Page 27 of Here We Go Again

Boyfriend. The word lands in my gut like a fifty-pound kettlebell.

I shouldn’t be surprised. I mean, look at her. Of course she has a boyfriend. But hearing her say it still sparks a sense of disappointment, a shallow ache right behind my ribs that makes me put down my coffee cup and press my palms against my legs. I knew it was a possibility, and it doesn’t change the importance of being here. My desire to apologize doesn’t have anything to do with her relationship status.

But I still hoped. And it sucks to have those hopes so thoroughly dashed.

She did say it was complicated, but that probably has everything to do with the fact that they’re currently living on opposite sides of the country. I want to ask, dig for more info, look for any sign of weakness that might keep my hope alive, but I won’t do it. Becca’s perceptive enough to see through me, and I don’t want her to think the only reason I’m apologizing is that I’m hoping for something more.

So I swallow my disappointment and cross my fingers, hoping my voice doesn’t come out as strangled as I feel. “Yeah, that’s really long distance,” I manage to say. “That must be hard.”

Her eyes drop to the table for a long moment. “Yeah, it hasn’t been awesome. Though you probably know what it’s like, with all the traveling you do.”

“Yeah, I…” I hesitate, unsure how to finish the sentence. “Not so much, really.”

“Oh, come on,” Becca teases, but there’s a depth to her gaze that makes me think she’s more serious than she’s letting on. “I’ve seen the pictures. You appear to be quite the ladies’ man.”

Heat climbs up the back of my neck. I love the idea of Becca looking me up, but I hate the idea of what all those photos might make her assume when it’s the opposite of what’s real.

“Well, if it’s on the internet, it must be true,” I say. A deflection, but it makes her grin.

“Right. Absolutely. A solid assumption,” she says.

Silence settles again, and I shift in my seat. If I’m going to do this, I have to do it now.

“So, I read that the hockey team is partnering with the hospital for a twenty-four-hour MS Walk next weekend,” Becca says, and I breathe out a sigh of relief, immediately latching on to the subject.

“We totally are. We do it every August. Our GM’s wife has MS, so he does a lot of connected advocacy work.”

Her expression softens. “I love that. I’m signed up too, actually. A bunch of nurses are doing it together. But this one feels different than the one we did in high school. I won’t have to walk the entire twenty-four hours, right?”

“Definitely not. There has to be someone from each team walking at all times, but you take turns. It’s a lot of fun. They have food and raffles and this whole big auction thing. For the Jaguars, people from the community sign up to walk with whatever team member they want, and whatever they donate, we match, then double.”

“Sounds amazing. Except for the August in Atlanta part. I’m not excited about that.”

“Yeah, the heat is pretty brutal. But the firefighters come and hose everyone down, so that helps.”

“Sounds like a party.” She glances down at her watch, then looks back at me, and I know we’ve exhausted every possible ounce of small talk.

I take a deep breath, letting the silence stretch, the tension ratcheting higher and higher. “Becca, I…” I pause, nerves making my gut tighten. “I know it was a long time ago, and this probably feels like too little, too late. But I still want you to know how sorry I am.”

Her eyes drop to the table.

“I don’t have any excuse for what I did⁠—”

“You do, though,” she says, cutting me off. She looks up to meet my gaze. “Your dad died, Theo. That’s a good excuse.”

“But it isn’t.” I resist the urge to reach out and take her hands. “You wanted to be there for me, and I wouldn’t let you. I think I convinced myself I didn’t deserve to have anyone love me.” My voice cracks as I add, “Especially someone like you.”

Her brown eyes are wide as she asks, “Like me?”

I’m not sure how to answer her question. How do I tell her how impossibly perfect I thought she was? How desperately I wanted to give her everything?

I spin my empty cup, turning it around and around and around. “Becca, even at my best, you still deserved better. After what happened…”

She reaches over and stills my fidgeting hands, tugging the coffee cup away and setting it next to hers. Then she wraps her fingers around mine. “What happened wasn’t your fault,” she says, her expression earnest.

I close my eyes, and for a split second, I see the headlights flying toward me, my hands squeezing Becca’s like they’re still squeezing the steering wheel.

I know it wasn’t my fault. The other driver was drunk. He was the one who blew through an intersection. But it took me a long time to stop asking the what-if questions.