barely spoken in two days.
Over forty-eight hours of hardly sleeping, over-eating, and constant worrying.
He insists he’s okay in the few, sparse texts we’ve exchanged, but it’s little consolation. Then again, I’m sure he is okay in terms of day-to-day functioning. His symptoms were mild, and if he were at any imminent risk, I’d have been forced to act already. But it’s his determination to return to hockey this weekend that concerns me.
“Ready, Violet?” Claire stretches out her quad next to me, switching legs and grabbing her other ankle.
After weeks’ worth of training, we’re standing at the starting line for our 10K Turkey Trot, surrounded by dozens of other runners donning race bibs. It’s a cool, clear day outside without a cloud in sight. A bit brisk while we’re standing around, but it should be ideal once we start to sweat.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I tell her. “I’m sure you’re about to kick my butt.”
With the starting signal, Claire quickly pulls ahead. I don’t even attempt to keep pace with her. She’s faster than me at the best of times, and I’m not well rested after two nights of tossing and turning. Before long, I’ve lost sight of her completely and I’m still struggling to find my groove.
Sometimes, running is meditative for me. I get into the zone where my breath and pace seem to align perfectly. My mind turns calm; clear; almost empty, in a peaceful way.
This race isn’t one of those times.
I try to focus on my form. On my foot strike, posture, and cadence. But it’s easier said than done when it feels like the world is crashing down around me. I miss Nash, I’m mad at him, and I’m concerned about him. I’m a barrel of mixed emotions that only he can ever evoke.
He’s all I can think about. And even though the course is mostly flat, it feels as though I’m running uphill for the entire ten kilometers.
***
When Claire and I get home, exhausted and triumphant, there’s a huge bouquet of flowers sitting on our counter. A gorgeous, vibrant purple blend of roses and Calla Lilies, with a few other flowers I don’t recognize mixed in. Maybe they’re for Claire, or from someone new for Jules.
“The delivery guy just dropped them off for you . . .” Julianna tells me, grimacing slightly.
Oh. They’re from Nash.
I pull out the card, reading it, and I don’t know whether I want to smile or cry.
Proud of you, Vi.
***
Three more days pass without any progress on the Nash front.
I go through the motions, but it feels like I’m walking around with a gaping hole in my heart. Now that I’ve been driving myself to and from school, Nash and I have little excuse to see each other alone and making plans doesn’t seem to be a viable option when we both know it will inevitably lead to yet another argument.
Dryland training on Wednesday is the first time we see each other face-to-face since the party. Unlike his ill-advised determination to return to impact sports, light exercise can be okay with a mild concussion—and may even be beneficial, since aerobic exercise increases blood flow to the brain. But if he pushes himself too hard, he’ll experience setbacks and prolong his recovery. I quietly remind him to pace himself several times, but it’s difficult to gauge whether he listens. Although he seems to manage, he’s slightly off. He’s a little less coordinated in the agility drills, a little slower to recover from intervals. It isn’t obvious enough that you’d notice unless you were watching closely for it, which is probably why no one else seems to.
***
After my last class on Thursday, I find Nash waiting for me in the hall. All the wind knocks out of me, and I tell Jules I’ll see her at home. He pushes off the wall, meeting me halfway in a few long strides. The air between us is laden with tension in a way that reminds me of the start of the semester, and I hate it.
Shifting his bag on his shoulder, his eyes bounce between mine. “Can I walk you to your car?”
“Of course.”
He falls into step beside me as we navigate the corridor. “How have you been?”
“Fine.” The lie is bitter and hard to force out. “How about you?”
“I miss you.” His words slip beneath my defenses, hitting where I’m vulnerable. In my peripheral vision, Nash’s brow lowers, and he hesitates before he speaks again. “Can you come over so we can talk?”
“Okay.”
We make small talk until we reach my vehicle, and a moment passes where neither of us is sure what to do. Since we’re in public, we can’t exactly hug or kiss anyway, but there’s a definite awkwardness between us that isn’t usually present.
“I’ll meet you at my place?” He seems uncertain, like he’s not sure whether I’m going to show.
“I have to run home first, and then I’ll come by.”
Maybe I can talk some sense into him.
A little under an hour later, after a worry-filled drive, I’m standing at Nash’s front door. I square my shoulders and draw in a breath, trying to feign confidence. This is my last-ditch effort before I deploy the nuclear option.
The doorbell barely finishes chiming before Nash answers, almost like he’d been lurking in wait. Maybe he’s as nervous about this as I am.
