Page 25

“I’m not emotionally invested in Theo,” I repeated. The sentence sounded less convincing the second time. Maybe I was a little emotionally invested, especially with the way today left me feeling hollow in his absence. “Either way, it’s not like he and I had any kind of future anyway. I live in Florida, and I’m coming back to Florida when…”

The sentence died. I stared at the desk as my mind struggled to stay engaged. When Mom dies. I couldn’t say it. Her treatments were still working, technically. There were still appointments and plans, but I wasn’t stupid. I wasn’t built for blind optimism. Numbers and patterns mattered. Being realistic mattered. Over the past few months, we had stopped discussing my mom’s illness in terms of if and started living beneath a giant flashing when nobody wanted to acknowledge.

“I know, Rho,” she replied, her tone softer. “I know you’re coming back. No one believes you’re staying there. Granted, we’re all surprised you’ve lasted this long, but that’s neither here nor there.”

“Who the hell is talking about me?” I frowned. I didn’t like the idea of people sitting around discussing my life when I wasn’t there to control the narrative.

“Saturday brunches are lonely without you,” she informed me.

“I miss Saturday brunch.” I missed a lot of things about Florida, but I missed my social life most. Down there, I didn’t have to calculate every word before I spoke or remember which version of myself a person knew. There was no pretending. No careful avoidance when relationships came up. Saturdays were for three-hour brunches and weekly catch-ups. Sometimes there were only a few of us; other times, we took up four tables by ourselves.

“I know, baby,” Sariah said. “All that aside, no one ever thought you were going to stay up there, especially you. But you did, and you got into a relationship with Theo—”

“We weren’t in a relationship,” I interjected. There was another pause, and I could practically hear her judging me.

“Mmm, Rho, we need to work on your definition of relationship, because you and Theo were absolutely in a relationship,” she corrected. “And sure, it wasn’t a conventional relationship, but it was a relationship.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Why? I didn’t know. It wasn’t like she could see me anyway. She wasn’t entirely wrong, which made her significantly more irritating.

“You sabotaged that relationship by taking this job, Rhodes.”

“I didn’t…” I started and stopped just as quickly. That was one lie I couldn’t get away with telling her. Sariah would hand me my ass so goddamn fast. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

“Ah, yes, the Rhodes declaration of finality.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You do this every time you break up with someone. You find some obscene reason to end it, and then it’s just done. That’s that. No working on it. No trying to fix it. Nope.” She popped the ‘p’ dramatically. “Just done is done, and so are you.”

I hated how quickly memories of my past partners lined themselves up behind her accusation. There was always a reason—usually a very reasonable one.

“I don’t like you very much at this moment,” I grumped.

“Good. Ask me if I care?”

“You don’t.” I knew that for a fact. Sariah loved me enough to refuse to protect me from myself. It was one of my favorite things about her when she was doing it to someone else. It was far less charming when I was the target.

“For what it’s worth,” she began, “you deserve to be happy, Rhodes Patrick Kennedy.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed deeply. How many times had she said that sentence to me? Enough that I should’ve believed her by now.

“I have sat by and watched you sabotage many relationships,” she continued. “I thought Theo would be the first to go all the way. He lasted longer than anyone else.”

I couldn’t even tell her to go fuck herself for that one. My romantic history wasn’t exactly a mystery. I tried dating—sort of—but whenever people wanted more from me, I found an exit. I’d always told myself that meant I wasn’t a relationship person. The truth was uglier. I wasn’t good at getting comfortable with people. Comfort created attachment. Attachment created vulnerability. Vulnerability gave someone leverage.

Growing up, I wouldn’t have called my home abusive. Unwelcoming was probably closer. I knew I was gay young. I also knew that meant my father would never love or accept me as I was. Everything about me was wrong and shameful. I was just a disappointment waiting to happen. I’d learned to hide everything about who I was, so it could never be used against me. When I joined the military, I quickly discovered that leaving home didn’t necessarily mean leaving that lesson behind. The environment was different, but the need to protect myself was the same.

Sariah was the first real person to accept all of me exactly as I was. I latched onto her like a motherfucker, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that again. I knew she wasn’t going anywhere. But doing it again? That felt reckless. No one else was guaranteed to stay. It was easier to stay closed off and push them away than to open myself up to that possibility.

That didn’t mean I was alone. I had friends who had become family. But I didn’t let anyone in further than that, which was wild, considering some embarrassing part of me wanted a relationship, a marriage, and kids one day. I wanted all of it in theory, but the second someone stepped close enough that it might become real, I started throwing up barricades like nobody’s business. The irony wasn’t lost on me. I was a walking paradox.

“I think you owe yourself that more than you owe yourself more money.”

“Financial security is important,” I said.

“I know, Rhodes,” Sariah replied. The disappointment in her voice was subtle, but I didn’t respond to it.

I glanced at Theo’s file again. There was no point ripping myself open over something that had already ended—no point analyzing feelings that couldn’t change the practical reality. I was his coach, and he was my player. That line existed whether either of us liked it or not.