Page 96 of Heal Me, Love Me

Our conversation had been fine. He’d answered, said I looked amazing, and hadn’t picked a fight or shut me out. But the space between us was getting harder to ignore.

I set the phone face down on the bed and stared around the room. The gray comforter, white walls, and my suitcase still half unpacked in the corner made the place feel temporary in a way I hated. Keaton’s hoodie hung over the back of the desk chair because I hadn’t decided whether wearing it would help or make me miss him more.

After I showered, I went to bed early because my body gave up before my brain finished worrying. Sleep came in pieces, broken by a car door shutting outside, someone laughing in the hallway, and the air conditioner kicking on and off until cold air blew against my skin, which made me drag the blanket higher.

When my alarm went off at five forty-five, I turned it off and sat on the edge of the bed for a few seconds as the room came into focus. My legs were stiff from the day before, my shoulders felt heavy, and when I checked the screen, I had no missed calls from Keaton.

That wasn’t unusual. Most nights, he called me as soon as he got into his car, but if closing took a bit longer than normal, he called closer to the time I was getting ready to leave for the gym. Sometimes he was too tired to say much, but he called anyway.

I got dressed and had just brushed my teeth when my phone buzzed with an incoming call. I answered it while reaching for my shoes. “Morning, baby.”

Keaton let out a tired breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “Still nighttime here.”

“Not for me.”

“Well, your schedule sucks.”

A car door shut on his end, followed by the faint beep of a lock.

“Are you still in the parking lot?”

“Yeah. A group of college kids didn’t want to leave.”

“You sound exhausted.”

“I am.”

“Drive home and sleep.”

“Bossy,” he teased.

“Just want you to stay safe,” I corrected. “And I don’t like you sitting in a parking lot half asleep.”

His voice softened a little. “I’m okay.”

“Text me when you get home.”

“I will.”

I tied my shoe, then reached for my sweatshirt. “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby.”

The call ended, and I sat there for a few seconds, my phone in my hand, before I forced myself to move again.

That was how most of our calls felt lately: short and rushed, squeezed into whatever space we could find between his work, my training, the time difference, and the parts of our lives that didn’t wait just because we missed each other. It wasn’t bad; that was the part I kept coming back to. We weren’t fighting, and no one had done anything unforgivable. We still said I love you, still made time, still tried. But some places between us were unreachable by phone, and over the next few days, I started noticing the distance more often.

Training kept moving, and I kept moving with it. Coach Isaac made me work the same entry until my body started reacting before my brain had to think through every step. Dante stoppedgiving me as much room during live rounds, which felt like progress until he started making me pay for every mistake. At least once a day, a post of me was put on The Loop, and people seemed to like what they were seeing.

And Keaton and I talked whenever we could.

Some calls were good. Some were too short. Some ended because he had work, or I had training, or one of us was too tired. A few were easy enough that I started to think maybe we were finding our rhythm.

Then, on Friday afternoon, my phone buzzed with a text while Grant was walking me through media strategies since The Loop was taking off.

I ignored the first notification, but a few seconds later, my phone vibrated again. Then again.

Grant stopped mid-sentence and glanced at my pocket. “You need to get that?”