Page 78 of A Slice of Love

“Hey,” he says softly after several minutes. “No more crying, Frank. I gotta leave in five minutes. I don’t want you to cry.”

“How can I not cry? You’re going to be all the way in Colorado, and I’ll be here in North Carolina. I can’t leave. My dad is sick. It doesn’t matter how angry I am at him…I can’t leave, and you know that. What are we going to do, Jonas? How are we going to make this work?”

“I don’t know, but I know we can.” He pulls my chin up toward his face, so much determination in his eyes. “We can do this.”

“How? Where do we start?”

“It’s just like a game of football, baby. You be the home team and I’ll be the visitor. We’ll take turns on each other’s turf. It’s not gonna be perfect. It’ll be messy as hell, but we’re gonna give each game our all, leaving it all out on the field. It’s all we can do.”

“What if we lose?” I ask.

“Then at least we’ll have played the game.”

Another tear falls, and he’s quick to wipe it away.

He brings his lips to mine again, and I know it’s the last time our mouths will touch today.

“I have to go,” he whispers, pulling away.

“I know.” I nod. “I know. We’ll be good. We’ll be fine.”

“We will,” he promises, backing away. “We can make this work. We’ll play the game.”

“Give it our all,” I agree as he twists the knob on the door.

“Will you write to me? In our notebook? I mean, we can still text and call and all that other fancy crap they have these days, but can we still use that too?”

“Like mail it back and forth?”

“Yeah. I mean, I know it’s a bit silly, but it just seems too important of a tradition to let go.”

“I’ll write to you. I’ll start tonight.”

He nods, giving me a sad smile, looking at me like the last thing he wants to do is leave.

I feel the same way.

“I really have to go now,” he says reluctantly.

“I know.” I sniffle, wiping away an errant tear. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Promise.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I land.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, bobbing my head up and down.

“Bye Frank,” he whispers.

The door clicks shut behind him, the sound thunderous as I choke back a sob.

We’re doing this. We’re playing the game. We can make it work this time. We’re not kids anymore. We’re not living under someone else’s rules.

We can do this.

I didn’t say I love you.

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