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Franklin raises an eyebrow but otherwise doesn’t react. He sits with the information for a minute, probably figuring out the best way to handle it.
“Not what I was expecting, but okay.” He just accepts it. The stuffed shirt doesn’t question it at all. “Are you dating him?”
“Not exactly.” I let out a breath, my shoulders dropping some. “He’s afraid it’ll fuck up my career if I come out as bi.”
“Ruin it? No. You may end up bounced around a few times, but that’s probably more for your attitude than who you’re dating.” He taps his thumb against his thigh. It’s the only tell I’ve been able to figure out. He’s processing, running scenarios through his head, and making a plan. “Can I ask who it is?”
“Elliot Cushings.”
His hand stops moving, and that damn eyebrow rises again. “You’re fucking with me, right?”
Clenching my jaw for a second, I force myself to take a deep breath and relax.
“No, I’m not. I’ve known him since I was ten. Been in love with him for years.”
“He just had a sex tape go viral!” he shouts before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay, do you have plans to make this public anytime soon, or can we at least get through camp?”
“I don’t have any set plans.”
He nods. “Anyone in the locker room you think will be a problem?”
A few faces come to mind, but it won’t be anything I can’t handle, so I shake my head.
“Good. As long as you play your best year, it’ll be fine.”
No pressure then.
* * *
Once I’m done punishingmyself with my workout, I head to my bedroom to shower. It’s mechanical, wash the sweat off, get out. Nothing extra, no relaxing in the hot water. My bag from Black Diamond still sits in my closet, packed and haunting me. I barely remember what’s in it, but I stare at it every time I come in here for clothes.
Fuck it. Rip the Band-Aid off.
Dropping down to a crouch with a towel around my waist, I quickly unzip the bag and upend it on the floor. Clothes, toiletries, and random shit tumbles out. There’s just a slight scent of Eli that tickles my senses, and I lift the clothes to my nose to inhale.
It’s there, somewhere. With frenzied hands, I pull everything apart and lift everything to smell it. Finally, I find a shirt Eli had worn. The memory of him in it, curled up with me in bed, arms and legs wrapped around me, and his curls tickling my skin flashes over me like a physical weight.
It hits me like a boot to the chest, stealing my breath as I bury my face in the fabric. My knees hit the carpet, and I curl around the stupid shirt. My hand trembles when I find the satin bag. Lifting it from the floor, I don’t have to open it to know my mother’s necklace is inside. The weight of it heavier on my heart than in my hand. He loved my mother so much. Did he leave this on purpose, to show just how done with me he is? I need him so fucking badly. I feel half crazed in my desperation to get him back into my life. What do I have to do?
I don’t know how long I sit on the floor, misery soaking into the cotton as hopelessness eats through my stomach lining.
Shifting on the floor, I clutch the shirt to my chest and dig through the rest of the stuff that was in the bag but freeze when I find the black canvas zipper bag. Fuck. Eli’s knife.
With shaking hands, I unzip it and find the blade I gave him when he was a teenager. I cleaned it before I put it away on the island. Finding him cutting himself, blood all over the place, was terrifying.
I have to check on him. Climbing to my feet, I find my phone and check for messages. He hasn’t even opened the thread. I try calling him for the hundredth time, but it goes straight to voicemail. Did he change his number?
I find Jordan on IG and send her a message.
ASHER: Please make sure Eli is safe.
JORDAN: What?
ASHER: He hurts himself sometimes.
The three dots pop up and disappear a few times before she finally sends something.
JORDAN: Okay, thank you.
