Page 14 of Somebody to Love You

After two rings, I hear his voice. “Hello?”

“Hey,” I say, relieved but surprised. “Where are you?”

“My parents’ house.”

“Is everything okay?” He doesn’t answer, and my heart falls like a rock. “Mav?”

He sighs, long and low. “I’m here. You didn’t eat dinner yet, did you?”

I glance at the clock. It’s 8:30, but he knows I have a habit of studying through the evening and eating dinner late. When we lived on campus, he walked me to the dining hall after dark many times. “No.”

“I was going to drive back tomorrow, but I’ll just come back now. I’ll pick you up.”

“Okay,” I say uncertainly. “Are you sure you don’t need to stay there? I just wanted to check on—”

Maverick cuts me off. “I need to see you,” he says, his voice trembling just a bit, and I clamp my mouth shut. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

When he pulls into the parking lot, I’m waiting for him, shivering on the sidewalk with my arms crossed tightly over my chest. He stops at the curb and unlocks the doors, and I climb into the passenger seat, my eyes immediately scanning him for any hint as to what is going on.

It’s dark outside, but in the dim glow of the streetlights, I can see that there are bags under his eyes and a furrow in his brow. His jaw, usually shaved smooth, is covered in a fine layer of scruff.

I don’t have a chance to say anything before he reaches over the console and wraps me up in a hug. It’s not like any hug he and I have shared before. There’s a desperation in the way his fingers grasp the fleece of my pullover, the way he buries his face in my neck. Like heneedsto hold onto me so he doesn’t drift off into the night.

“Maverick,” I say softly, running a hand down his back, hoping he can’t hear my heart pounding with anticipation and fear, “please tell me what’s wrong.”

“My mom.” His words come out as choked, hot bursts of air against my skin. “Her cancer is back.”

Weendupina parking lot with burgers and shakes, seats reclined, staring through the closed sunroof at the dark sky. Maverick has barely spoken since we left my apartment. His jaw is clenched, his food uneaten in his lap, and I sit with my churning thoughts, desperate to ask questions—how bad is it? How is she now? What’s the plan?—but forcing myself to wait and let him tell me in his own time.

“Fuck,” he mutters eventually.

I’m grateful that I’ve just taken a bite of my burger, because I’m not sure what to say. I cover my mouth with my hand and chew quickly, but it’s unnecessary. He’s not done.

“Fuck!” It’s louder this time, and he slams his hand down on the steering wheel. “She’s been cancer-free forsix years. I thought it was over.” Now he looks over at me, the first time he’s met my eyes all night. His expression makes my heart ache. The anger in his voice is nowhere to be found in his face. All I see there is pain.

“For years afterward, I was so afraid it would come back. She would go for her annual mammograms, and I would be so anxious until we found out that they came back all clear,” he continues. He picks up his burger and turns it over in his hands. Then he puts it back in his lap, still wrapped. “I worried about it all through high school. I only started to relax in the past couple of years.” He lets out a huff of air—something between a sigh and a sardonic laugh. “I stopped paying attention.”

“Paying attention to what?” I ask softly. “What could you have done to stop it?”

“I don’t know,” he says, his frustration evident. He drops his head back against the headrest. “Maybe I would have noticed something. Maybe if I lived at home and commuted to school, instead of living up here. Or maybe if I visited more. I’ve been selfish, barely spending time with any of them. All I think about anymore is baseball and—” His rambling cuts off abruptly, and he casts a furtive glance at me.

I furrow my brow. “And what?”

“And—and getting drafted.” He stumbles over the words. I don’t think it’s what he started to say, but I let it go.

Tentatively, I reach over and place my hand on Maverick’s forearm. He doesn’t react, so I squeeze gently. “There’s nothing you would have noticed that she and your dad wouldn’t have,” I say. “If you want to spend more time with them, spend more time with them. But don’t make yourself crazy wondering if you could have stopped it. You know you couldn’t have.”

“I know,” he says quietly, the words barely audible over the gust of wind that blows outside. “You’re right. I know.”

We lapse into silence. I take back my hand and have another bite of my burger. Maverick’s must be cold by now, but he doesn’t unwrap it to check; he just drops it into the greasy paper sack on the console between us, then reaches for his shake.

“Do you want to talk about something else?” I ask.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“I found my mom’s name.”

His eyes go wide. “No shit?”

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