Chapter Thirteen #2
“I think because the fall made me feel guilty, and the joke made me feel powerful again.”
The answer was ugly.
Honest.
Specific.
I hated it.
I respected it.
“Thank you for telling the truth.”
His eyes lifted.
“You’re welcome.”
A pause.
Then he said, “I have something.”
My body went still.
“What?”
“Not for you to read if you do not want.”
“Carter.”
“I wrote it after Ridgeview.”
He pulled a folded page from his hoodie pocket.
Paper.
Not phone.
Not text.
Of course.
“I did not write it to give you at first,” he said quickly. “I wrote it because I needed to know what I actually understood.”
He placed it on the table.
Not pushing it toward me.
Just there.
The title at the top was visible.
Things I did not understand then
My chest tightened.
“What is it?”
“A list.”
“You made a list?”
“I have been spending too much time around organized women.”
Despite everything, my mouth curved.
Then faded.
“Is it an apology?”
“No.”
Good answer.
“I think it is... accountability notes.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“It is.”
I looked at the paper.
Then at him.
“Do you want me to read it?”
“Yes.”
Honest.
“Do you need me to?”
He hesitated.
Then shook his head.
“No.”
Better.
I picked it up.
Not because he needed it.
Because I wanted to know.
The handwriting was messier than I expected.
Strong.
Slanted.
A little impatient.
I read.
I thought making pain funny made it smaller. It made people smaller.
I stopped.
Breathed.
Read the next.
I thought if everyone laughed, nobody could blame me for the hurt.
Next.
I made Maren choose between staying in the room and staying loyal to herself.
My throat closed.
There were more.
About silence.
About fear.
About being needed.
About turning care into performance.
About not answering my message because doing nothing let him pretend nothing was still possible.
By the time I reached the end, my hands were shaking.
The final line read:
I cannot ask her to trust me because I finally understand. I can only become someone who does not make her regret seeing me clearly.
I set the page down carefully.
Carter watched me like he was prepared for anything except kindness.
Good.
I was not ready to give much.
But I could give truth.
“This matters,” I said.
His eyes changed.
“It does?”
“Yes.”
“It does not fix it.”
“No.”
“I know.”
“I believe you.”
The room went still.
I had said those words before.
This time, they meant more.
He understood.
I saw it land.
For a second, neither of us spoke.
The open door to the office seemed very far away.
Carter looked at my mouth.
Then away.
Trying.
Always trying now.
I made the next choice before fear could hold a meeting.
“Carter.”
His eyes came back.
“Yes?”
“Not here.”
He went still.
Then understood.
The same words from the concourse.
Not here.
Not no.
His breath changed.
“Okay.”
I stood.
He stood too.
Not fast.
Not eager in the old way.
Careful.
We walked out of the media office, down the staff hallway, past the trophy case, past the rink entrance, into the quiet side corridor near the old equipment room.
No cameras.
No alumni.
No display wall.
No old hallway.
A new place.
Small.
Ugly fluorescent lights.
Rubber flooring.
A vending machine humming nearby.
Perfect.
I turned to him.
“I am still angry.”
“I know.”
“I am still careful.”
“I understand.”
“I still do not know what this is.”
“Okay.”
“But I want to kiss you.”
The words came out steady.
Mine.
His face changed completely.
Not triumph.
Not relief alone.
Wonder.
Like the sentence was something he had no right to touch roughly.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“No.”
A flicker of pain crossed his face.
I stepped closer.
“Yes.”
He breathed once.
Then nodded.
“Can I?”
“Yes.”
Carter touched my face the same way he had in the media room.
Slow.
Careful.
Waiting until I leaned into his palm.
Then he kissed me.
Soft.
So soft it almost hurt.
Not because it was too little.
Because it was exactly enough.
His mouth moved against mine like a question he already knew not to answer for me.
My hands rose to his hoodie.
Held there.
The kiss deepened by one degree.
Then another.
No rush.
No joke.
No room laughing.
No one watching.
Just Carter and me in a fluorescent hallway, finally letting a good thing be good without asking it to erase the bad.
When we separated, his forehead nearly touched mine.
He stopped it from doing so.
I noticed.
I took the half step myself.
Our foreheads rested together.
His breath shook.
Mine too.
“This does not mean I forgive everything,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“I understand,” he corrected himself immediately.
I almost laughed.
Instead, I kissed him once more.
Short.
Mine.
Then stepped back.
He let me.
Of course he did.
Good.
We stood there like idiots.
Happy idiots.
Terrified idiots.
Possibly doomed idiots.
Then Carter said, very softly, “Small?”
I looked at him.
The man had just kissed me and still wanted instructions on emotional scale.
Unfair.
“Medium,” I said.
His smile broke open.
Real.
Bright.
Not armor.
Joy.
“Medium,” he repeated.
“Do not make me regret that.”
“Never.”
The word landed too big.
He caught it.
“Sorry. I mean, I will try very hard not to.”
“Better.”
“Much less romantic.”
“Much more believable.”
He laughed.
A quiet laugh.
The good kind.
When we returned to the media office, the archive folder still sat on the table.
The page he had written was beside it.
The old footage was still open on my laptop.
My younger self had fallen.
Gotten up.
Finished.
I sat down.
Carter sat across from me.
Not touching.
Not pretending nothing changed.
I looked at the screen.
Then at him.
“I want the capstone wall to include the getting-up clip.”
His eyes softened.
“Good.”
“And the photo before the fall.”
“Yes.”
“And the Ridgeview pass for you.”
He blinked.
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“Not the Green helmet tap?”
“That too, maybe. But the pass is the story.”
“Why?”
“Because the room wanted the loud choice.”
His face went still.
“And you made the right one.”
The words landed.
He nodded once.
“Okay.”
We worked for another hour.
Not easily.
Not normally.
Better.
The puck sat on the desk.
The skates leaned beside my chair.
Carter’s list stayed near my notebook.
At some point, our hands brushed while sorting photos.
Neither of us pulled away fast.
Neither of us made it huge.
Medium, maybe.
And when he left, he paused at the door.
“Maren?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for choosing the new hallway.”
My throat tightened.
I looked down at the archive folder.
“You noticed.”
“I did.”
Good.
He left.
I sat there a long time after.
Then I saved the final archive clip.
MAREN_GETS_UP
For the first time, the file name felt like the whole truth.