Chapter Eighteen Mateo #2
I set my phone down next to the bathroom sink and step into the shower, frowning at the ways Jamie's words made me feel worse, not better.
He should know my family by now. He should tell me to give my mom an extra hug from him or joke about how my dad half-grunts at every present instead of looking as pleased as he is.
He should have an inside joke with at least one of my sisters that he brings up just to annoy me before I have to spend the day with them.
He should be here, but even if he has to be with his team, my family should at least know who I'm missing.
Instead, I'll have Logan at my side, and everything will seem just right to them.
It's a great day though, and on New Year's Eve, I'm officially Logan's date to his company's fancy party. He swears it means nothing more than an open bar, decent music, and a few hours of eye-fucking before we get to the real thing. That's a great night.
I don't know whether Harper spends New Year's Day on the bench.
If she does, I wonder whether Simon is next to her this time.
I haven't met him yet, but he sounds pretty amazing, and with Harper's graduation only months away, I'm curious about what comes next.
She's talked about becoming a teacher and coach, and I couldn't be prouder.
I could probably make arguments about why she should focus on that more than a college boyfriend, but I'm too in love with love to think I could ever speak out against it.
She's actually the next Sinclair to text me, firing off something too innocent on Valentine's Day, when she lets me know she's visiting Jamie for a few days.
I don't know how I'm supposed to respond to that.
Great, please let your dad know there hasn't been a single day during which I've forgotten to be excruciatingly in love with him.
I keep it simpler than that. Have a great time and keep him out of trouble.
Harper sends a string of emojis, and I just shake my head.
But over the next few weeks, I watch a couple of games and I look at the standings and I realize I should've been more worried that the team is in trouble.
After being so close to a championship the year before, they're in danger of not making the playoffs at all.
Sophie blows up my phone about it, and I don't know what to say to her either.
I guess Jamie coached better before I broke all my own rules and flew across the country to ask him to love me more than he can?
Realistically, I know there's only so much I could've affected the team when I mostly destroyed us, but the weight of blame sits heavy against my chest and keeps me still.
More and more often, I let Logan crawl just beneath some of it, where it's warmest and safest, and I don't put a name to the feelings we find there.
Our Southern California winter fades into spring as much as it ever has in a place without proper seasons, but I'm watching the calendar work against a group of guys who are fighting back amid a series of injuries that may have crippled them.
With a little more than a week left before the playoffs, it doesn't look good for them—they have to win their final four games and hope the team just above them loses two—and I decide I can't watch.
I focus on all the classroom work I have to wrap up before spring break starts.
After saying my goodbyes that Friday afternoon, I spend almost the entire weekend at Logan's, grateful for time off and made breathless until I know I'll sleep soundly.
I don't check any of the apps or sites on Monday morning for confirmation that last year's runners-up won't make it past the regular season.
It means I also don't see the comments—some concerned and some derisive—about New Jersey's assistant coach missing the last two games.
I only find out that night, when my phone rattles on the nightstand next to where I'm lying in Logan's bed.
We're warm and relaxed and talking softly while we draw mindless patterns on each other's bare skin.
It's too late for a phone call that isn't a wrong number or bad news, so my heart knocks around in search of an answer, and it doesn't quiet when I roll away from Logan's touch and read the name on my screen.
"Hello?" I say, somewhere between stupid and scared. "What's going on? Are you okay? Is he—"
"He's not—I don't know—shit, sorry." Harper stops and takes a deep breath, loud enough for me to hear.
"He's sick. Really sick. And they said he'll get better, but I need you to check on him because I'm still up here, and I've got like a month left before I graduate, so I can't just leave, but you—please, I don't want him to be alone right now. "
I slide out of bed and find some boxer briefs, unwilling to have any more of this conversation without them. "Sick with what? Is he in the hospital?"
"Double pneumonia. And I wish, but no, they let him go, and I hate it. He never gets sick. I've never heard him like this."
