Page 86 of Absolutely Not in Love
There was no reason why I shouldn’t have been able to leave the skills clinic early and drive Gracie to Knoxville. If I thought there was any reason why I couldn’t, I would never have volunteered to take her. I would have just let her borrow my car.
Nathan, Eli, and the youth hockey coaches were fine with me ducking out an hour early, then a kid hit the ice and made contact with the blade of another kid’s skate.
Then everything fell apart.
The kid’s parents weren’t on site, and the coaches were busy trying to track them down. Which is why, ten minutes later, I was in the back of the ambulance, riding to Mercy General, reassuring a thirteen-year-old wingman named Riley. He clutched my hand the entire time while I reassured him over and over that he wasn’t going to lose his arm, hewouldplay hockey again, and everything was going to be okay.
Meanwhile, my phone was back at the community center. I must have dropped it when I saw Riley cut his arm and raced over to help because it didn’t make the trip to the hospital, leaving me with no way to reach Gracie.
No way to let her know I was about to let her down in the worst way possible.
It was after eight p.m. by the time I left the hospital and made it back to the community center to retrieve my phone.
Since then, I’ve texted Gracie at least a dozen times, giving her a very thorough explanation of exactly what happened, and called her three different times.
I can’t imagine how she must have felt. What it must have taken to find a last-minute ride.
Maybe her friend Abby was able to take her? Or someone from her orchestra?
I have to at least hope she got the email I sent her. Without my phone, it was the only way I could think of to reach her. I don’t have the actual digits of her phone number memorized, and we’ve never had reason to exchange emails.
But her school email is public.
It felt like a stroke of genius when I convinced one of the nurses at the hospital to let me borrow her phone long enough to find it. I was able to pull it right up, then the nurse suggested I send Gracie a message directly from her account. Logging onto my own email on a stranger’s phone felt too complicated, so I did as the nurse suggested, then crossed my fingers Gracie would see the message.
Genius idea or not, it won’t matter if Gracie didn’t get it.
Growing tired of my kitchen, I move into the hallway and drop onto the top step. It’s late enough now that she must have found a way to get to Knoxville, but it’s also late enough that if she did, she should be getting back any second.
I groan and drop my head into my hands. The stairs are cold and hard and incredibly uncomfortable, but I’m not getting up. Not when I have to be on a flight first thing tomorrow morning for a game in LA.
If I don’t see Gracie tonight, I won’t see her until Sunday.
Maybe ten minutes later, the main warehouse door finally opens, and I quickly stand, my heart picking up speed as Gracie emerges. I race down the stairs, stopping in front of her and pulling her into my arms.
Her cello is on her back, which makes the hug awkward, but I don’t even care. I just want to know that she’s okay. Her body is stiff at first, but then she melts into me, her head pressing against my chest, and her arms lifting and wrapping around my waist.
“I’m so sorry,” I say into her hair. “I’m so sorry, Gracie.”
She slowly leans back and takes a deep breath. “I know. I saw your messages.”
She moves past me, trudging her way up the stairs like her cello weighs ten thousand pounds. I follow behind her, but I don’t touch her, suddenly sensing this is a moment Gracie needs to control herself.
When she finally reaches her apartment, she shrugs her cello off her back and leans it against the wall, then unlocks her door.
She looks exhausted—mentally, physically, emotionally.
My heart squeezes, and I swallow against the sudden dryness in my throat. “Did you find a ride?” I ask.
She lets out a little chuckle. “I paid for an Uber.”
I close my eyes. An Uber to Knoxville couldn’t have been cheap. “I’ll cover the cost of the Uber, Gracie. This is my fault.”
“It isn’t,” she says. “No more than it’s my fault for ignoring the noise my car has been making for weeks. How could you have known some kid was gonna get his arm sliced open? I know you wouldn’t have left me on purpose.”
I hear the words she’s saying, but I’m not sure I believe them. Because it doesn’t really seem likeshebelieves them.
She drops her eyes, her fingers running over the hem of her yellow scarf over and over again.
