Page 81 of Chasing The Goal
“You doing okay?” I asked, gentling my voice.
She nodded, then paused. “I think so. Just… everything feels slower now. I’m not used to stillness.”
“I know,” I said. “But you’re doing a good job.”
She looked at me, surprised. “You think so?”
“Yeah. You’re not even glaring at me when I remind you to drink water anymore.”
She smiled, small and real.
I didn’t mean to say it.
I really didn’t.
But then she leaned over, bumping her shoulder into mine, and said, “Thanks for taking care of me,” in this quiet, grateful way, and suddenly my chest was too full, and my brain short-circuited, and—
“I love you.”
The words slipped out like I’d been holding them in my mouth too long and they escaped before I could catch them.
Mallory froze.
I froze harder.
She blinked once. Then very deliberately picked up a broccoli floret and popped it into her mouth.
“This is actually not overcooked,” she said.
I stared at her, heart slamming. “Mallory.”
Shechewed. Swallowed. Smiled, too casual. “Mm?”
“I didn’t mean to say it like. Shit. I mean, I did, but not to, like—pressure you, or make you uncomfortable, or—"
She reached for her water and took a sip like we were talking about the weather.
“I know,” she said gently. “It’s okay.”
I stared at her like she’d just announced she was joining the space program.
“You’re not freaking out?”
“I’m processing.”
I watched her for another long moment. “Do I need to go sit in the other room and scream into a pillow?”
“No,” she said, softening. “But I might ask you to finish the dishes later so I can think.”
“Deal.”
She smiled at me again, tired and kind, and somehow more than she was a second ago.
We didn’t talk about it again.
But that night, after she fell asleep on my shoulder while we watched reruns of Brooklyn Nine-Nine, I stared at the ceiling long after the credits rolled, thinking about the way she’d said processing and wondering what the hell that meant.
And what would happen when she finished.
