Page 225 of Saving Forever with the Hockey Captain

I close the notebook gently and rest both hands on the cover. All this time I thought recovery was teaching me how to become strong again. Instead, it has been teaching me how to become honest.

I think back to the consultation room. To the hurt in Annette's eyes. To the way her voice broke when she admitted every ordinary morning had made saying goodbye harder.

She hadn't pushed me away because she didn't care. She'd stepped back because she cared too much. And I'd been so busy trying to convince her she belonged in my life that I'd forgotten to tell her why.

Not once had I said the words she deserved to hear. Not once had I trusted her with the whole truth.

I stand and carry the notebook back to the desk, but instead of sliding it into the drawer, I leave it resting on top.

Recovery isn't finished yet. Neither is the lesson. I reach for my phone and scroll until Annette's name appears on the screen.

For a moment my thumb hovers over the call button.

The old Jamie would have waited. He would have convinced himself that tomorrow was better, that there would be another chance, that actions would eventually speak loudly enough.

The man I'm becoming knows better. Some things deserve words.

I press Call.

The ringing begins immediately.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Each ring stretches a little longer than the last.

When her voicemail answers, I close my eyes for a brief second and smile sadly to myself.

Maybe this is easier.

Maybe I need to say these things without watching her face, without worrying whether I'm asking too much or saying too little.

The tone sounds. I draw one steady breath.

"Hi, Annette..."

I stop for just a heartbeat, not because I don't know what to say, but because I finally do.

"I don't know if you're ready to hear this yet. Honestly, I don't even know if I'm saying it at the right time. But Coach asked me a question today, and I realized I've spent months expecting you to understand something I've never actually put into words."

I smile faintly, looking down at the notebook still lying open on the desk.

"I've thanked you for helping me heal. I've told you how much I respect you. I've probably told you a hundred different ways that you've changed my life."

I pause. "The one thing I never told you...is that somewhere between therapy appointments, coffee after rehab, and your lectures about listening to my shoulder instead of my ego...I fell in love with you."

The words leave me with surprising calm.

"I don't expect you to answer that today. I don't expect you to fix anything. You've spent months helping me recover, and the last thing I want is to become another responsibility you're trying to carry."

I look through the window toward the lake, where the evening sun is beginning to settle beyond the trees.

"I just couldn't let you believe that what I feel is gratitude or obligation. It isn't."

Another quiet breath.