Chapter Twelve Mateo
(I Told Her About the Nice Boy)
Idon't sleep much, and just after sunrise, I slip away from Jamie while he continues to snore softly from beneath a duvet I miss already.
In the bathroom, I change back into my jeans and the sweatshirt I'd worn under his jersey, and then I toss the borrowed pants in his hamper and tell myself it's not weird that I know exactly where it is.
It can't be weird that I still have a toothbrush here either, but I don't think much about it once I'm distracted by my messy hair and tired eyes.
Leaving like this is a mistake, and I know that already, but there's something about forgiveness and permission that makes it okay for now.
Gentle with the jersey I may not wear again, I hold it to my chest and grab the rest of my things.
Once I'm downstairs, I have to think for a moment before I decide which way to go from here.
I'm not parked in the driveway this time, having never expected to go further than the bench, but I'm not sure I want to make a sudden appearance on the rocks below when I don't know who else might be there in the morning light.
In the end, I go out through the front door because everything feels backward already.
Jamie doesn't text me when he wakes up, and I don't know whether that counts as his mistake or another of mine.
We often go days without texting, but when I hear from him another couple of games into their road trip, he sends a message that could've gone to anyone.
The following night, when they don't have a game, he leaves a drunken voicemail that I get in the morning.
I think about him sitting alone in his hotel room when he goes on and on about the things he has and the things he's afraid to lose, then I worry he might not be alone at all.
I leave him a voicemail while watching him on tv, and I tell him I'm afraid, too.
I'd love to know how often Harper hears from him these days, but even if we're on a first-name basis now, it's not the kind of thing I should ask.
When he's back in New Jersey, and there are miles of nothing between us, I refocus on work, and our conversations return to a lighter shade of normal.
The texts don't come as often, and when we talk, there seem to be as many pauses as words.
More than once, I think maybe this is it—that our relationship has reached its end without ever getting the beginning it deserved—but then Jamie calls me again and his voice is soft and I realize this is as quietly as he's chased anything.
But it's a chase, nonetheless.
Spring arrives, and it should bring about a fresh start of something, except that we don't get true seasons in this part of California, just a push toward the end of the school year.
Of course, my AP exam prep is nothing compared to Jamie helping coach his team to a playoff berth, and we send voice notes in between days of silence.
When I call him during spring break, I definitely don't expect him to answer.
He does.
"Hey."
"Hey, yourself," I say. "I wasn't sure I'd catch you the week before the playoffs. Rare day off?"
"Nah, I'm working, but I haven't heard your voice in a while." Jamie almost sounds like he's smiling into the phone. "So, Ferris wheel or funnel cake?"
I glance down at the plate in my hand, then up at the ride looming behind me. "A little of both, actually. How'd you know that?"
"Lucky guess. Don't suppose you found any other volunteers to spend the afternoon with you?"
"I wasn't looking for anyone. I haven't been since the year I found you."
There's a lot to dissect about such a simple sentence, and Jamie takes long enough to reply that I think he might attempt exactly that. I lick powdered sugar from my fingers and watch others have the fun I covet. The fun I could have if—like Jamie suggested—I found another man to volunteer.
"Why?" he pushes. "Why not look? What are we doing while we're this far apart?"
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry?"
"For leaving that morning." I sigh loudly because it's not what he asked for, but I'm not stupid enough to think walking out on him has nothing to do with his questions now.
"We've done this for so long—back and forth and close and not and wait and screw it all up and try again—but I don't think I should've come inside with you.
We were both so fragile, and one of us was going to break, and I still don't even know which one of us did.
But I had to go. I wasn't ready to look into your eyes and see what damage was done. "
"And you thought sneaking out of my house would do less damage?"
"Of course not. I just didn't want to do any more."
"I didn't want—just a sec—" Jamie's voice is muffled while he speaks to someone else, and I throw half my funnel cake away.
I catch the end of a mumbled goodbye, and then he clears his throat.
"Mateo? I—Taylor needs me for a meeting, so I've gotta go.
But I—I'm glad you're not looking, okay?
