Page 28 of Fool Me Once

“Since when?” he utters. “Why?”

I could lie. I could tell him it expired. Could say that I forgot to renew it or maybe that, since I was living in California, I was trying to be greener and ride a bike. There are so many things I could come up with, but the only thing I can do is just tell the truth.

“About two years ago, he persuaded me into thinking I didn’t need to have a car. Or drive anymore.” My voice is weak, like a cricket stuck under a rock, as I relive one of the dumbest decisions I’ve ever made in my life. I’m ashamed to say the words out loud, yet I still feel the need to do it. “And I guess I just … believed him.”

I can feel him tense beside me. The air in the truck’s cab changes, and I watch his knuckles turn white as he grips the wheel tighter. I wait for him to yell or flip out, but when he does neither, I find myself incredibly grateful.

“So, you—you couldn’t go anywhere. You were … trapped.” As that last word leaves his lips, a squeak escapes his throat, and he brings his free hand to his eyes and wipes it across them.

It takes me a long time to get any more words out. There’s a burningsensation in my throat, and it feels like it might close up. I’m not going to cry though. I’m just … numb.

“I don’t know how to go about life and pretend that everything is okay,” I whisper, barely hearing myself. “I don’t know how to get over it.”

“Gemma,” he says thoughtfully, “would it be okay if I held your hand?”

My eyes fly to his, and he glances at me for a split second. I don’t know what comes over me when … I nod.

When his hand reaches over, taking mine inside of it, my entire body prickles, huge tears well in my eyes, and that lump of emotion in my throat grows bigger. And I don’t know if any of that is a good thing or a bad thing.

I shouldn’t find comfort in a person who has proven to be untrustworthy. And yet a calmness still washes over me, just from his hand holding mine.

There are so many things I’ve done in my life that I would change if I could.

In our second game of the season, I fucked up and almost lost us the game because I had gotten too cocky.

A few weeks ago, I got too drunk at an event, and I made an ass out of myself in front of some important people.

Just last week, I bit my mother’s head off for calling me too many times in a week and made her sad.

I fuck up all. The. Time.

But not a single one of those fuckups has ever been as big as what I did yesterday when I lost my temper and gave Gemma a panic attack. Yesterday was fucking traumatizing, and I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for losing my shit in front of a girl who’s barely holding on.

Her hand is soft but cold against mine. I don’t push my luck by running my thumb along hers, like I probably did years ago when we were holding hands. Instead, I just hold on to it.

I wish I could tell her that I’m here and that I’ll always be here.

That I’m not going anywhere. Ever. But I’m in uncharted territory, and I never want to say or do anything again to make her uncomfortable or upset.

I want to ask her more questions, but I will let her decide how much more to share today. When we pull into her parents’ driveway in about thirty seconds, she will have to talk to them about everything that’s been going on.

I just hope they listen and let her speak.

I know her old man has cancer and just finished treatments because last time my parents were in Portland for a game, they told me. I might resent him for ruining what his daughter and I had, but I wouldn’t wish harm on him. I know he was just doing what he thought was right.

When I put my blinker on and we turn down Essex Street, it feels like old times—when we were back in high school, driving home after being out way too late. Only, back then, she would have been in the middle seat of my truck with her head against my shoulder or kissing my neck. Now, she just stares blankly out the window, watching the houses roll by like she’s never seen them before.

“You all right?” I ask, giving her hand the smallest squeeze just before we pull in front of her house and park along the sidewalk.

“Yeah,” she utters.

It’s a lie, but I don’t call her out on it.

Her neck cranes toward her house, and she stares up at it, not reaching for the door handle to get out and rush inside.

“I can go over and see my parents, or I can go inside with you,” I say, keeping her hand in mine. “Whatever you want, Gem. Whatever will make you feel more comfortable.”

Slowly, she pulls her hand from mine and sighs. “I can do it alone. I’m fine,” she whispers, and I watch her swallow. “You should go see your parents. You drove all this way.”

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