Chapter 9 #3
I reach for my phone without thinking. It’s on the other pillow, face down like it’s ashamed of itself. When I flip it over, the light hits my eyes and I flinch, but I don’t put it away. I scroll because scrolling is easier than being alone with my brain.
Camera roll first, then socials.
Game photos—someone tagged me, a fan account, a blurry shot of me at the free-throw line with my arms up like I’m somebody important. I zoom in and immediately regret it. My expression looks… serious. Focused. Like I know what I’m doing.
I almost don’t recognize myself.
Next.
More photos. More angles. More proof that this is happening whether I’m ready for it or not. Then a screenshot of a text thread with Marco where he’s roasting me about a missed dunk. A photo of airport food. A stupid meme.
My thumb moves on autopilot, and a picture of us pops up.
Me and Rafe on the bed in a Vegas hotel room.
Early days. The soft part of the year before everything got loud.
We’re laughing at something. I can’t remember what.
His head is tipped toward mine, curls falling into his eyes.
My knee is pressed against his thigh like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like we’ve been doing it forever.
Both our rings are on. The image isn’t posed or filtered. It’s us not trying.
I send it to him before I realize what I’m doing. I want him to see this moment too. Our love.
It’s simply us. And God—he looks so happy. I stare at it too long. The room feels colder.
My thumb hovers over the screen, almost like if I hold still, the picture might turn into a video and I’ll hear his laugh again.
Hear him breathe next to me. Smell his stupid cologne that he pretends he doesn’t wear.
Then my eyes flick to the corner where the date is.
And my stomach drops so fast I swear the bed tilts.
No.
No—wait.
I sit up so hard the sheets slide down my chest. My heart starts pounding like I just got subbed into a close game. I hit the photo info again. The date doesn’t change.
My mouth goes dry.
I swipe back through the photos faster now, like I can outrun what I’m about to realize, but it’s already there, waiting. I open my calendar. My hands feel clumsy. Too big. The loading wheel spins.
Come on.
The month pops up. And there it is. The little marker. The date circled in my mind like it’s been branded there since the day we said it.
Our first anniversary.
Already gone. Already past.
I stare at it like it might blink. Like it might say psych. It doesn’t.
My throat tightens. I check it again. Then I check it again like the numbers might apologize and fix themselves if I humiliate myself enough. They don’t. We missed it. Completely.
Not a “Happy anniversary, babe” text at midnight. Not a quick call. Not even a sleepy voice note. Nothing.
My chest caves in with a weird, slow weight. There’s no anger swirling, nor is it the sharp kind. It’s just hollow, like someone knocked something loose inside me and now it’s rolling around in the dark. I sit with my phone in my hand, staring at the screen until my eyes burn.
A year.
A whole year married.
And we didn’t even notice it happen.
A laugh tries to come out of me—this little broken sound that isn’t funny at all—and I swallow it back down.
I press my thumb into the edge of my phone so hard it hurts.
I want to tell myself it’s fine. I want to tell myself it doesn’t matter, because it’s a date and we’re not the kind of couple who needs grand gestures and—
But it matters. Of course it matters.
It mattered when we whispered vows like secrets. It mattered when we slid rings onto fingers like promises we weren’t allowed to show. It mattered when we promised each other always, even though our lives were already trying to pull us apart.
And we forgot.
I can’t stop staring at the calendar, like if I stare long enough, I’ll see where we lost it. Where it slipped.
My phone buzzes. The vibration startles me so hard I almost drop it. I blink, confused for half a second, then look down. It’s a message from Rafe.
Rafe: I think I fucked up.
Rafe: Like REALLY fucked up.
My heart stutters, then launches into my throat.
Of course. Of course he realized too.
My fingers move fast.
Me: What happened?
I play it safe, just in case. Typing dots appear. Disappear. Come back. My stomach clenches.
Rafe: What day did we miss?
I close my eyes and laugh, short and breathless. Like my body doesn’t know what else to do with the feeling.
Me: Yeah.
There’s a beat. Like he’s staring at his own calendar the way I am. Like he’s sitting somewhere in another beige room doing the same math.
