was about my dad.”
“Yeah. I’ll think about it. I just don’t know if I can even look at her. I’m so damn angry and hurt.” I nod, grateful for his advice, but still unsure if I can even be in the same room with Lettie right now. "I'll think about it."
Reed squeezes my shoulder in support. "Take your time, man. Just remember, you two were friends before anything else."
We end up watching Sports Channel for a brief time before I head to practice.
Practice sucks. I miss the basket more than I hit it. I hear my mom’s voice, but I just can’t make myself work hard or fucking care.
The next day, we play Broadhurst University, our heated rival in an out of conference match.
Memories of the hockey teams fighting and them going after Reed is a topic of conversation. We want to beat them down, not tolerating the targeting of any Stallion, regardless of the sport.
But as I step onto the court, my body feels heavy and sluggish. My usual drive to the basket is lacking, and my defense is leaving shooters open more often than not. It's like my mind and body are stuck in a fog, unable to fully focus on the game.
After Coach Cappitano busts our asses for a despicable performance, and leaves, Nick says, “Call Lettie and figure your fucking shit out.” He flicks his towel against the wall. My teammates grumble, but no one else says anything directly to me.
I sit by myself on the plane ride home, headphones in, listening to John Travolta and Olivia Newton John, just to feel Lettie’s presence.
The bus is waiting by the tarmac to take us to campus, and it reminds me of how Lettie would be there, waving her arms and congratulating me on the win.
When I get back to The Stable, there are jersey chasers waiting outside, wanting to lick our wounds and make us feel better, and I think about it for a hot second. None of them will take the pain away. None of them are Lettie. I push through the crowd, and despite hands being all over me, I feel alone.
I strip down to my underwear and look at pictures of Lettie and me on my phone before we were a couple and once we were together. In both, the smiles and laughter are evident. Maybe I’ll reach out and see if we can try again.
Me: Morning. I miss my best friend.
Those dreaded dots tell me she’s seen my text and now is writing and deleting over and over.
Lettie: Morning. I miss you too.