“Hi.” His eyes crinkle at the corners, but there’s a sadness behind them.
Stepping aside, he lets me enter and closes the door behind me. I want to reach out and touch him, but I don’t want to be the first one to bridge that gap. He turns and wraps me in a gigantic hug, picking me up off the ground like always. But he doesn’t try to kiss me, and I’m not sure whether it’s because he doesn’t want to or doesn’t think I want him to.
When sets me back down, his arms linger around my waist so briefly I think I might have imagined it.
Nash leads me down the hall to the living room, where we find Biscuit laying in a heap on the floor, curled up with his favorite stuffed monkey toy. It’s a pathetic, though adorable, sight.
I scurry over, kneeling at his side. “You poor baby.”
He nudges my hand with his wet nose, letting out a whimper. I scratch behind his ears, and his tail thumps against the hardwood, his eyes drifting shut.
“I know he’s sick,” Nash says, his mouth hinting at a smile, “but I think he might be playing it up a little for your sake.”
After another minute of puppy snuggles, I stand back up, going to sit next to Nash on the couch. His large hand grabs hold of mine, interlacing our fingers. My stomach flip-flops, because being with him feels so right even when things between us are going terribly wrong.
“I don’t want to fight with you, Petal.” His voice is quiet, regretful in a way that gives me hope.
“Are you still having symptoms?”
“Barely,” he says. “It’s nothing.”
My hopes come crashing down. “If it’s even borderline, you can’t play tomorrow night.”
“You should trust me when I tell you I’m fine.”
“But you just admitted you’re still having symptoms.” Tears prick at my eyes, my breath turning jagged. I’ve never been so frustrated with someone else in my entire life. “Second impact syndrome is serious, Nash. One hit is all it takes, and you could be critically injured. Not to mention, I’m violating a million rules by not telling anyone when I know you shouldn’t be playing.”
For the life of me, I can’t understand why he’d put his health—and possibly even his own life—at risk for this tournament. I understand that it’s important and, to some extent, I understand the pressures he’s facing. But those things can be dealt with later. A brain injury can’t.
Nash withdraws his hand from mine, and it hurts more than a simple action should. “Go ahead, then. Tell them.”
A freight train of grief slams into me at full speed. He’s going to force me to pull the pin on a grenade that will blow up our relationship?
“I don’t want to be the one who does—”
He cuts me off. “I’m not benching myself. Do what you need to do, and I’ll do the same.”
Suddenly, it clicks. It’s a bluff. Nash doesn’t think I’ll tell Coach Ward and Christina.
He’s wrong.
I push to my feet and begin to pace around the coffee table. The air in the room feels too thick, too heavy, and the ache that’s been in my chest since last weekend has grown into a stabbing pain.
How is this happening? This can’t be happening.
Maybe part of the problem is that it’s difficult to love someone who doesn’t seem to love themselves. I’m trying to love him enough for the both of us, but I’m not sure it’s working.
“You’re doing it again,” I tell him, trying to appeal to whatever shred of sense he has left. “Just like last time.”
“Doing what?” He rests his corded forearms on his thighs, dark green eyes watching me as I continue to pace around the living room.
“Breaking us.” A tear lands on my arm, and only then do I realize I’m crying. Nash watches me, a helpless expression on his face. But it only frustrates me more, because he’s not helpless; he could fix this right now. He could do the right thing, pull himself from the lineup, and salvage the wreckage of whatever we’ve become.
Instead, he’s sitting there watching my heart break at his feet. Again.
“This has nothing to do with us,” he says. “This is about me and my career.”
The worst part of what he’s saying is, he actually seems to believe it.
“This has everything to do with us. How can you stand there and say you care about me when you’d be risking both of our futures by playing? You’re forcing me to make an impossible choice.” My voice fractures. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“I’ll be fine, Vi.”
“This is the concussion talking. You’re not thinking clearly.”
He doesn’t respond.
A sinking sense of defeat settles in my gut, and my chest rises with an inhale, the air fueling words I don’t want to have to say.
“If you don’t pull yourself,” I tell him, “I will. But I’m asking you to do the right thing, so it doesn’t come to that. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me.”
Weariness grips me, and I march past the couch, heading for the hall. I linger in the doorway for a few seconds, waiting for Nash to come after me. To apologize, to ask me to stay, even to keep fighting. Waiting for him to do something—anything—but he doesn’t.
