Leaving, leaving, leaving.
“Is this a breakup, Jack?” His behavior is so offside that it’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he hit his head too hard against the boards in the last game. It’s the only logical explanation I can think of.
“No. Oh, God, no. I just don’t want to be tempted to come up here, which I will if I have those keys. This is a little break that’s all.”
Same fucking thing. Break equals break up in my book.
Nothing I wanna say is anything I’m willing to say. I want to tell him to go fuck himself—I get needing time but leaving me in this fashion is shitty. I want to tell him to take all the time he needs. Forever if necessary. I want to tell him not to come back.
I also want to get on my knees and beg him not to leave. Profess my undying love. I want to tell him that leaving won’t help me to not be a mess inside if that’s what he’s going for—it’ll only make things worse. Did he miss the neon sign on my forehead that blinksabandonment issuesin bright pink? He doesn’t have to do more than leave some fucking keys on a counter and I’m flipping out inside.
That’s the lovely thing about the trauma you carry with you from childhood. Just because you know it’s there, it doesn’t stop the detonation from happening. It’s deep. Innately woven into your subconscious mind. It goes off like a bomb on your nervous system. It’s infinitely difficult not to react.
I don’t say shit though. I’ve had some practice with this. When someone’s leaving, they’re leaving and there’s nothing you can do about it. Any Meyer knows that.
“It’s not like we won’t see each other at practice. It’s just a few days of radio silence so I don’t hurt you.”
In other words, don’t text him either. Or call him. Got it.
Okay, no, fuck that. Now I do have something to say.
“First of all, I’m no Bella Swan—yeah, I read Twilight. I can decide for myself how much hurt I can handle so stop telling yourself that you leaving me is for me. This is for you so let’s be clear about that.”
“I’m not leaving you—”
“Not done, Jack.” He snaps his mouth closed. “I don’t want you to go. Whatever you’re going through I want to bear it with you because that’s what I’m about. That’s what teams do, and we’re supposed to be a fucking team.”
“You’re the last person I want to talk to about this. I already know what you’ll say.”
“Try me.”
“Even fucking Sutter’s probably gonna get drafted and I’m never gonna …” He sighs. “I know I’m lucky to play at all.”
“Jack, you have every right to be pissed about what Rhett’s father did. I most certainly fucking am.”
“I am mad, but it doesn’t change what is.”
I stride over to him. “I can help with that, Jack. It’s not guaranteed, but I can try if you’ll let me.”
He puts a hand on my chest. “I knew you would say that. The answer’s still no.”
“Why are you being so stubborn?”
“I just feel weird about it. I know that’s not a good reason, but … see? This is why I need time, Merc.”
There’s more. I can tell there’s more. It’s written on his face, but he doesn’t want to say it. “What else?”
He licks his lips. “This is the part I’m extra unsure about. I don’t know how to say it without hurting you.” Running a hand through his hair, he searches for the words. I want to touch him so bad. He’s right there for me to pull into my arms, but I sense he doesn’t want that just now.
“If you had an ex, I’d be hard fucking pressed to let you hang out with him. I’d be all kinds of jealous.”
An ex? Where the hell is his mind going? Oh. Oh hell, no. “No fucking way, Jack. I’ve had all I can take from that guy.”
Besides my unchecked jealousy, I find Rhett guilty by association even though he doesn’t. I’m not as quick to believe that he wasn’t involved somehow.
He huffs as if I’m being the unreasonable one. “Hell, Merc. You don’t get it. I knew you’d be like this.” He takes off his hat to bend the shit out of the brim. “It’s not like I want to fuck him or anything.”
“He still wants to fuck you. Believe me. Rhett’s waiting in the goddamn wings for me to fuck up.” My voice raises. My chest constricts. The weight of this conversation shortens my breath.