It's really shitty of me to say that, but I'm glad. "
He hangs up before I get the same mumbled goodbye he gave a few moments ago, and before I can ask him to finish his sentence and tell me what he didn't want. For what it’s worth, I hope he’s not looking for anyone either, and if that’s equally shitty of me, so be it.
Jamie and I simultaneously owe each other nothing and have promised everything.
Glancing down the row of rides ahead, I think about going through the funhouse, but I leave the carnival instead.
I don't need those mirrors to remind me how much it hurts to be here alone.
Sophie and I go to Kai's for the first playoff game, but the bar is loud and crowded, and Kai's too busy to catch more than a face-off or two. It’ll be better for me to stay at home for the next one.
Something about that little bar backing up to that dark alley is as intimate as a hidden bench facing the gently roaring ocean, and I might need a break from both for a while.
We're at my apartment for game two, my mouth full of pizza when Sophie nudges me with her elbow. "Do you think Taylor McKeon knows about you?"
"No," I mumble.
"That was fast. Do you know that for sure?"
"You asked if I think he knows, not whether I know he doesn't."
Sophie rolls her eyes. "And Harper still doesn't know?"
"Not yet. We've talked about it, but right now, there's nothing for her to know.
Not really. Jamie and I have only seen each other once since he left last summer.
We call and text here and there, but it's not like it used to be.
" I toy with the pizza crust in my hand and look sideways at her.
"He asked me why I'm not looking for someone else. "
"He what? When? Why?"
"Last week, when I called him from the carnival. He asked what we're even doing anymore."
"But when he took the job, he asked you to keep waiting," she says.
And yeah, I know.
I eat the crust and nod. I watch several seconds of the game and nod again. "He still wants me to wait, but I—it's possible he's not doing the same. He sounded tired."
Sophie waves her hand toward the tv, which is fair.
I'd be tired, too. But then she pokes me again.
"How closely are you watching the gossip sites for any mention of the playboy returning to his playboy lifestyle?
Is he out with a dozen different women again?
What about the rumor he enjoyed the company of a man once upon a time? "
"The only rumor I've seen recently is something about him spending time with Taylor's sister, but that's not—I don't doubt how he feels about me, I just think he'd almost prefer if I give up on us and tell him the fantasy’s already let us go.
He doesn't know how to, and it must be exhausting to want so many things. "
The opposing team scores then, and the camera pans across the New Jersey bench in time to catch the frustration on Jamie's face. It has nothing to do with me, but I shake my head as if I can clear it away.
It mostly works, at least for that night.
I rarely go long without thinking about the shades of blue in his eyes.
By the end of the following week, after the series has gone seven games, Jamie's first season as a coach comes to an end.
His team played well, but they'll be disappointed, and I send him a stupidly long voice note when I know he'll be away from his phone.
I keep myself from asking how soon he'll be able to come back to California, my body aching with need I'm sure he feels as often as I do.
As other teams move on to the next round of the playoffs, Jamie keeps busy with meetings and whatever behind-the-scenes housekeeping sort of stuff happens at the end of a professional hockey season.
I imagine it's like wrapping up the high school soccer season, dialed up several notches, and while he's still there, I bury myself in classroom responsibilities here.
AP exams are right around the corner, and I don't have the energy to chase conversations I've never chased before.
I spend time with Sophie and some of the other teachers, all of us counting down to the end of the school year as much as any of the students do.
I'm sitting at my desk on a Friday night, staring at essays that have begun to blur, when my phone rings. It's late for me, which means it's too late for Jamie, and I'm on edge before I take my glasses off and touch my thumb to my screen.
"Hey, are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm—I wasn't sure if you'd be a couple of margaritas deep by now, but it sounds like you're somewhere quiet."
"My classroom. I bailed on everyone tonight so I could get caught up on grading," I tell him, still wary. "Did you want me to be a couple of margaritas deep?"
"I don't know. I guess. This isn't—I'd rather have you pressed up against my patio door for this, I think. It would be better than only having a phone call."
"Are you breaking up with me?"