Chapter 26 Fish
FISH
Murphy’s is quiet for a Thursday afternoon.
I’m in our usual booth in the back, scrolling on my phone, waiting for Evan, who is late.
Which is unusual because the man is pathologically punctual.
He had a photo shoot at the arena this afternoon with the content team.
With Collette. Who I’m not thinking about.
I order another beer and tell myself the tightness in my chest is because I’m hungry and not because my best friend is spending the afternoon with the woman I love, while I sit here alone in a pub like some tragic main character in a movie nobody asked to watch.
Fifteen minutes late.
Then twenty.
I text him, he is never late.
Fish: Where are you?
Nothing. No reply. No read receipt. I stare at the screen. Evan always responds immediately. Always. The man treats an unread text like a personal insult.
Twenty-five minutes. I order some fries because I need to do something with my hands that isn’t refreshing my messages.
Thirty minutes. I call him.
He picks up on the third ring. “Hey.”
“Where are you? You were supposed to be here half an hour ago. Did you not get my text?”
“I’m at the arena.” His voice sounds different. “Collette had an accident.”
Everything stops. The noise in the pub, the music, the conversation at the next table, all of it drops away.
“What do you mean, an accident? What happened? Is she okay?” Panic takes over my body.
“She slipped on the ice during the shoot. She wasn’t wearing skates. Went down hard, hit her head, and knocked herself out for a minute. She’s in the medical room now. She’s awake, but she’s got a cut on her head, and her wrist is messed up.”
I’m already standing. I’ve thrown cash on the table, and I’m pulling my jacket on and heading for the door before he finishes the sentence.
“I’m coming.”
“Fish, you don’t have to …”
I hang up. Murphy’s is across the road from the arena.
I’m through the doors and past security in under two minutes.
The corridors are mostly empty at this time of day, and my sneakers squeaking on the concrete echoes as I move fast toward the medical wing.
I don’t think about the fact that I haven’t spoken to her in weeks.
I don’t think of my damaged heart because the only thing that matters is that she is fine.
I need to see with my own eyes that she is okay.
I round the corner and push through the medical room door.
Evan is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
One of the team medics is wrapping Collette’s wrist. She is sitting on the treatment table, looking small and pale, with a butterfly bandage above her left eyebrow and an expression that shifts through about six emotions in the space of a second when she sees me.
Surprise. Confusion. Embarrassment. Something soft.
Something scared. And then the walls go up.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“Evan told me what happened.”
“I’m fine. It’s just a bump.”
“You were knocked out.” I look at the medic. “Was she knocked out?”
“Briefly, yes. She’s responsive now. No signs of concussion, but we’re recommending she take it easy tonight. Someone should keep an eye on her. The wrist is a mild sprain. We’ve wrapped it, but it needs ice and elevation.”
“Jo can keep an eye on me,” Collette says, not looking at me.
“Is Jo here?” I ask.
“She’s … no. She’s out.”
“Then I’ll take you home,” I tell her.
“No, you won’t,” she answers defensively.
“Fish,” Evan says my name as a warning.
I ignore him. “Collette,” I say her name sternly, and she stops fidgeting. “I’m taking you home.”
Evan pushes off the wall. “Guess my work here is done.”
“Thanks, Evan. Sorry for all this,” she tells him.
“All good.” He smiles at her before his eyes narrow on me. He gives me a nod, and that nod contains an entire conversation that we’ll probably have later over whiskey. He leaves, and it’s just us and the medic, who finishes wrapping her wrist, gives her some painkillers, and tells her to rest.
“Can you walk, okay?” I ask once the medic steps out.
“I hit my head, not my legs.” She slides off the treatment table and wobbles slightly. I catch her elbow. She looks down at my hand on her arm and then up at me, and for a second, neither of us knows what to do with the contact.
“Let’s go,” I say.
The walk back to her place is quiet. It’s cold, the late afternoon light is fading fast, and the city is starting to shift into its evening gear.
I keep my hand on the small of her back the entire way.
She doesn’t ask me to move it, nor does she acknowledge it.
It just sits there, warm through her jacket, guiding her through the crowd, and I tell myself it’s because she has a head injury and I’m being responsible, not because touching her is the first thing that’s felt right in weeks.
We don’t talk. The silence between us isn’t hostile anymore, but it’s not comfortable either.
It’s the silence of two people who have too much to say and no idea where to start.
