“Not all plot points are grand. History proves that small battles can have a large impact.”
“Okay, Mr. Carter.”
“It’s true. There are times in history where winning a smaller battle lifted morale and made the odds of victory seem much more favorable.”
“It’s a shower, not a battlefield,” I tease.
“Potato, potahto,” he replies.
“No. It’s more like potato, tomato,” I say as I practically hug my suitcase to unzip it all the way. I sort through my clothes, finding my pajamas—a blue checkered tank-top-and-short set. Then I look back to Milo, who is intently watching me, the realization causing my spine to tingle, and say, “I can’t promise I won’t take all the hot water.”
He laughs lightly. “Take your time. Temperature doesn’t matter to me.”
The shower is more like a battlefield than I expected it to be—stained in ways bleach can’t hide. I undress and jiggle the shower handle for what feels like five minutes before the temperature is somewhere between scorching and ice. I tentatively tiptoe in, closing my eyes as the warm water sputters over me indifferently. It doesn’t care if I like it.
Once I’m finished, I dry off with the thin, tattered towel and slip on my pajamas, then gather up the clothes I wore today in my arms. My hair is a wet, knotted mess–the conditioner is not exactly conditioning.
I walk out of the bathroom more timidly than I stepped into the shower, peeking around the corner. Milo’s lying on his bed on top of the comforter, eyes closed. His breathing is heavy and slow, his chest moving up and down in a steady rhythm.
There’s part of me that wants to curl up beside him, putting my head on his chest to hear the comfort of his heartbeat, but the other part of me wins out. I quietly walk to my bed, slipping beneath the scratchy sheets. I reach over to turn off the light but hear something crinkle beneath my body. I sit up, inspecting my bed, and find a note. I smile as I unfold it.
Bookworm,
Since you seem determined to keep me from apologizing, I’m writing it out because there’s an ache in my chest full of apologies. I chose football. I chose pride. I chose what I thought was different from my dad. But it wasn’t so different. It was a bad choice that has left me with a regret I’ll live with for the rest of my life. I wasn’t there for you and I’m so sorry.
Most people celebrate the fact that “I made it,” but every time they look at me, proud of what I accomplished, all I see is your face in their eyes, and I’d give it all upif I was offered a do-over.
Hot Shot
The tears burn hot as they trail down my cheeks. I’ve kept Milo from apologizing because I knew that once he did, forgiveness would be my only choice—and once I had forgiven Milo, I knew I’d have to figure out how to forgive myself.
And I’m not sure I know how to do that, because it’s deeper than an apology. Deeper than seeing myself in the mirror.
I wipe the tears from my face with my palms.
As I reach over to turn out the light, I pause, looking at Milo, the steady rise and fall of his chest reminding me that even with all the apologies in the world, he’s still the Milo I once knew—and I think I can still trust him.
We were just kids.
I think we deserve another chance.
I slide off my bed, quietly tiptoe to his side, and press my lips lightly to his forehead. “I’m sorry, too,” I whisper.
Then I turn out the light, tuck the note under my pillow, and let the exhaustion of the day finally catch me.
30
SADIE
The first thingI notice when my eyes gather up enough strength to open is that Milo’s bed is empty. The second is the white coffee cup with something scribbled on it on the nightstand. I blink, clearing the lingering sleep.
Lavender Honey Latte.
I’ve never had one. I sit up slowly, arching my chest and feeling the stretch in my back. I grab the latte and take a sip, the sweetened espresso blossoming on my tongue.
The bathroom door opens, steam billowing out. I watch as Milo comes into view, towel wrapped around his waist, soaked hair sending droplets down his back as he focuses on putting a strip of toothpaste on his toothbrush.
I watch intently, drinking my coffee, feeling comfort radiate throughout me. I want to stay in this moment, focusing on the man oblivious to my gaze. Focusing on who he is now, on the fact that he’s here in this room with me. But I can’t help it—my mind drifts to a place I go often, where worries take on water and I drown in them.