"Okay, yeah, I understand. It's probably pretty bad, and I know why you're scared. But I'm sure they have him on antibiotics, and I can't just get on a plane—"
"He's not in New Jersey," she interrupts. "He's at home."
"Here?"
"Yeah."
"But they played last night." I think. I still haven't looked.
Harper sighs. "They did, but he wasn't there."
"Because he's home."
"Because he's home."
"But how did he get there?" I ask. "He couldn't have flown with double pneumonia."
"He shouldn't have flown," she corrects. "But he's a stubborn idiot who isn't used to being sick and thought he knew better until he wanted to die somewhere over the Mississippi."
"Jesus."
"We can both yell at him later. What about now?"
"Listen, I—I want to go—I do. But he and I aren't—I told you last summer that we hadn't talked in a while. Maybe Kai? Or your mom?"
"I'd beg you to do this for me, but I don't think that would work as well as begging you to do this for him," she says, ignoring options she either already exhausted or refuses to consider.
"There's no way your friendship is over.
I don't care how much you are or aren't talking right now.
I heard how you answered the phone. I heard you, Mateo. Please."
Her voice weakens, and it's new to me. It reminds me she's her father's daughter, all smiles and sass until the vulnerability slips through.
This isn't some cute ploy to reunite two friends, and her manipulation's only goal is to make sure Jamie isn't alone while he suffers.
I scrape my fingers through my hair and pace, my heart still pounding, even if some reasons have shifted sideways.
But turning means I'm facing the bed again, and for a long while, I'll feel terrible that I forgot Logan was right there the whole time.
He's sitting now, a book in his hand, but his eyes are on me. I remember I have to say something to Harper, and doing it with an audience is probably shitty for everyone, even the man who doesn't know I'll be at his front door soon.
"Yeah, okay, I'll check on him."
Logan doesn't look away. Harper sighs with relief. "Really? Tonight?"
"Tonight," I promise her. I try to remember whether I've promised Logan anything recently.
She sighs again and asks me to text her once I've seen Jamie. I agree and cling to the phone once she's gone, standing in my underwear and waiting for Logan to ask me questions that won't require an answer.
He saves us both the trouble and skips that part. "Go."
"I'm—"
"Just go. He's sick. His daughter is worried. You won't be able to sleep until you've seen him, so go. I won't wait up."
I feel like I should argue, but we'd both lose in our own ways, so I nod and leave to find my joggers and t-shirt.
I pause with my clothes in my hand, wondering whether I'll be forgiven for visiting Jamie while I still smell like another man, but I forgo a shower and get dressed instead.
Pulling my hair into a messy bun only takes a few seconds, and with my phone in my pocket and everything else in his living room, I have nothing keeping me here.
I'm at the bedroom door, and it feels like the effort it would take to cross the room and kiss him would be a lie.
He shakes his head.
The drive to Jamie's takes me about as long as it would from my apartment, though I'm coming from a different direction, and it feels strangely foreign.
After that, nothing does. I park in his driveway and take a deep breath of the ocean air, and then I knock on his door because it's the nice thing to do.
He doesn't answer, and I already have my key—just in case—in my hand.
When I let myself in, it's almost frighteningly dark and still, and it's the first time since I saw Harper's name on my screen that I've been afraid.
I call his name as I nudge my shoes out of the way, but I'm met with nothing but silence.
I make my way further into a house I didn't know I could navigate in the dark, and I try again.
"Jamie, it's me." I pause to listen, then I look toward the great room and a sofa I can't see.
It's possible he crashed there, unwilling or unable to make it up the stairs, but there's so little sound and so much darkness, and I turn my back on it.
"I'm coming up to your room. I need to make sure you're okay. "
Finally, I hear an endless, ugly cough, and I realize okay is probably aiming too high for whatever I'm about to find.
Barefoot and gentle, I make my way up, calmer now that I know where he is.
Jamie's cough shifts into something like an uncomfortable groan just as I reach the bedroom door, the light spilling in from his bathroom allowing me to see him for the first time in a year and a half.