Page 109 of Near Miss

“Uhm.” Willa’s eyes flash now, her fingers tighten against my shoulder, and she looks at me like she can’t believe me. “Yes, you do?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “What would you do if this happened, and you had to show up at something for one of us?”

“It’s different,” I try.

“No. It’s not.” She shakes her head, ponytail swinging behind her, and she quite literally shifts over to Stella’s side of the bed. “He has constantly shown up for you, and as far as I can tell—and I can’t tell much, because you’ve done a pretty great job at keeping this all secret—he’s never asked for more than you’ve been willing to give.” Her voice drops, and her features soften. “Why didn’t you tell us? Any of it?”

I tip my head back, blinking at the ceiling, but the tears find their way out anyway. “Because I fucking hate myself for thinking all of it! For doing it. For regretting it. For being a hypocrite every day of my life and maybe hurting people the way I was hurt. For going on and on about my boundaries and my lines and then taking them down the second a boy smiled at me.”

“It is a great smile.” Stella nods solemnly, eyes soft and nose wrinkled.

“Cash.” Willa pinches the bridge of her nose before waving her hand between the three of them. “The only person who thinks that about you, is you. Last time I checked, we all think you’re pretty great.”

“All the people online—” I start.

“Don’t count,” Kate finishes for me.

“I doubt my father feels that way.” I snort, but the whole thing feels hollow.

“He just wants to talk to you.” Stella shakes her head softly. “I’ll go with you. Tomorrow morning before the game.”

I raise my eyebrows, dig my chin into my knees, and nod like I’m sure, even though I think the only thing scarier than falling in love with Beckett Davis is telling my father the whole truth.

We don’t say anything again for a very long time, but there’s beauty in silence sometimes, when all it really is, is being seen.

And it really is all out in the open now—the ugly truth of me and the scar that hurts more than it should all these years later.

But they’re all still looking at me like they love me.

They aren’t the only ones, I think I hear my heart whisper from all the way across the city.

I roll my shoulders back and pick up the phone.

I start typing. I stop. There are a lot of things I could say.

Don’t be nervous. You’re a generational talent.

Great legs. If I cut you open, I bet your fast-twitch muscle fibres would be a marvel.

You’re real, and you’re worthy.

Oh, how’s my heart? I don’t want it back, by the way. It’s yours to keep.

I inhale and try again.

Greer: Good luck tomorrow.

Greer

Mottled, early-morning sunlight spills across the hardwood and bleeds into the tile covering my father’s kitchen.

He’s where he always is—paper folded in half, revealing the Sunday crossword, and a mug of coffee beside it, steam still rising.

But there’s this other thing beside him that usually isn’t there—his ten-year medallion. He holds it loosely between his thumb and forefinger, tapping it into the worn wood of the table, a pen gripped in the other hand while he scratches words across the paper.

“Hi,” I whisper, raising my fingers off my arm where it’s wrapped around my rib cage. This old, stupid gesture of protection and comfort I can’t seem to shake.

His eyes cut up to me, features lit with surprise. He drops the pen and medallion, pushing his reading glasses up his nose. “Greer, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Stella’s here, too. She’s upstairs,” I offer, because maybe he doesn’t want to be alone with me. I wouldn’t blame him.

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