Page 17 of Force Play

“Donate.” I nod to the growing pile of business professional clothes I hope to never wear again. “She’s in class now and then working tonight. Yesterday was kind of it. We won’t see each other until she comes out to visit in a few weeks.”

“And how are you feeling about that?” Poppy adds another almost identical blazer to the pile.

“Fine, I guess.” My friend levels me with a stare that says don’t bullshit a bullshitter. “It’s weird. I figured we’d just call it quits when I told her I was moving. I’m glad we didn’t because I like her, but I don’t see how this is going to work.”

“Do you want it to work?” Using every inch of her height she grabs a box from the top shelf.

“Of course.” But there’s not enough enthusiasm in my voice when I say it. Poppy holds out a shoe box lifting the top to show me the pair of ridiculous shoes that I haven’t worn since college. “I almost feel bad about donating those knowing they will torture someone else’s feet.”

“I like her,” she comments with a tiny lift of her shoulders. The next box she grabs has a pair of strappy sandals that join the others in the growing pile of clothes that have no place in my new life. “She’s not as sweet as I first thought. There’s a little fire in her that I didn’t expect.”

“Yeah there is.” I was surprised by the way she egged Dom on last night knowing our history. “Long-distance just seems like a big ask. She’s young and has a lot going on between school and work.”

“You’ve never been afraid of doing hard things,” Poppy comments as she digs around, straining to reach something on the shelf.

“This is different. We’re both so hardheaded and goal-orientated that I’m worried neither of us will give up, even if we should. We agreed to just see where things go—one day at a time.”

“What about this box?” she asks, finally getting her fingertips on whatever’s stuck back there.

By the time I realize what it is, it’s too late; she’s got it down and opened before I can stop her. As soon as the lid comes off, we both sink to the floor, our backs against the wall, work forgotten.

Poppy lays her head on my shoulder, lifting the picture on the top of the box for both of us to see. “Oh, Farrow. She was so stunning and kind, just like her daughter. You know I loved her for the way she took care of me like I was her own, Ind.” Her fingers brush over the edges of the picture. My mom is holding me on her lap in a rocking chair reading, Love You Forever.

“She was the best. Hands down.” I reach into the box pulling out the next picture: my mom and I, side by side, on our bikes as we race them down the hill at the park. I’m older here, maybe thirteen, but those were the best years. I hadn’t outgrown spending every waking minute with her, and she hadn’t gotten sick yet.

“I took that one.” Poppy takes it, flipping it over to see the writing on the back. “Summer days at the park with the girls are the best. July 2008,” is written in the sloppy cursive that I’d recognize anywhere. The same curvy penmanship is permanently inked into the design on my shoulder. Her words to me, “have courage and soar,” forever in the stars.

I pull out another one, this time of the three of us. Time slips away as Poppy and I stare at it silently. This was the day before she told us about her cancer. She took us both into Chicago and we spent the entire trip doing whatever we wanted. There wasn’t a single time she said “no” to us that day.

It was the last time that life was normal for any of us.

Placing it face down, Poppy grabs the next one, unfolding where it’s creased in the middle. “Way to ruin it, Jensen.” My best friend snarls at the picture. It’s my birthday, sophomore year of college, and it’s the last picture I have of the two of us before the cancer came back. The last one where she has hair and looks the way I want to remember her—happy and healthy.

Unfortunately, my complete shithead of an ex is also in the picture. I fold him back so it’s just mom and I before shutting the cover on the box and setting it aside so it comes in the car with me.

The air between is still heavy with grief when Poppy speaks with quiet concern. “You’ll need a doctor in Denver. One who knows your family history and has a solid track record with these sorts of things—”

Ovarian cancer and the chances of it coming for me are the last thing I want to talk about, so I cut her off, knowing exactly where this is headed. “I’ll find someone, I promise.”

“Don’t lie to me about this, Indie. It’s too important.” She grabs my hand, wrapping it up in hers. “You’re too important. Promise me.”

“Cross my heart.” The cadence of my heart picks up, making me feel out of control at just seeing the worry on Poppy’s face. I just want to make it stop.

“Have you given the testing any more thought? I know you didn’t want—”

“Poppy, I love you, but please don’t. I said I would find a doctor and I will. But don’t push me on the rest.”

“I love you, Indie, so I’ll drop it. But only if you promise to listen to what the doctor has to say about it.” She pushes up from the floor, giving me the space she knows I need right now. “I’m going to put this stuff with the others and then we can order lunch before we finish in the living room.”

She leaves me sitting on the floor and I open the box, taking that last picture of the pile, turning it over in my hand.

Taking it by the edges, I pull, but not enough to rip it. Even after all these years, I can’t bring myself to do it. I want him cut away and gone from the memory, but I leave him there, an omen of all the lessons he taught me.

He was my first heartbreak in so many ways. He let me down at every turn, yet I clung to him like a lifeboat in a storm because that’s what my life was at the time. The boy in the baseball uniform stares back at me, as handsome as he was then, but now I know better. Behind that perfect facade is something rotten; a boy who pretended to love me all the while, weaponizing my sexuality. Using the fact that I’m bisexual as fodder for his buddies. Pretty lies don’t hurt any less. And looking good when you crush someone’s soul doesn’t negate the damage.

“Never trust the pretty ones. It hurts worse when you don’t expect it,” I say to myself as I fold him back and tuck the reminder into the box for when I need it again. Carrying the box with me, I set it on the counter with the pile of stuff that needs to come with me in the car.

I find the girls in the kitchen pouring over the stack of takeout menus. “What are you hungry for, Indie?” Lilah asks as I slide onto the stool next to her.

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