9781250209153

“Yes.” She smiles sadly. “Look, I’ll prove it to you.” She reaches for her
phone and scrolls until she finds a photo. “I know it’s probably weird to
show you this, but I stared at this picture every day for about six months
after Charlotte started dating Prescott.”
She hands it to me. It’s a selfie of the two of them, Irene and Charlotte,
kissing with their heads on the same pillow, their hair messy and
intertwined. Irene is smiling the way she only smiles during cheer routines:
like she’s found the thing she was meant for.
“Oh.” I feel a twinge of jealousy, but I remind myself this isn’t about
me; it’s about Irene and her pain. “Does she know you have this picture?”
“No. We were drunk. I didn’t find it until the next day.”
“You look so happy,” I whisper.
“I was.” She scoots closer, lays her arm along my thigh. “I loved
Charlotte with everything I had. I know she loved me, too. When I look at
this picture, I can still see the best parts of her. I can remember exactly how
it felt to love her.”
I look up at her. “So how did you finally move on?”
“Time. Space. Acceptance.” She searches my eyes. “And knowing that I
deserved better.”
I smile. We lean our foreheads together, breathing.
“I want to get to a place where I’m ready for you,” I whisper.
“Just get to a place where you know how wonderful you are,” she
whispers back. “They’re one and the same.”
She gets up off the bed and pulls me to my feet. Before I can figure out
how to say goodbye—for now—she grabs something off her dresser and
presses it into my hand.
My basketball button.
I try to say something, but the words stick in my throat. We stand there
for a moment, breathing, giving this decision the space it deserves. Then I
nod and walk away.
I don’t cry when I get home. Instead, I pick up my basketball and run
layups for an hour. I don’t think about anything other than my own heart
and the healing it needs to do.