Page 88 of Close Knit

“It’s sweet of you to lie.”

“Thank you for knowing exactly how to help,” she says. “As for everything else, I’m going to contact my therapist and try to work through it.”

Surely there’s more I can do. “I’m heading back to California for Christmas. Do you want to fly back with me and get away from all this?”

“You think this bullying will last that long?”

I can’t promise her anything. “I really don’t know.”

“I already booked a flight home to spend time with my family.”

“I’m taking the family jet after my last game of the year. There’s always room for one more if you want to cancel your flight.” Her eyes don’t shine with adventure the way they have during her Yes Year activities.

“Oh no. Your games!” She winces. “I—I didn’t even think about those. The last thing I want is to end up in more tabloids.”

“That’s okay. You don’t need to come to them.” My voice is solid. I’m trying to maintain control, but inside, I’m crumbling. Of course, I want her there. Seeing her in the crowd on Saturday was the highlight of my game. But I know I can’t worry about her in the stands while trying to keep my head on the pitch.

Her lip quivers. “Maybe no more Yes Year stuff around London for a while? You know, to avoid being caught out in public again.” The finality of her statement cuts through me like a blade. “We can still be friends, though, right?”

Her words hurt. The thought of losing her, of her not being in my life, is unbearable. She’s been my anchor in the chaos of London. And the idea of us being just friends, after everything I’ve shared with her, after everything we’ve been through, is unthinkable.

“Whatever you want to call us, Daphne, is fine with me,” I say, my voice thick with restrained emotion.

She studies me for a moment. Her eyes flicker with an unspoken question, as if she’s considering reopening the door that led us to this couch last night.

A huge yawn overtakes her, and she looks so vulnerable, so heartbreakingly beautiful, that my chest tightens. “Do you—do you mind staying for a while? I really don’t want to be alone.”

“Of course, Duck. I’m right here,” I promise her, my voice low and gravelly with suppressed emotion. I don’t think she understands the gravity of what I’m saying.

I sit beside her on the couch, the space between us a chasm I desperately want to bridge. She leans her head on my shoulder, and I wrap my arm around her, pulling her close.

I’ll keep her safe.

Chapter 22

Daphne

“I feel so guilty,”I admit to Erin over the Zoom call. “Yesterday was one of the worst days I’ve had in a long time. I just rotted, doomscrolling and letting myself spiral.”

“Daphne, there’s no right way to handle extreme stress.”

“I know, but I ate so much junk food trying to fill the hole inside of me. Eventually, I was as physically sick as I felt mentally,” I stammer, my words tripping over each other.

The best thing about virtual therapy is taking sessions from the comfort of your pj’s. Normally, I have one session a month, but Erin had an opening today. This hour for myself was very much needed.

“I’m sorry to hear yesterday was tough, but it’s understandable given the article, the comments, and Cameron. It’s okay to have days when usual coping strategies don’t work. Reaching out for support is a good step.”

“I know, but how do I move forward? I’m worried sponsors will pull out of my retreat or people will crash the site when I post tickets in the middle of January. I don’t want to put anyone at risk.”

“Those are valid fears, but that’s two months away. You have time to figure things out.”

“But what do I do right now? I hate that I feel like that preteen girl getting bullied online again. I hate that I can’t fix this myself.”

The thing that no one warns you about is that no matter how much time passes, no matter what story you tell yourself, whether you turn the bullying into an act of revenge or live with a heart full of love, there will always be a voice in your brain. One that visits you in the best moments of your life and in the worst. One that appears, often or occasionally, and lies to you.

Mine says that I’m too much. That I’m trying to get attention. That I’m weird. That I’m not capable of helping anybody. That I’m a freak. That because I’m still in therapy after so many years, I’m not equipped to talk about anxiety.

However radically I show myself love, no matter how much acceptance I get from the people who matter most to me, the idea of being misunderstood still makes my stomach queasy. And those comments yesterday did all of that and more.

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