Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
Blair
Snow drifts past the window in lazy spirals, the kind that hushes the city. Inside, the radiator hums, filling the quiet I can’t seem to. My reflection blurs against the glass—pale, tired, the kind of tired that lives in your bones.
“Blair?”
I blink back into focus. Dr. Latham’s voice is calm, steady, like she’s used to pulling people out of this heavy fog.
“Sorry,” I mumble, shifting on the couch.
“That’s okay,” she says, crossing one leg over the other. “Why don’t you tell me about your dad?”
The question catches me off guard. “My dad?”
“You mentioned he called recently.”
I huff out a dry laugh. “Yeah. First time in over a decade. And not to say he misses me or anything. He wanted football tickets.” I pick at the nail polish that’s almost chipped all the way off. “Guess being in the NFL finally made me useful again.”
My therapist waits, letting the seconds stack on top of each other before asking, “How did that feel?”
I scoff and let my eyes look around the room. The feeling is still there—the way I felt when he used the nickname from when I was a kid. It was like I was holding a hot pan, feeling the scorching on my skin, but couldn’t find a way to let go.
“Horrible. And crushing. I always had this hope that one day, he’d show up and apologize for being gone, give me a good reason.
He took that from me,” I say, my throat tight.
“I should be used to it by now. But it’s like—” I stop, trying to find the right words.
“Every time I start thinking maybe I’m enough, something proves I’m not. ”
Dr. Latham’s eyes soften. “You feel like you’re not worth it?”
“Maybe,” I admit quietly. “Earn the offer. Earn your spot on the team. Earn a day off. Earn the right to be at the gym. Earn the right to take up space.” I keep picking at my nails, afraid to look at her when I sound so pathetic.
“Blair,” she says softly, “Mitchell doesn’t get to decide what you’re worth anymore. No one does. Your worth is up to you.”
I immediately smile, hearing her shift from calling him my dad to his first name. Because, no matter what, he’s really not my dad. The words land harder than I expect. Not sharp—more like weight, like truth settling where it needs to.
She leans forward. “He only has power over you as long as you keep giving it to him.”
I swallow, blinking fast. “So what, I just stop caring?”
“You don’t stop caring,” she says. “You stop chasing. You stop proving. You learn to cope when the feelings arise. That’s how you take your power back.”
Something cracks open inside me—not in a dramatic way, just a quiet release. “I’m so exhausted. Like, I’m one thing away from completely melting into the floor, unable to stand back up.
Dr. Latham’s pen stills. “Is Tyson the tipping point?”
Tyson. Hearing his name makes my stomach twist. It’s been two days since I left his apartment.
We’ve texted—short, careful messages—but it’s not the same.
Every time my phone buzzes, I want it to be him saying come back, but I was the one who needed space.
I was the one who said I needed to breathe.
Still, the quiet between us feels heavy.
I miss him in a way that sits behind my ribs, dull and constant.
“I really don’t think Tyson meant to hurt me,” I admit finally. “In all the years we’ve known each other, he’s always been there. Ready to help. Ready to pick me up.”
Dr. Latham nods slowly. “Sometimes people protect what they’re afraid to lose. Keeping it to himself may not have been about control—it may have been about fear.”
Her words land gently, like snow against glass.
I think about the way Tyson’s voice cracked when he said he was sorry, how his hands shook when he tried to explain.
He wasn’t scheming. He was scared. And maybe that’s what caught me so off guard—I thought I was the only one afraid of losing something real.
“I guess I wanted him to see me as a partner,” I share. “Not someone who needed shielding.”
“Maybe he does,” she says softly. “But his version of care isn’t yours. You can love someone and still misread what they need.”
I exhale slowly, the ache in my chest shifting into something smaller, something almost manageable. “I hate that that makes sense.”
Dr. Latham looks at her watch, “And I hate to tell you we’re almost at the end of our session.” She closes her notebook and leans back in her chair. “It doesn’t have to make it right. The pain,” she says. “Just understandable. And understanding is what lets you decide what to do next—not hurt.”
I nod as her final words run over me, like the comfort of a blanket. Outside, the snow thickens, muting the world to gray and white. For a moment, I just watch it fall, the quiet pressing soft against the window.
Maybe that’s what this is—not forgiving too soon or holding on too long. Just learning where to go next. And who to go there with.
When I step out into the cold, the air bites at my cheeks, but it feels clean. For the first time in a long time, the weight I’m carrying feels lighter and a little more like mine—not something I have to earn.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” Maggie teases, her face filling my laptop screen. Her face is as soft as her voice sounds—full of love and understanding. I wouldn’t expect anything less from my best friend.
My video feed shows a pretty rough version of myself: red eyes, blotchy cheeks, and an empty wine glass–only a few drops of rosé left.
With Maggie’s training and tennis tournament schedule, we’ve not been able to get into everything.
Until now. She obviously knew that Tyson and I were a thing, but being able to dish on all of it feels so cathartic.
Everything from the away game to my run in with Oscar at the facility, to the gym details and the fight with Tyson.
“And then I feel bad about missing the game–”
“Blair. Stop. You’re allowed to rest. To cope. To take a minute for yourself. Some loser with probably the littlest dick to ever exist vandalized the gym. I bet the team understands you need a few days.”
I let out a laugh and my fingers rub at my temples. It’s quiet between us–just another reason to love Maggie as much as I do. We can yap for hours on end, or we can virtually just do our best to be there for the other.
“I miss you. I wish you were here.”
She grins. “I told you, use some of that fancy NFL money and book a flight. I’m going to Australia to play in a tournament in just a few days.”
“When the Cosmos season is over, it’s a deal.”
She claps her hands and dances on the screen, shimmying her shoulders and making me laugh.
“What do I do about Tyson?” The question comes out rushed and almost a little desperate.
Maggie gets to the screen, her brows pinching together. “That man is not going to leave you, Blair. Take the space you need. He’s loved you for a decade–you think this is going to scare him off? Please.” She crosses her arms and leans back.
“You sound so sure,” I muse, taking a quick peek at the window to find snow piling on the windowsill.
“Well, I have an advantage, you see…” She rests her head on a hand propped on the table, like she’s a daydreaming teenager. “I’ve seen the way you both look at each other. Like there’s no one else. That’s how it’s always been. So yeah, I’m sure.”
My cheeks redden and I pour another glass of wine. I need something to do with my hands.
This thing between me and Tyson has never been about earning anything, but about finally letting something happen that was always there. Not earning it, not proving it—just allowing it. Like we’ve both been walking around pretending not to know the ending to a story we’ve already read.
I take a sip, the wine catching in my throat. “It’s complicated,” I murmur, though what I really mean is it’s terrifying.
She smiles, that slow, sure kind of smile that makes you feel seen. “Of course it is,” she says. “That’s how you know it’s real.”