Rafe: We’re terrible.
I press my lips together.
Me: We’re busy.
Rafe: Same thing.
That lands harder than it should, because it’s true. Busy is what people call it when they don’t want to say we’re drowning.
I stare at the screen. My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I don’t want to make this worse. I don’t want to spiral. So I type the first thing that comes to me.
Me: I don’t care that we forgot.
He answers immediately.
Rafe: I do.
And yeah. So do I. The truth makes my throat sting like I swallowed something sharp. I don’t type right away. My phone feels too heavy.
Rafe: We should fix it.
My chest warms, sudden and bright, like someone cracked a window open.
Me: How?
Rafe: I don’t know yet.
I stare at his last message.
I don’t know yet.
And God—he sounds like he’s falling. Like he’s holding on to the edge of something and isn’t sure if his grip is strong enough.
My phone buzzes again.
Rafe: Are you alone?
Me: Yeah.
The phone rings immediately after I send it. I answer on the first buzz, voice rough. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he says, quieter now. So quiet it scrapes. His voice has that particular looseness in it—too warm around the edges. Not drunk. Not sloppy. Just… less guarded. Like the lid isn’t screwed on properly.
I can hear muffled noise behind him—voices, movement, something that might be music leaking through walls like a pulse. Maybe he’s backstage. Maybe he’s in a hallway. Maybe he ducked into a stairwell like we’ve done a thousand times, hiding like college students in the rehearsal rooms.
“I didn’t want to do this over text,” he says.
“I’m glad you called,” I tell him, and I mean it with my whole chest.
He exhales, and I can hear the strain in it. Like he’s been holding his breath for an hour. “I keep thinking about it,” he says. “How we missed it. And I hate that I didn’t even notice until I’d already—” He stops and swallows something down. “Never mind. I just hate it.”
“We didn’t miss it because we don’t care,” I say.
“I know.” His voice jumps, sharp with panic. “I know, Ollie. I just—fuck.” He exhales again, harder. “I don’t want this stuff to start slipping.”
The words hit me like a shove, because I’ve been thinking the same thing. I just haven’t said it.
I roll onto my side, clutching the phone to my ear like it’s the only stable thing in the room. “Where are you?”
“Cleveland.” He pauses like the city tastes wrong. “We just got back,” he adds. “Everyone’s still up. I escaped.” A beat follows before he adds softly, “Too much tequila in the green room. We have a show tomorrow. Then Pittsburgh. Then Philly.”
“That routing is criminal,” I say automatically.
He huffs a laugh, and it’s weak but it’s there. “You should see the map. It’s like someone planned it as a joke.”
“And you’re only three weeks in,” I say.
“Please don’t say that,” he groans, and it’s almost normal. Almost him.
“I’m in Phoenix,” I tell him. “We had a game tonight. We fly back to LA tomorrow.”
“Did you play? I’m sorry, I haven’t had the chance to watch the highlights.”
“It’s fine, and yeah, I did. Decent minutes.” I swallow. “I kept thinking I’d text you after.”
“I know,” he says softly. “Me too.”
The silence that follows is heavy, but it’s not awkward. It’s the kind of silence that only happens between people who already know each other’s guilt.
“I don’t want us to just survive this,” he says finally.
That lands. Because I don’t either. Because surviving is what you do when you’re waiting for something to end. And this isn’t ending. Not if we can help it.
“We’re not,” I say, voice steady even when my chest doesn’t feel steady. “We’re just… tired.”
“I miss loud,” he admits.
My throat works around the words. “Me too.”
Then, abruptly, he says, “I can’t do flowers.”
I laugh into the pillow, relief bursting out of me. “Thank God.”
“I want to do something,” he says, and the way his voice drops on it makes it clear he means it. Means it like a vow. “Something real.”
I glance at the tablet on the nightstand. It’s still open to my schedule because I’m too tired to ever close anything properly. Three days off. Those days are rare. Protected. Hell, so close to the end of the season, they’re almost sacred. A miracle even.
