Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Penelope
The house is too quiet when Hazel’s at school, so I’ve been filling it the only way I know how—with boxes and a box cutter and the illusion that if I get everything in order on the outside, the inside will come together too.
I moved us here to be closer to my dad, hoping he could fill the role of a male figure in Hazel’s life.
My dad has a four-year contract with the Colts, which hopefully means he’ll be here the entire time.
Longer if we’re lucky. Even after a lifetime of watching coaching rule his life, I convinced myself this time would be different—we’d have more time to see him during the season.
At least we’ll have the offseason when his attention isn’t so divided.
I’m busy in the basement of our new house, going through boxes my mom shipped to me when she remarried, moved into his place, then decided to travel for the rest of her life with her wealthy husband.
Using the box cutter, I pierce the tape, then pry open the flaps.
For a half second, I stare. Then my stomach drops, and I wish I had grabbed literally any other box from the pile.
I thought I’d gotten rid of this box years ago, but apparently, it’s been at my mom’s, stuffed in a corner of the crawl space.
My hands slide into the box, and I pull out the scrapbook I made so many years ago.
I have no idea why I want to torture myself, but I release a breath as I open the front flap. The first picture hurts in a way I couldn’t prepare for.
Decker Davis and I at the ages of eleven and twelve. Me with a medal around my neck and his arm swung around my shoulders.
My finger runs along the date printed at the bottom.
Twenty years later and we couldn’t be further apart.
Those two kids who had a friendship so deep I thought he’d be part of my life forever are long gone.
I should have paid attention to the signs.
It’s in all the movies—once your heart is too involved, the friendship turns fragile, ultimately shattering to pieces.
I continue to flip page after page. Decker with medals, rings, tournament banners. Me on pedestals, him at the fence line cheering. And then one picture makes me stop. I’m mid-run, not even looking at the camera, and he’s staring at me with a look I don’t remember.
We were really happy then and smart not to step over the line. We should’ve remembered our commitment to our friendship all those years later when we were in college.
I reach the end of the scrapbook and spot the letter still in the back pocket.
Don’t open it.
Do not open it.
My hand is already reaching for it. That’s my entire problem when it comes to Decker—I never listen to common sense.
I lift it out of the pocket, and I cross my legs, leaning back against the wall.
The paper crinkles in my hand after years of being hidden, but the ink and his handwriting are still impeccable.
Pen,
I know you’re laughing right now because I wrote you a letter.
I can hear you mumbling, calling me an old man.
I’m writing this because if I try to say it out loud, you’ll interrupt me three times, then I’ll pretend I wasn’t being serious, and you’ll let me get away with it.
And for once, I don’t want to ignore the truth.
We’ve known each other since we were ten and eleven, which is ridiculous if you think about it. Most people don’t keep friends that long. But you’re not most people. You’ve been the one person I can count on. Especially when I didn’t know how to count on myself.
And somehow, you still know me better than anyone.
You know the difference between me being quiet because I’m tired and me being quiet because I’m spiraling.
You know when I’m about to do that thing where I act like I don’t care—like everything is fine, when it isn’t.
You’re basically the only person who can look at me and read the truth like the pages in a book without me ever saying a word, which is annoying, honestly. But also the thing I’ll miss most.
I can’t pretend I’m not excited to go to college. New friends. New teammates. New experiences.
But I also keep thinking about the distance.
About how easy it is for people to promise nothing will change, and then they get busy and let things fade.
I think about how this next year could turn into phone calls that get shorter and texts that take longer and longer to reply to, and then some day I don’t know anything about your life anymore.
I don’t want that.
What we are is real. And our friendship has mattered to me more than I’ve ever said.
So here’s what I can promise—I’m one call away. No matter what city I’m in, no matter what time it is. If you need me, I’m here.
And I’m saying this now because I don’t want you wondering later if I meant any of this. I’m not going to pull you into something messy right before I leave. You deserve better than that. You deserve someone who’s here, not hundreds of miles away, too consumed with his own life and dreams.
But you’re still my person. My best friend. And I’m still only a call away.
Thank you for being that for me. For knowing me better than anyone and not using the worst parts of me against me.
Being your friend has never been the hard part.
The hard part has been wanting more and pretending I didn’t because your dad was my coach, and our friendship was always most important to me. Timing and circumstance always kept that line in place. I just want you to know it wasn’t easy.
Go enjoy your senior year without me.
And I hope someday we’ll get lucky with timing and end up in the same city again.
Love,
Deck
I chuckle, but it’s hollow. Fifteen years and not much has changed. We’re in the same city again, and my dad is still his coach, and I’m sitting on a basement floor reading a letter from a boy who grew into someone I’m still not supposed to want.
After carefully folding the paper back up, I shove the letter into the scrapbook and close the box, wishing I had the guts to throw out the entire thing.
Sitting here won’t fix anything, but moving forward might, so I grab my phone. There’s a message from Leighton.
He’s single. You still want me to give him your number?