Hannah shakes her head and gets out of the car. She grabs her suitcase out of the back before I can even attempt to do it for her and hustles down the sidewalk.
“Hannah, what is it? What happened?” I ask again.
She doesn’t say anything until we’re through her door. Then she’s scrolling on her phone. The only thing moving on her is her thumb. It’s like she’s frozen.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was freaking out about something. Hannah’s never been one to get all wound up and frenetic. Steady hand is a better description. I’ll wait until she tells me. I sit down on the couch, prepared to make myself comfortable.
Hannah finally remembers—or realizes—I’m there and points at me. “You.”
I point to my own chest before throwing my hands in the air. “Me what?”
“You were in the BFL at the same time as Xavier.”
I try not to wince. My stint in the BFL was not my finest moment, and I try never to think about it.
He never did live up to his potential.
“We only overlapped by a year or so. I was going out as he was coming in. Why? What’s that have to do with anything?”
“Do you remember when the whole story with Phaedra Jones hit the news?”
“I mean, I was back here, so it wasn’t like I had first-hand access to the British rags that reported on it day after day. But you know how they are with the royal family. They’re like that with footballers too.”
Hannah sits down, dropping her head into her hands.
“Why? What’s this got to do with you?”
She picks up her phone and starts scrolling through again. “Ophelia told me I could report on their wedding. Xavier’s pissed though.”
“Understandably. The paparazzi ruined his career. He’s banned from ever playing in the BFL again. You of all people should know the implications of that. I’m pretty sure he was on the cover ofThe Looking Glasslike every day for months.”
Hannah looks up from her phone, her face pale. Something’s very wrong. “Mother fu—” Hannah drops her phone and rushes out of the room, down the hall, and to the bathroom. I stand up, unsure if I should follow her.
I mean, I should follow her and comfort her and all, but if she’s puking, she might need a moment to herself first. She had turned all sorts of pale.
But when I go in there, she’s not getting sick. She’s sitting on the floor with her back to the tub, knees pulled up, and her face like stone. It takes me a minute to realize there are tears moistening her cheeks.
I slide down onto the floor next to her. It’s a tight fit. “Han, what’s wrong? What happened?”
She shakes her head like she doesn’t want to talk.
“Han, you can tell me. What’s going on?”
“I ... I’m finally on the verge of getting what I want. Or at least what I think I want.”
“Yeah, the interview? Oh shit, did you get a message from them?” Obviously from her current state, it wasn’t a good message.
“Yeah, in the middle of the messages from Ophelia.”
“Okay, and? What’s the problem?” Patience has never been a virtue of mine. I work on the theory that waiting is for the weak, and I plow through obstacles with dogged determination.
She looks at me, her eyes watery. “I’ve wanted this for so long, and every time I get close, it slips through my fingers. It’s why I gave up trying. First I lost it when I got sick. Then when I finally finished school, I wasn’t able to get an internship and barely anyone would even glance at my resume. But every time I have a glimmer of hope, my imagination starts running wild with it. And then when it doesn’t come to fruition, I’m even more devastated. In some ways, it was easier not even trying because then I wouldn’t get my hopes up, only to be disappointed, you know?”
I don’t know. I can’t imagine not giving everything one hundred percent, one hundred percent of the time. I mean, my life is totally out of balance, and I only have one thing in it, but I give it my all. She’s staring at me, her eyes boring into my soul. I feel like she’s not just talking about the internship and job. She’s had a lot of disappointments in her life. She had to give up soccer when she got sick. I try to imagine what that must be like.
I can’t picture it at all.
“That’s not how I’m wired, so I don’t really understand.” My answer is honest, but I don’t want it to seem like I don’t care. “But if you’re doing what’s right for you, I’m sure it will all work out in the end.”