The idea comes so fast it feels like someone else put it there. “You’re in Denver next week,” I say.
He goes still. I can hear it—the pause, the sudden attention. “Yeah,” he says carefully.
“I’ve got three days,” I say, heart starting to race again for a different reason.
There’s a long pause before “Ollie” is all but breathed down the line.
The way he says it—soft, wrecked—makes my chest hurt.
“I could fly in,” I say. “Just for the night.”
“You’d do that?” His voice cracks on the edge of disbelief. “In the middle of your crazy schedule?”
“It’s our anniversary,” I say simply, like it answers everything, even though technically we missed the actual day. “I want to see you.”
The silence warms. It’s no longer empty or heavy.
“I could save you a seat,” he says. “Side stage.”
“I’d like that.”
“And then maybe we just… exist,” he adds, and I can hear him smiling a little through the words. “Room service. No alarms.”
I smile into the pillow. “Perfect.”
“You don’t have to,” he says, like he’s afraid to ask for too much.
“I know,” I reply. “But I want to.”
Another breath ripples from him to me. “Okay,” he says, like he’s holding something fragile. “Then it’s a date.”
I laugh softly. “It’s literally our anniversary.”
“Still counts,” he says. “I’ll try not to fuck it up.”
“We already did.”
He chuckles, real this time. “Fair.”
“Happy anniversary,” I say.
“Happy anniversary,” he answers—and this time it sticks. It feels like something we can hold onto instead of something we missed.
We stay on the line longer than we should, talking through flights and logistics and how ridiculous it is that we’re this excited about one night in a hotel we didn’t choose. But underneath the details, something steadies. We didn’t lose it. Not really. We just had to fight our way back.
I don’t hang up right away. Neither of us does. There’s a stretch of quiet where neither of us speaks, like we’re both afraid the moment we do, it’ll snap and turn back into distance. I can hear him breathing. I let myself match it.
Then he clears his throat. “Okay,” he says again, softer this time. “I should… I’ve got to get back.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah. Go.”
“Text me when you land,” he adds automatically.
I smile. “You mean when you land.” He’s got a flight before I do.
A huff of laughter. “Right. Habit.”
“I love you,” I say, and it comes out easy. There’s no weight on it this time. Just truth.
“I love you too,” he answers, steady and sure.
The line clicks dead. I lie here staring at the ceiling, phone still pressed to my ear like it might ring again if I don’t move.
It doesn’t. Slowly, I lower my hand and set the phone on the pillow beside me.
The room is exactly the same as it was before—same beige walls, same rattling air conditioner, same blinking red numbers on the clock.
3:02 a.m.
But it feels… different, lighter, almost like someone cracked a window somewhere and fresh air finally found its way in. I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling fan, watching it spin lazily, trying to convince my body to settle.
It doesn’t. My heart is still racing, but not from panic now. No, instead, anticipation thrums through my veins from the image of him waiting side stage, eyes locked on me like I belong there too. From the idea of one night that doesn’t belong to anyone else—no crowd, no schedule, no pretending.
Just us.
The thought makes my chest tighten again, but this time it’s sharp with something closer to fear. Because now there’s something to lose. Because now there’s something to count down to.
I swing my legs off the bed and stand, pacing the length of the room once, twice.
My footsteps sound too loud on the carpet.
I stop by the window and pull the curtain back a few inches.
Phoenix glows below—streetlights, headlights, life continuing without any regard for my internal crisis.
I press my forehead to the glass, letting the cool seep in.
One night, I think. One night isn’t a lot. But it’s enough. It has to be.
I exhale slowly and let the curtain fall back into place. Grab my phone again, thumb hovering over the screen. I open my calendar and scroll forward.
There it is. Denver. I add a note beneath it before I can talk myself out of it: Anniversary. The word looks strange there, heavy and real, and a week too late. I lock the phone and set it down again, more carefully this time. Then I lie back on the bed and close my eyes.
Sleep, thankfully, feels possible. And as I drift, the last thing I think is how terrifying it is—how fragile and bright—to want something this badly again. To want him.