Page 33 of Here We Go Again

Tonight, I just want to be.

To think what I think and feel what I feel and not try to explain it to anyone. What would I even say?

Somehow, our conversation was both everything I wanted it to be and nowhere near enough. It left me restless. Anxious. I want to see her again, but I can’t see her again. Not when her heart belongs to someone else. And I hate that.

She’ll be at the MS Walk, at least, but soaking up spare moments, snatches of time—I’d almost rather not see her than put myself through that kind of torture.

I sigh and lean back against my pillows and mindlessly scroll through streaming options on the TV.

I stop on ESPN when I see an interview with Drew Jackson, the captain of the Denver Renegades. I like Drew. We played together in junior hockey, and he’s solid. A great player and a decent guy off the ice as well.

Once, after a big win back in Frisco—we’d just advanced to the final round of the Clark Cup playoffs—a bunch of my teammates came back to the house to celebrate. Drew started a street hockey game in the driveway and got pelted in the face with a puck. There was blood everywhere, and my parents wanted to drive him to urgent care, but then Becca took a look and said it wasn’t bad enough to make the trip. Instead, she got out the first aid kit and cleaned him up, piecing him back together with a couple of butterfly bandages.

She was so chill about the whole thing. A few of the guys were close to fainting at the sight of Drew’s blood, but Becca didn’t even flinch.

I watched Drew watching her with stars in his eyes, and I couldn’t even blame him. She was amazing. Confident, adorably bossy, steady in a way no seventeen-year-old dealing with all that blood had a right to be.

After she was finished, Drew stood up and clapped me on the back, tilting his head in her direction. “Dude, do not mess that up,” he said.

I should have taken his advice while I still could.

The interview ends, and I turn off the television, tossing the remote onto my nightstand. It’s only eleven p.m., and I feel too restless to sleep, despite how exhausting PT was today. My hand throbs as a reminder, pain shooting up my arm. I try to rub out the discomfort, but neuropathic pain is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. It’s more like a burn, sharper than an ache, and not always from a source I can touch, which is irritating.

I roll out of bed and head to the bathroom to take the meds I was given for whenever my pain flares up. It happens less frequently than it used to, but whenever I really push it in therapy, my hand tends to bother me for the rest of the night.

I swallow the pill, then head back to bed, surprised to find my phone vibrating on the nightstand.

I pick it up, heart doubling in speed as soon as I notice who it is.

Becca.

I quickly answer. “Hello?”

“Hey,” she says, a slight tremor in her voice. “Sorry to call so late.”

“It’s fine. I’m still up. Are you all right?”

“Um? Not really.” Her voice sounds small, thick with emotion. “If I text you an address, can you come and pick me up?”

I’m walking to my closet before she’s even finished her sentence. “Of course,” I say as I reach for a pair of joggers. “I’ll leave right now. Where are you?”

“At a bar in midtown.”

“I live in midtown,” I say. “Send me the address. I’ll be right there.”

She takes an audible breath. “Thanks, Theo.”

Seconds later, a text pops up with an address. I plug it into my GPS and start the route. She’s only seven minutes away.

Worry drives my actions as I stride around my apartment, pulling on a t-shirt and hat, slipping on my shoes, grabbing my keys. I have no idea what circumstances landed Becca at a bar without a ride, but she was clearly upset. Whatever it was, I can’t get to her fast enough.

Even all these years later, I’d drive anywhere to make sure she’s safe. Anywhere.

When I pull out of the parking garage, it’s pouring outside, rain falling onto the pavement in thick sheets. I turn on my windshield wipers and navigate toward the bar, imagining all the different scenarios that might have prompted Becca to call me.

Is she on a date? Her boyfriend lives in California, so not likely. Out with friends? Maybe she had a little too much to drink?

She didn’t sound drunk, and that doesn’t feel like something Becca would do. She’s a planner. If she were planning to drink, she’d have already arranged a ride.