Page 10 of Here We Go Again

“How’s your mom?” Theo asks now. “Are your parents still in Frisco?”

“They are,” I say. “And she’s good. She still has bad days, but for the most part, she feels great. She just started playing pickleball.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Theo says.

I glance at my watch. “So … you’ve just been waiting? My shift ended over an hour ago. You didn’t want to just text me?”

His lips tilt into a small smile. “I tried that, actually. You didn’t get them? I thought maybe you’d changed your number.”

“No, it’s the same…” My words trail off, and I press my lips together.

If I didn’t get his texts, it can only be because I still have him blocked.

“Ah,” Theo says, and an awkward silence falls between us. He’s not an idiot. He knows how cell phones work as well as I do. But what am I supposed to say? When I blocked him, it was a matter of survival. I had to stop waiting to hear from him. I had to move forward on my own terms.

Theo clears his throat. “Carter told me he saw you when I was in surgery. I’ve been meaning to reach out, but then…” He pushes his hands into his pockets, rocking on his feet like he’s nervous. Or just really uncomfortable.

“I totally get it,” I say. “I’m sure you’ve been focused on your recovery. I promise I didn’t have any expectations that you would reach out or⁠—”

“But I wanted to,” he says, cutting me off, then he lifts a placating hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. What I’m trying to say is that I wanted to see you.”

His words send a tiny thrill racing through me, but that’s ridiculous. The video I watched today was a keen reminder that Theo Williamson is not just the boy from Texas I used to know.

He’s grown into an elite athlete. A star on a team that’s among the best in the league. He signs autographs. Gets recognized in public. He has over four hundred thousand followers on his Instagram account.

He’s a star, and I’m still just a girl from Frisco, Texas, living a very ordinary adult life.

“I wanted to,” Theo repeats. “There was just some stuff I had to work through first.”

I study his expression, trying to make sense of what he means.

Stuff could just be his recovery. I’m sure it’s been a long and arduous road. With the nerve damage he likely suffered, he’s probably still recovering. But the weight in Theo’s words makes me think that’s not what he means.

My gut tightens at the possibility, and I suddenly feel the urge to flee.

In the weeks right after Theo’s surgery, I imagined a dozen different ways a potential meeting between us might go. Would he want to apologize? Would I let him? Does it even matter anymore?

When he didn’t reach out, a small part of me was disappointed, but a bigger part was relieved. Some things really are best left in the past. Why talk about it now? Why wade back into all those feelings when we can’t do anything to change what happened?

Theo clears his throat. “So, now that I’m here, I was hoping we could⁠—”

“How’s your hand?” I say, a little too loudly, interrupting him. I can only cross my fingers he’ll allow the subject change. Whatever he’s hoping we can do, I’m already positive I’d rather not.

His eyebrows lift, then he looks down at his open palm.

Once Theo was in recovery, I let myself pause, just for a moment, in the doorway of his hospital room. He was heavily sedated—there was no risk of him waking up—but I still couldn’t step over the threshold. It felt wrong somehow, a violation of his privacy when he had no idea I was there.

But I did read the surgical notes from his procedure. Several tendons were sliced clean in the accident, as well as his radial artery. It took more than five hours to piece everything back together, including the very delicate microsurgery aimed at repairing the damaged nerves.

It would have been a fascinating surgery to assist with had I not been so overwhelmed by seeing him again. “How has your recovery been?” I ask.

He flexes his fingers, curling them into a fist before relaxing again. A thin red scar runs from the base of his pointer finger across the pad of his thumb and down to his wrist. “Good. Better,” he says. “Still not back to normal, but I’m getting there.”

“It won’t impact your play?”

“It’s a little too early to tell. But my physical therapist is happy with my progress.”

“You had good doctors,” I say, and he nods.