Page 134 of The Americana Playbook

Even though I’m not sure if Fitz is here, a smile graces my face when I step onto the field, remembering how we had sprinted across it that night hand in hand. The muscle memory I didn’t know I still carried hits me, and my fingers fiddle and flex, searching for him.

When I get to the bleachers, I close my eyes for a second, trying to remember how many steps we took before I walk around and duck beneath them.

Six. We had only made it six.

Crouching, I make my way inward toward the center.

“Fitz?” I call out as I drop down, sliding into the small space between the metal steps. “Fitz, are you down here?”

My question goes unanswered when I finally slide successfully into the space underneath the bleachers.

I should frown, but when I turn on my phone’s flashlight and see the black writing farther down, I find myself smiling.

My eyes set themselves to trace my handwriting, to see ourselves encapsulated as rebels who broke into school overnight and vandalized a place no one would ever really see with our legacy. But we knew it was there. That’s what mattered.

As I get closer, I realize more writing has been added beside my contribution. My face falls as my chest cracks, the aching pieces bringing the pain to my gut one by one.

Wished I wasn’t chicken and kissed you that night. Been waiting four months for you to come home. Still waiting.

Rebels Only.

My attention is only pulled from Fitz’s handwriting when something crunches below my sneaker. I look down, using the light from my phone, and retrieve my name tag with a trembling hand before I look back up, tracing Fitz’s handwriting he added next to mine at some point.

I don’t know if Fitz came back to this spot five times or fifty. I don’t even know if I’ll ever have the right to ask.

But what I do know is he showed up for me. It doesn’t matter if it was once or twice because he was the only one who ever did.

Dear Fitzy,

Today I’ve been gone 147 days.

I know I haven’t written in a while. I don’t have much to say other than without Sarah—without someone to remind me I matter—I’ve realized maybe I’m where I belong. Maybe I’ll be better one day.

I wonder if you’ll like the new me.

Maybe you’ll never know her.

Rebels Only.

Parker

“Hi,”Parker says, slipping off her sneakers and low cut socks. The door shuts behind her.

I take another drink, reaching for a puzzle piece, trying to ignore Parker’s red-painted toenails that appear out of the corner of my eye.

“Almost finished?” she asks.

Abandoning the puzzle, I rise from the couch. “Left the rest for you.”

Parker sighs as I walk past, halfway to the stairs. “Fitz. Can we please talk?”

I stop, gripping the glass. Turning, I hold my free arm out. “I’ve said everything already.Everything. And you haven’t.”

“That’s not fair and you know it.” Parker drapes my letterman jacket over the back of the chair across from the couch.

“Yeah, well, life isn’t fair sometimes. It doesn’t always have to be difficult though. But I’m not the one making it that way, Parker.Youare.”

Parker cowers and fuck me, I’m an asshole. I’m a lovesick, head over heels, asshole for it.

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