She didn’t respond right away. When she did, her voice was softer than ever. “Sometimes I worry you’re going to get used to not having me around.”
I turned onto my side and clutched the phone like it could get me closer to her. “There is no version of this where I get used to not having you around.”
I heard her quiet inhalation. “Say it again.”
“I want you here,” I said. “I want your loud-ass laugh. I want your makeup and lotions and hair products all over the bathroom. I want your shoes messy in the foyer. I even want your ice cold feet under the covers. I want all of it.”
My soliloquy produced a little laugh from her—soft and real.
“I love you, Eva.”
“I love you, too, Lex,” she whispered.
I didn’t want to hang up. But eventually, our voices started to fade, edges softening with sleep.
“I’ll stay on the line,” she said. “Just until you fall asleep.”
“I was going to say the same thing,” I smiled.
There were no goodnights this time. No goodbyes.
I woketo the soft sound of breathing.
For a second, I thought it was coming from the room—that Eva was curled behind me, hand on my hip, chest warm against my back.
But then I turned and saw the phone still on the pillow beside me, the screen gone dark, but the call still connected.
“Eva?”
There was a sleepy inhale and then a rustle of sheets. “Mm?”
I smiled into the quiet. “You stayed on the line.”
“I said I would,” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “Did you sleep okay?”
I nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. “Better than I have in a while.”
She yawned. “What time is it?”
I rolled onto my back and checked. “Almost seven.”
“Practice today?”
“Yeah.” I rubbed my eyes, already thinking about the day ahead. “Coach D said something about full-speed scrimmages.”
Eva clucked sympathetically. “Meanwhile, I get to limp back and forth across a weight room while a physical therapist tells me to activate my glutes.”
I laughed. “Sexy.”
“You joke, but the resistance band they gave me at the hospital ispurple, which I feel like you’d appreciate.”
I snickered. “That feels very appropriate.”
“You should have seen me blush when I first got it. I think you’ve ruined that color for me.”
“You’ve ruined me for other girls,” I readily quipped, “so that seems fair.”
There was a pause. The kind that didn’t feel empty or awkward—just soft.
