CHAPTER forty-nine #12
He lets out a soft, sad breath—one that sounds older than both of us put together.
"I did," he murmurs. "Your mom gave me the address to your dorm. I went. I waited outside for hours. But I still didn't get to see you."
My eyes shut tight, and the guilt hits me like a punch straight to the chest.
Of course he never found me. How could he?
Back then... if I wasn't in class, I was in the gym.
Hours. Every day. Punishing workouts.
I practically lived there—running myself into the ground, drowning in my own head, fighting demons I didn't even know how to name.
Depression. Shame. That desperate, twisted need to shrink myself into someone I thought would finally be "enough."
Of course our paths never crossed.
I wasn't anywhere except in my own private hell.
A shaky breath leaves me. "I'm sorry..." I whisper, "I'm so, so sorry."
He squeezes my hand immediately. "Hey... Baby, it's okay. You had your reasons. I hurt you back then. I know I did."
"Even so," I cry, shaking my head, "I should've been there. I should've known. If I had known, Zach... I would've been in Florida faster than you could blink."
His eyes soften, shining again. "I believe you."
He goes on quietly, "I would've stayed in New York longer, but.
.. Mom came to get me. My coach had called her — told her I was failing my classes, and that I haven't showed up to practice all week, that if I didn't come back immediately, I might lose my spot on the team or worse get kicked out of school. "
He sighs. "She apologized. For everything. For shutting down. For not telling me about Sam's cancer the first time. For not noticing how hard I was struggling."
He looks down at our hands.
"After that... we started putting the pieces back together. It wasn't quick. It wasn't easy. But we did it. Mom got stronger. Sam fought like hell. And I... I came back to life a little."
I squeeze his hand tighter as he finishes talking, my chest aching for that eighteen-year-old boy who was drowning with no life raft in sight.
Except... he did have one.
He had me.
And I wasn't there.
The guilt burns hot behind my ribs. I lean into him, pressing my forehead to his shoulder, needing him to feel how close I am now.
"I'm here," I whisper. "I'm not going anywhere. Not again."
His fingers tighten around mine like he's afraid I'll vanish if he loosens up even a little.
"Good," he murmurs, voice barely there. "Because I don't think I could go through something like that again... not without you."
My heart cracks wide open.
I lift my head and cup his cheek. "Hey... don't say that. Nothing like that is going to happen again. Sam's okay. Your mom's okay. You're okay. We're all okay."
He presses his lips together, hard—like he's trying to keep something inside. His throat works around a swallow.
"I really want to believe that," he whispers. "I do. It's just—" He looks away, blinking fast. "Sam's been getting sick a lot lately. Always tired. Always worn out. And I—" His breath shudders. "God, I hope I'm just being paranoid."
The fear in his voice guts me.
I slide my arms around him and pull him into a hug, one hand rubbing slow circles up his back.
"Hey," I murmur against his hair. "She's okay. She just pushed herself too hard during exams, and you know how she gets. Overcaffeinated, lack of sleep, and convinced she's invincible."
A faint, shaky laugh leaves him, his forehead dropping to my shoulder.
He exhales, voice strained. "She has an appointment tomorrow... you know, to get checked. At the same hospital she was treated before."
I pull back just enough to see his face. "Do you want to go with her?"
His jaw flexes. "I wanted to. But she told me not to. Said she doesn't want to make it a big deal. That she'd rather go alone and call me the moment she gets the results." He tries to smile. "You know Sam. She hates being fussed over."
"Oh, absolutely," I say, shaking my head. "If we insist on going with her, she'll purposely avoid the appointment just to prove a point."
That earns a more real laugh from him—small, tired, but there.
He leans forward again, his arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me right against him like he needs the contact to breathe. His face tucks into the crook of my neck, warm and sad and relieved all at once.
"I'm so glad you're here," he whispers, voice muffled against my skin. "So damn glad."
I close my eyes, hugging him back just as tightly.
"Me too," I breathe. "Always."
Zach pulls back a little, sniffing, and that's when his eyes narrow at my hoodie.
"Wait." He leans back, squinting at the faded fabric. "Is this... mine?"
"Uh—maybe?"
His brows shoot up. "Babe..."
I sigh, cheeks bursting into flames. "Okay, yes. It's yours."
"When did you—?"
"A long time ago," I mutter, tugging on the sleeve.
"You had an away game that was too far for me to go.
And there was this really awful thunderstorm that night and.
.. I couldn't sleep. You weren't there to talk me through it, so I may or may not have.
