Page 81 of Coach
“With your own hands,” I said.
“Yeah, something that didn’t need fixing.” His eyes flicked up again. “Even if . . .”
I waited a heartbeat, leaning forward, into his space. “If what?”
A tiny boy answered, “If I still need to be fixed.”
The room went quiet again, not feeling heavy, just full.
The closing credits began crawling across the screen, and the stars, clearly drunk, were laughing and joking in the background.
Neither of us moved.
Was it inertia? The stillness of the moment? The weight of his words?
I’m not sure why he remained still, my hand atop his, but I wasn’t ready to lose the warmth of him next to me. He’d only begun to open up, to let me see inside his crusty shell, and I wasn’t ready for him to pull back into himself once more.
Chapter 26
Shane
Mateo sat beside me, still holding my hand, staring at the TV like it might suddenly offer a lifeline. A rerun ofCard Sharksnow played on the television, in all of its polyester suits and faux Vegas glory. Some guy named Terry had just guessed “lower” on a six. The host yelled his choice like it was the moon landing.
And me?
I was dying inside.
The moment I’d stopped talking, silence fell. It wasn’t an awkward silence—not exactly—but it was thicker than syrup on flapjacks. Heavy, like the air had gone dense with everything I’d just said.
What the hell did I just do?I asked myself.
I could still hear myself talking about Minnesota and my mom and how she unraveled under the weight of a life she never got to choose. How I’d left because I couldn’t bear to watch her disappear.
God.
I hadn’t planned to say any of it.
Mateo had asked a simple question, and I’d given him a field guide to every emotional pothole I’d spent a lifetime paving over.
I glanced at him.
He was still staring at the TV, still quiet. I was fairly certain he was staring at me in his peripheral vision but wasn’t sure whether or not he should turn and look at me.
Honestly, I wasn’t sure which would’ve been worse, which would’ve offered more scrutiny. My own mental musings were harsh enough for both of us.
Was he rethinking everything?
Trying to map the nearest escape route?
Calculating whether forehead-kissing a man with abandonment issues counted as emotional liability?
Did any of this even count as abandonment? I was the one who’d done the abandoning, after all. Maybe this was worse.
I ran a hand through my hair, my elbow braced on the arm of the couch.
He hadn’t let go, still squeezed my hand occasionally, still lent me his warmth.
“I shouldn’t have dumped all that on you,” I muttered. “Sorry.”
