I lock eyes with her, and for a moment, the stern coach face melts away. She doesn’t look like a D1 trainer anymore. She’s just…Mom. And that loosens the aching lump in my throat, just a little bit.
She sets the paper down, eyes softening as she leans forward. “I know you’re hurting, sweetie. I do. And I’m not asking you to play again. I’m asking you tobe around it. You’re right. It was ahuge part of your life. And that’s why I think it’s important for you to not cut it out.”
Fighting back the sudden pinch behind my eyes, the sting of saltiness willing to spill over, I swallow. She’s right. She’s alwaysright, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear. I can’t just pretend everything is fine. I can’t just step into her world and act like nothing’s wrong when the last time I was there, my body betrayed me. Pulled the rug right out from under me so fast, I didn’t even realize I’d hit the ground until the pain shot through.
Tears prick my eyes, and my lip starts to quiver as I fall back into my seat.
“Mom, I… I can’t,” I choke, taking in a shuddered breath. “I’m not ready.”
She studies me like she always does. The thing about my mom is, she gets me. And sometimes, that’s the problem. When the pain is this raw, this consuming, the last thing you want is for someone to understand, because if they did, it would mean they’ve felt it too. It’s easier to suffer alone than it is to know that the misery is shared by someone you care about. You don’t want to be understood. You just want to survive it.
She reaches past the coffee cup in front of me, her fingers grazing mine, and I can’t stop myself from melting into it.
“You don’t have to go out there, Darcy. I won’t make you. But I don’t want you to avoid it forever. You’re more resilient than you give yourself credit for.” She pauses, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. And I hate that, for a second, the warmth of her hand through my gloves makes me feel like maybe she’s right. Maybe Icando this.
“I mean, you are my daughter. And what didn’t I raise?”
Despite myself, a smile creeps across my face. I roll my eyes and whisper, my voice barely above the hum of the coffee shop, “A wuss.”
Our eyes lock, and laughs spill out the two of us in unison, as if we’ve rehearsed it. For a second, a fleeting second, I feel normal. Just a daughter, with her mom, laughing in a coffee shop. Warmth pools in my chest, and I brush a long lock of red hair from my eyes. But then she lets go of my hand, squeezing it once before she retreats back to her side of the table. And just like that, the warmth fades, and I’m back to the mess of it all. That nauseating, throbbing sensation floods my body, and I have no other choice but to drown in it.
It’s not that easy. Nothing ever is.
“I’ll think about it,” I mutter, but it feels like I’ve already conceded. Like I have no other choice. She leans back in her chair, not fully satisfied but accepting my answer. She’s got her way, as always.
“Okay,” she replies quietly, reaching for the paper and folding it neatly. She slides it back across the table, tilted endearingly. We might share the same eyes, the same dietary sensitivities, even the same force. But my mother has one thing I don’t: charm. “That’s all I ask.”
I nod, sharpness still piercing my chest, but I finally manage to force out a weak “Okay.”
Mom stands up, the soft rustle of her coat harmonizing with the buzz of the café as she moves. She doesn’t say anything else, just gives me a smile I know too well. The one that says she’s not giving up, but she’s giving me space.
“I love you, Darce,” she says, her voice soft and warm, and my heart tightens.
“I love you too,” I reply, and before I know it, she’s pulling me into a quick hug. It’s tight, familiar. My second favorite feeling in the world.
Well, now my first.
She pulls away with a soft kiss on my temple, then heads for the door, leaving me alone with that damn antagonistic yellow piece of paper.
I slump back into my seat with an exaggerated sigh, glancing around the café to assess just how much of a scene I’ve caused. Most of the students are oblivious, headphones in, heads bobbing to whatever soundtrack they’ve got going while they study for majors that were probably their first choice. There’s a guy in the corner staring at me with a raised eyebrow—I think he’s in my biomechanics class?Great.Whatever. I don’t give a fuck.
I settle deeper into the chair, reaching into my pocket for my phone. But before I can even grab it, I hear a voice I know all too well.
“Well, that was…dramatic,”Cleo says, sliding into my mom’s chair like she’s been waiting for it to open up. She’s gripping her phone in one hand, and a Redbull in the other. I glance up, startled, and she shrugs. “What? You didn’t think I’d come spy?”
I groan, dropping my head into my hands. “Oh my god, Cleo. You’re like a stage mom.”
She grins, unphased. “You can’t send a text that says,‘My mom signed me up to be a coach. I’m meeting her at GG. SOS. Or just kill me’and think I’m not gonna show up to witness the chaos.”
I roll my eyes, letting out a quiet laugh. I’ve only known Cleo for two months, but in that time, she’s pretty much deemed herself my best friend. I’m not sure why. She’s got a dozen friends already, and it’s not like I really bring much to the table.
Honestly, I don’t think she can help it. She’s practically an over-caffeinated hamster, running circles on a wheel that never stops. I’m more of a tortoise, at least these days. It’s not like I mind it, though. She’s nice enough and always invites me to hersocial shindigs, though I never show up. The only downside to living with Cleo is her cat.
Socks is a menace, through and through. His sole mission in life? To make mine as miserable as possible. The first night I moved in, I woke up gasping for air.
Turns out, he decided to make a bed out of my face.
Cleo insists it’s a sign that he “likes me,” but I swear, the little fucker is plotting my demise.