.. broken into your room and stolen your favorite hoodie. "
His mouth drops open.
"And then," I add, quieter, "instead of giving it back, I kept it. Because I wore it every night there was a storm. It... helped."
For a second, he just stares at me.
Then he grins—slow, wide, devastating—and says, "Wow. You were really down bad for me, huh?"
My jaw drops. "I was not."
"Yes, you were." He wiggles his fingers threateningly. "Admit it."
"No—Zach—don't—!"
He lunges and tickles my side. I shriek, half-laughing, half-trying to smack him as I curl into myself.
"Say it," he teases. "You were down bad."
"Never!"
He keeps going until tears gather at the corners of my eyes from laughing.
I shove at his chest, breathless. "You're impossible."
He's still smiling when something shifts in his expression. His eyes drop to my hand.
"What happened?" he asks sharply.
I look down at the angry scrape across my palm. "Oh. That."
"Caroline, what happened?"
"I, um... used the old ladder."
His eyes widen in horror. "The what ladder?"
"The rickety one we used to climb between our balconies when we were kids," I mumble. "It wobbled. I slipped. I kinda... slid down a rung and scraped my hand."
"Babe," he breathes, already doing a full-body scan like I've returned from war. "Are you hurt anywhere else? Did you hit your head? Twist anything? Does anything hurt?"
"Zach." I grab his wrist. "I'm fine. It's just a scrape."
He does not calm down.
Not until he stands, disappears into his bathroom, and comes back with a first aid kit like he's about to perform surgery.
He sits in front of me, gently cleaning the scrape, blowing on it when I hiss at the sting.
When he presses a band-aid over it, he lifts my hand and kisses it.
"There," he murmurs. "All better."
My heart tries to crawl out of my chest. Before I can say anything, his eyes shift toward the balcony door... and land on the plastic bag I abandoned.
"What's in that?" he asks.
"Oh God." I scramble to grab it. "I forgot about it—"
I open the bag and stare at the disaster: melted cherry Italian ice, melted pistachio Italian ice, the chips, and two sweating cans of Dr. Pepper.
Both pints might as well be soup.
I cover my face with both palms. "This is humiliating."
I hear him chuckle, warm and fond. He gently pulls my hands away, fingers sliding along my jaw.
"Hey," he whispers. "It's okay. Really."
He takes the bag from me and peeks inside.
I notice it instantly—the way Zach's eyebrows lift, the subtle surprise that flashes across his face.
"What's wrong?" I ask, confused.
"You bought two pints?"
"Uh... yeah? One for you and one for me."
He looks at me, then at the bag, then back at me again—something soft and unbelievably proud settling across his face.
"You bought two..." he repeats.
"Yeah? So?"
Suddenly I'm off the ground.
He wraps his arms around me, lifts me, spins me just a little—laughing this ridiculous, breathless laugh straight into my shoulder.
"Oh, baby," he says against my neck, squeezing me tighter. "I'm so happy right now you have no idea."
I giggle because he sounds borderline emotional and borderline insane. "What is going on with you? Have you gone completely nuts?"
He puts me down but doesn't step away. His hands frame my face gently, like he's holding something fragile and precious.
"Babe," he says softly, smiling in this way that makes my heart twist, "don't you get it?
You bought two pints. Two. And for weeks now we've only ever shared one dessert—one portion, one anything——because that was all you felt safe eating.
But today? You bought two... without stopping, without overthinking, without talking yourself out of it. You just... picked them up."
I open my mouth to say something smart, but nothing comes out.
Because suddenly—it clicks. All of it.
He's right.
I didn't think.
I didn't plan.
I didn't calculate.
I didn't hear that awful voice whispering in the back of my skull.
I didn't stand in the freezer aisle debating calories or portion sizes or how many extra miles I'd have to run later.
I just saw the Italian ice. And I wanted it.
So I bought it.
Like a normal person.
Like someone who wasn't ruled by some imaginary scoreboard of "good" food vs. "bad" food.
Like someone who wasn't scared of losing herself again.
"Oh..." The sound breaks in my throat. My eyes sting instantly.
Because now that I think about it—I haven't skipped a meal in...days. Weeks, maybe.
Not once since Zach made it his mission to help me unlearn all the damage I'd done to myself.
Not once since he started showing up at breakfast with that stupid grin.
Not once since he started splitting treats with me so I wouldn't feel overwhelmed or guilty or ashamed.
And slowly, without me noticing...something changed.
He didn't "fix" me.
He didn't swoop in and make everything magically better.
He supported me.
He showed up.
Every damn day.