“Thanks,” I say again. And now my hands aren’t the only thing shaking. My voice doesn’t even sound like my own, all high and uneasy.
His hand moves over mine, and the touch of his skin is the balm I probably knew I needed but couldn’t ask for.
“It’s okay—”
“Nothing is okay,” I say, my voice as unfamiliar as the feeling of letting my emotions run the show.
“You’re right,” he agrees. “But it’s ok to say that, to feel that.”
My mind takes his words as permission, and I give a voice to the fears running rampant in my head. “What if…? I mean, he’s okay, right? Drunk and disoriented isn’t the worst thing to be. And his meds will take a week or two to regulate again, but we’ve been there before. The thing is I’ve also been there while he was lying in a hospital bed after getting his stomach pumped. That time was a mistake. He was overtired, mixed up his meds, then took too many sleeping pills as an antidote. Scariest night of my life.”
I rake my hand through my hair. “I just don't want to live with ‘what ifs’, you know? I always follow the rules. It’s safer that way. I color in the lines because it’s comforting to know where the boundaries are. You can tell right away if you’re making a mistake, if you’re doing it wrong.” I’m rambling now, and I know it, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
Somehow, my hands are resting on the center console, covered by both of his. I don’t shy away; it feels too good. My head is a mess, how good would it feel to give in and let go? To lean into his touch. But I can’t do that for a million reasons. Who’s to say Ian would even want that? Just because he’s gay doesn’t mean anything. It’s arrogant of me to think he wants me the way that I want him, but our bodies are so close, his breath is so warm. Letting him carry this weight would mean everything. I’m so tempted to lean forward, to let him soothe away this stress with his hands, his mouth…
“No, I have to follow the rules. And I have to get out of my own stupid head. I only have a year and a half left.” I don’t even realize I’ve said the words aloud until Ian looks at me strangely, a look of worry on his face.
I’m an idiot. He’s been amazing tonight, a true friend in every sense of the word. The last thing I need to do is dump my drama on him.
* * *
Ian
Fuck me, I shouldn't ask this. It’s none of my business. We seemed to have moved on from the topic of Whit, at least for a minute, and I feel like we’re getting to the core of what makes Booker tick. I’m curious as hell, but I don’t want to cross a line. He didn’t ask for a therapy session. And when I’m with him, I don’t feel like a therapist.
I ignore the warning bells clanging in my brain. “What rules? What do you mean ‘a year and a half’? Sure, you’re a junior, but you and your boys have been friends since childhood, right? That’s not ending when you graduate.”
“No, but hockey is.”
That’s unexpected. Granted, I know next to nothing about hockey. I attended a game with Mel last fall. I had no idea what was happening on the ice, but Booker looked like the best guy out there. He was the fastest and he scored three times. And they won, 3-1. Not that I was keeping track, but I remember thinking how cool it was to see him in his element. He seemed to take charge, to appear both effortless and in control. I just sort of took it for granted that he was going pro. I mean, if he wasn’t good enough to make the cut, who was?
He sighs, and the sound breaks my heart. It’s heavy and tired. “I made a deal,” he tells me. “My parents didn’t want me to go pro, to opt into the draft. No, that’s not accurate—they wouldn’t let me. I got a scholarship to Meridian to play, which is a fast track to the NHL. But my dad put his foot down. He played pro football back in the day and didn’t want me anywhere near the sin and indulgence of pro sports,” he tells me, rolling his eyes.
“But you’re playing at Bainbridge?”
“Yeah, that was the deal. Go to BU and play for four years. But as soon as next season is over, so’s my hockey career.”
I want to argue with him, ask him if there’s any other way. I want to tell him his dad sounds like an asshole. But none of that would be helpful, so I stay quiet.
“I just feel like time is running out, you know. And we’re a freaking mess this season. And it just feels like I have no control over anything, you know. No matter how disciplined I am, I feel like my life is spinning out of control. Like, if I stick to my diet and work out when I’m supposed to and study three hours a day and get good grades, then I’ll be ok. But…” he trails off, his voice breaking. “My best friend was in a downward spiral, and I had no clue.” He hangs his head and my heart breaks.
“Woah,” I say, tipping his chin up so he can look into my eyes. “First off, we don’t know what set Whit off. It sounds like something went sideways when he was in Wisconsin. That’s not on you. That’s not even on Whit or Lucy. It just is. Sometimes, life sucks. And today was surely one of those times.”
He nods, dragging his hands down his face, and I know we need to get going soon. We have about half an hour left before we reach Bainbridge, and I have a feeling Booker is going to crash the minute he reaches his bed.
Bed. Booker.
No. Nope. Stop.
I steer my mind and the conversation back to safer ground. “He’s going to be okay. That’s what you told Lucy, right? And you have to believe that too. Remember what you said? Even if he’s a little broken, you’ll be there to put him back together.”
“You’re right,” Booker says, taking a deep breath and looking a little more like himself. “We should probably get back, huh?”
“Yeah,” I agree, turning the engine back on and pulling out of the lot. As I turn back onto the highway, I can’t help but wonder, who’s there to put Booker back together?
Chapter 8
Booker
