Page 108 of Off-Limits as Puck

I smile at that. “Hi.”

“What are you—” She looks at the flowers, then at me, then at Frank who’s watching this disaster unfold with obvious entertainment. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“In Phoenix? In the Phoenix neighborhood? In Arizona?”

“Okay, I flew here specifically to see you.”

“What? Why?”

The question hangs between us like a challenge. I could lie, make this about closure or friendship or some bullshit that doesn’t involve admitting I’m still catastrophically in love with her. But I flew two thousand miles to stand in a strip mall parking lot. Might as well commit to the honesty that got me here.

“Because after the interview, after you texted, I couldn’t stop thinking about whether you were okay. Really okay.”

“And?”

“And I needed to see for myself.”

She steps closer, close enough that I can smell her perfume—different from Chicago, lighter, like she’s trying on a new version of herself. Close enough to see the small scar on her chin from falling off her bike at seven, the one she told me about during a session where we were definitely not staying professional.

“You could have called.”

“You would have answered?”

“Probably not.”

“That’s why I came here instead.”

We stand there in uncomfortable silence while Frankpresumably takes notes for whatever coaching autobiography he’s probably writing. Chelsea looks at the flowers again, and I realize I’ve been holding them like a weapon instead of a gift.

“These are for you,” I say, extending them awkwardly. “They’re not... I mean, they’re not supposed to mean anything. I just saw them and thought...”

“Thought what?”

“That you used to like sunflowers.”

“I still do.”

She takes them carefully, like they might hurt. Our fingers brush during the transfer, and the contact burns like live wire.

“Thank you. For the interview. For telling the truth. For...” She gestures vaguely at the flowers, the community center, the space between us. “All of it.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do. It mattered. What you said, how you said it. It changed things.”

“Good things?”

“My father called. We’re talking again. Slowly, but talking.”

“That’s good. That’s really good.”

“Yeah.” She smiles, and it’s genuine but careful. “So how long are you in town?”

“Flying out tonight. Red-eye back to Boston.”

“You came here for the day?”

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