We reach her building after what feels like forever. The doorman holds the door for us, and I guide her into the lobby.
“There you go,” I say, dropping my hand from her back. “Home safe.”
“Collette! Oh my god, what happened to your face?” A voice cuts through the lobby, and we both turn.
A guy is walking toward us, tall, with dark hair, stupidly handsome.
He’s in a suit, fresh from work, and he knows Collette because he’s already reaching for her, his hand on her arm, his face full of concern, leaning in close to examine the cut above her eyebrow.
“I’m fine, Manuel. Just a slip at work,” Collette says.
“Are you sure? That looks nasty. Do you need anything? I can grab you something from the café. Or I can come up and …”
“She’s good,” I say. Both of them look at me. Manuel notices me for the first time, and I watch him do the calculation. Who is this guy? Why is he with Collette? Should I be concerned? “Come on, Lettie, let me get you to bed.”
The words land in the lobby like a grenade. Collette’s eyes widen. Manuel’s mouth opens slightly. I realize what I’ve said, and I don’t correct it because fuck this guy and his perfect hair and his hand on her arm.
“Right, well, feel better, Collette, and we should catch up soon,” Manuel says.
“Thanks, Manuel, I’ll see you soon.” She gives him a tight smile and then walks toward the elevator, I follow. The doors close, and it’s just us in this small box going up, with the echo of ‘Let me get you to bed’ hanging in the air between us.
“What was that?” she asks, not looking at me.
“What was what?”
“Let me get you to bed?” She raises an eyebrow at me and immediately winces because the cut is right there.
“It came out wrong.”
“Did it?”
“Yes.”
“Because it sounded very deliberate,” she says.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I snap, not meaning to be rude.
Silence falls between us until we get to her level. We step out and walk to her door. She fumbles with her purse because of her wrist, trying to find her swipe key, so I gently take it from her, grab the key, swipe, and hold the door open for her. She doesn’t acknowledge that as I follow her in.
“Who is he?” I ask her.
“Manuel.”
I glare at her, and she glares at me. “Have you fucked him?” The words come out harsher than I wanted.
“Fuck you.” She points at me. “I can’t believe you’re asking about my sex life when you’ve been screwing all the bunnies.”
“At least they want me.”
“You’re just a notch on their belt, a review on their Reddit account. They don’t see you as anything more than a big cock that they can ride and tell the world about.”
Ouch.
“Are you seeing Manuel?”
She rolls her eyes. “He’s asked me out.”
“That’s not what I asked. Are you seeing him?” I ask through clenched teeth.
“No, because I can’t stop thinking about a fucking stupid hockey player.” Collette gasps as her hands cover her mouth as if the words were not supposed to be spoken aloud.
We stare at each other, the silence stretching for what feels like an eternity.
“I haven’t slept with any bunnies.”
She raises a brow, surprised by my comment. “Not one?”
“Not one. I tried. I couldn’t do it.” I shove my hands in my pockets because I don’t know what to do with them. “Couldn’t even kiss one without feeling like I was cheating on someone who isn’t mine.”
Her lip trembles. “Fish …”
“I know it’s pathetic. Trust me, I know.” I let out a breath. “You asked me once if I was sick of sleeping with women who only want the superficial. The answer is yes. But the real answer is, I stopped wanting any of them the day I met you.”
She’s crying now, not the dramatic kind, the quiet kind. The kind where the tears just fall, and she doesn’t wipe them away because she’s too tired to pretend anymore.
“I miss you so much it physically hurts,” she whispers. “I wake up every morning and check my phone, and there’s nothing, and it’s like losing you all over again every single day.”
“You didn’t lose me. I was right here the whole time. I just couldn’t be near you without wanting things I’m not allowed to want.”
“I want them too.” Her voice cracks. “I want all of it. I just don’t know how to have it without everything falling apart.”
“Maybe it falls apart. Maybe it doesn’t. But I’d rather try and lose than spend another night jerking off alone in my apartment pretending I don’t love you.”
She chokes out a laugh through the tears. “That’s the most romantic and disgusting thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“You’re welcome.”
The fight drains out of both of us. Whatever wall was left between us just crumbled, and neither of us has the energy to rebuild it. She wipes her face with the back of her good hand and lets out a shaky breath.
“I need to sit down. My head is …” She sways slightly, her good hand reaching for the kitchen counter but missing it.