Chapter 8 #2
She had been healthy then. Active. Hadn't seemed like someone who'd need weekly check-ins six years later.
Unless something had changed.
Unless Carol had gotten sick. Seriously sick. The kind of sick that required a daughter to drive four and a half hours every single weekend to help take care of her.
That would have explained the exhaustion. The guilt in Anne's eyes. The way she'd looked this morning like she was carrying the weight of the world.
It would also have explained why she wouldn't talk about it. If her mom was dying, the last thing she'd needed was me pushing for personal conversations, asking questions she wasn't ready to answer.
My chest tightened.
God, if Carol was sick...
I remembered the way Anne had talked about her mom.
The pride in her voice when she'd mentioned Carol was a nurse, that she'd inspired Anne to go into medicine.
The way she'd called her mom after big exams, after accepting the Northwestern offer, after we'd fought about stupid things and she'd needed someone to talk to.
If something happened to her...
I grabbed my phone again. Searched "Carol Mitchell Chicago nurse."
Nothing relevant came up.
I tried "Carol Mitchell obituary Chicago."
Still nothing. Which was good. Which meant she hadn't?—
I stopped myself.
I can't believe I was so obsessed with why she had to go back to Chicago. I was googling her mother's obituary. I was inventing reasons. I was losing my mind over a woman who made it very clear today that we're nothing more than PT and client.
But even as I thought it, I knew it wasn't true.
There was something there. Something real. I'd seen it in her eyes when I'd handed her that coffee. I'd felt it in the way her hands had trembled when she'd touched my shoulder. I'd heard it in her voice when she'd said "Thanks. Happy to bring you a treat" like those words had cost her something.
She felt it too.
She just wouldn't admit it.
My phone buzzed. Text from Carter.
Carter: Dude, you're missing an excellent steak. And Kelly brought her friend. Blonde. Gorgeous. Keeps asking about you.
I didn't respond.
Carter: Seriously, get your ass down here. You've been weird all week.
Me: I'm good. Have fun.
Carter: This is about the PT, isn't it?
I stared at the message. Typed and deleted three different responses before settling on:
Me: No.
Carter: Bullshit. You've been obsessed since Monday. What's going on?
Me: Nothing's going on. She's doing her job, I'm healing. That's it.
Carter: Then why are you sitting alone on a Friday night instead of coming out with us?
Good question.
I set down my phone and finished my Chinese food. Tried to watch a game on TV. Couldn't focus. Tried to review practice film. Couldn't focus on that either.
All I could think about was Anne, four and a half hours away, doing whatever she did in Chicago every weekend.
Taking care of her sick mom, probably. Exhausting herself driving back and forth. Carrying all that weight alone because she was too stubborn—or too scared—to ask for help.
Or I was completely wrong and she's with someone. Boyfriend. Fiancé. Someone she didn't mention because it's none of my business. Someone who gets to hold her when she's tired. Someone who knows why she couldn't sleep last night.
The thought made my stomach turn.
My phone buzzed again. Different number this time. My dad.
Dad: How's the shoulder?
Me: Better. PT says I'm ahead of schedule.
Dad: Good. That's good. Your mother wants to know if you're coming home for her birthday next month.
Me: Probably not. Playoffs.
Dad: She figured. She's proud of you, you know. We both are.
I stared at the message. My parents had always been supportive. Always. They'd driven me to every practice, every tournament, every game. Sat in freezing rinks at 5 AM. Believed in me when I was eight years old telling everyone I was going to play in the NHL.
They had also loved Anne.
Me: Can I ask you something?
Dad: Of course.
Me: How did you know Mom was the one?
Long pause. I watched the typing indicator appear, disappear, appear again as he typed and deleted his response.
Dad: Where's this coming from?
Me: Just curious.
Dad: You're a terrible liar. What's her name?
I almost didn't answer. Then:
Me: Anne.
Dad: Anne? Your Anne? I thought you two broke up when you went to Sweden.
Me: We did. She's in St. Louis. She's my PT.
Another long pause.
Dad: Liam, that's...
Me: Complicated. I know.
Dad: To answer your question: I knew your mother was the one because being with her felt like coming home. Like I could be completely myself—the good parts and the messy parts—and she'd still choose me. Does that help?
I read the message three times.
Does being with Anne feel like coming home?
Yes. God, yes. Even with all the hurt and distance and unfinished business between us.
When she walked into that training room on Monday, it felt like someone had finally turned the lights back on.
Me: Thanks, Dad.
Dad: Whatever you decide, make sure you're choosing with your whole heart. Not just the part that's scared of getting hurt again.
I set down my phone and leaned back against the couch.
Sunday night. That's when she'd be back. Driving four and a half hours from Chicago, probably exhausted, probably dreading seeing me on Monday.
Taking care of her sick mom all weekend. Or not. Maybe I was wrong about that. Maybe it was something else entirely.
Maybe it was none of my business.
But God, I wanted it to be my business.
I had two days to figure out what the hell I was going to do about Anne Mitchell.
Two days to decide if I was brave enough to risk my heart again.
Two days to prepare for the fact that she might choose to keep running.
Sunday night, I couldn't sleep.
Somewhere out there, Anne was in Chicago doing whatever she did on weekends that was too personal to share. Tomorrow morning she'd walk back through that door and we'd pretend this week hadn't happened.
I kept checking my phone like she was going to text me. Like she was going to say Hey, I'm thinking about you too or Can we talk? or anything that would give me a clue about what was happening in her head.
Nothing.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, and replayed every interaction from this week.
The almost-kiss in the training room Monday.
The way she had looked at me Tuesday when I'd said "we don't have to pretend."
The coffee Wednesday morning. You remembered. God, the way that had felt. Like she'd reached into my chest and wrapped her hand around my heart.
Thursday's session when she'd shown up late and exhausted and wouldn't tell me why.
Friday morning when she'd left for Chicago and I had wanted to ask her to stay so badly I could have tasted it.
Tomorrow, she'd walk into that training room, She'd be professional. Distant. She'd put her hands on my shoulder and pretend she didn't feel what I felt.
And I'd have to decide: do I keep playing this game? Do I keep pretending I could survive eight weeks of being this close to her without losing my mind?
Or do I risk everything and tell her the truth?
That I'd never stopped loving her.
That seeing her again had made me realize every relationship I'd had for the past few years had been just me trying to fill a space that had always been hers.
That if she'd stay—if she'd give us another chance—I'd choose her this time. I'd choose her over everything.
My phone buzzed. Text from an unknown number.
My heart stopped.
Was it her? Had she gotten a new number? Was she?—
I opened it.
Unknown: Hey Liam! This is Kelly's friend from dinner tonight. Carter gave me your number. Want to grab drinks sometime?
I deleted the message without responding.
There was only one person I wanted to grab drinks with.
And she was four and a half hours away, driving back from Chicago, probably listening to the same playlist she'd listened to in college, probably thinking about anything except me.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I'd see her again.
And I had no idea if that was a blessing or a curse.