Page 128 of The Girlfriend Zone

“I don’t know…” I fumble for the right words. “Maybe it does.”

He strokes my arm. “You know I went to PT for my ACL tear, right?”

“Yes.”

“I went to this sports medicine clinic in Vancouver. For whatever reason, it was so cold in there I thought I’d freeze to death. But I didn’t say anything. I just kept bundling up. I’m an athlete, right? A pro hockey player, no less. We’re supposed to be immune to cold. Then one day, this older guy—the kind of guy who would tell stories about the fish he caught way back when—was doing some rehab for his hip surgery. He walked in one day and grumbled, ‘It’s colder than Santa’s seat on the sleigh at cruising altitude.’”

I laugh, despite myself. “Why can I picture this crotchety old man so perfectly?”

Miles grins too, the warmth of it melting some of the hurt inside me. Then his smile fades, his expression turning serious. “It’s not just you. I get that you feel like it’s you right now. But it’s okay that you can’t hear them over the music, and it’s okay to ask to turn the music down. You might not be the only one who thinks it’s too loud. A lot of people don’t like loud music. And even if everyone else can hear your instructor…so what?”

My brow knits. “So what…what?” I ask, pushing him to explain.

“They can still hear the music even if she turns it down. You’re not hurting anyone by asking for her to lower it.” He hesitates, his fingers flexing slightly against mine. “I know it’s easier to tell yourself it doesn’t matter though. I used to do that all the time after my injury—pretend I didn’t need anything because I didn’t want anyone to think I couldn’t handle it. Joanne tried to help me, but I wouldn’t let her. I thought if I admitted I neededhelp, it meant I was weak.” He frowns, and there’s hurt in his eyes, but maybe not regret as he brushes over the back of my hand with his thumb. “I don’t miss her—we weren’t right for each other. But I regret how I handled that. She wanted me to be vulnerable. She wanted to help me. Instead, I fed my own pain. I pushed her away because I was in such a spiral. But it didn’t make me stronger; it made me lonelier. It’s something I try not to do anymore.”

I blow out a breath, noodling on that for several seconds, on whether the situations are the same. But before I can ask that—if I’m even going to ask it—he keeps going, perhaps sensing my question.

“I’m not saying it’s the same. I just want you to know that in my experience it’s not always better to think we can do it all ourselves. Hell, I’ve been to yoga classes where people ask to turn the lights up because it’s too dark. Or they ask someone to move a mat because there isn’t enough room. I’ve been at restaurants where they only have candlelight on the table, and my mom takes out her cell phone flashlight to read the menu.” He squeezes my hand again, and it feels like he’s imparting strength, or maybe just the wisdom of years—a wisdom of experience that I don’t have yet. Maybe that’s some of the difference in the ten years between us.

“It’s not just you,” he says gently. “I know it feels that way right now, but it’s okay to ask for something you need. It doesn’t make you weak; it makes you your own best advocate.”

I try to picture asking Jewel to turn down the music. I close my eyes and see myself walking into the studio before class, before anyone else arrives, and asking for what I need. It makes me feel like one frayed nerve. But it doesn’t feel as terrifying as it did before I told Miles.

“Maybe,” I say, on a shuddery breath. “Maybe I’ll do it.”

He runs his knuckles along my cheek. “Maybe is a good start.” His eyes hold mine, his gaze calm, thoughtful, passionate too. “And for the record? I’d do it for you. I’d walk right in there and ask them to turn it down. But I know that’s not what you want.”

I smile, a small, sad one as I shake my head. “It’s not,” I say softly, grateful that he knows I’m not looking for him to slay this dragon. I’m the only one who can slay it, and I’ll have to do it in my own time if I do it at all. “It’s not what I want. But thank you for knowing that.”

He pulls me close and presses a kiss to my temple. “Thank you for telling me.”

My throat tightens. There’s more I want to tell him. That was only the beginning.

I want to tell him that I’m not only afraid of feeling stupid, but I’m deeply afraid that someday I won’t even be able to hear that music I’d be asking her to turn down. I meant it when I let that fear slip. But I didn’t share all my fears. Not only am I terrified that I won’t be able to pick out a single note of music someday, but worse, the voices of the people.

The people I love.

No one knows what this loss will look like in the future. The doctors and the audiologists can only say what the typical path is for people like me. It worsens, yes, and hearing aids and advances in technology willusuallydo the trick—but no one knows for sure.

Diving into that though with Miles? Telling him that I’m afraid of a world that might one day be silent? It’s too much. Too heavy. I can’t put that on him.

Instead, I say something else that’s true. “I was goingto…do this whole treasure hunt for you. With lingerie and pictures and hints. Maybe another time.”

He squeezes my hand. “Let’s watch a movie tonight.”

We head downstairs and settle in on the couch with the dogs, and even though I know I can ask him to turn on the captions, and I’m about to, he’s already fiddling with the remote and selecting them.

Without being asked.

My heart swells dangerously bigger.

38

LITTLE SNEAK

Leighton

The next morning, my chest tightens as I carry a travel mug of tea and my dad’s favorite coffee. I’m here at his office because he loves coffee. Because he’ll soon be busy with college visits for my sister. Because I love him.

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