“So you admit you’re avoiding me.”
I can’t look him in the eye. Instead, I pretend to be fixated with the wood grain of the picnic tables. I want so badly to tell him how much I’ve missed him. Because I have. I’ve missed kissing him and joking around with him and hearing him call me “darlin’” in his southern drawl.
I’ve been a largely solitary person my whole life, avoiding Nana and Ray when I could. At Briar, I made friends with Carin and Hope but didn’t feel the need for a bigger, more extensive circle. So the acute loneliness brought on by not seeing Tucker took me by surprise.
But how can I be with him knowing that I’m the one who turned his whole world upside down? The weight of guilt would crush me more than the weight of loneliness.
I take a deep breath, pushing out the words that I don’t want to say. “If you want to see other people…you can. I’m not going to. I don’t have time for that, but if you want to, I don’t mind.”
Silence falls between us.
A long finger finds its way under my chin and lifts it up until I either have to shut my eyes or stare into Tucker’s. I choose the latter, but it’s impossible to read his expression.
He gives me a long, contemplative look before saying, “How about this? I’ll tell you if I’ve found anyone new. And you and I, we can just be friends.” He gentles his tone. “If you decide you want more, we can talk about it then.”
“Friends?” I echo faintly. “I’ll take friends.” And then, because he’s so decent, I blurt out, “I’ve never had a boyfriend. I only know how to hook up and how to screw up.”
“Darlin’—”
Hearing those two soft syllables only heightens my panic. “I can’t believe I’m going to be a parent. God, Tuck, I’ve only thought about one thing my entire life—crawling out of my hellhole. And now I have to drag someone down with me and I don’t know if I can do it.”
Tears that I’ve been holding at bay for weeks spill over. Tucker cups my cheek with one warm hand and stares firmly into my eyes.
“You’re not alone,” he says, fierce and low. “And you’re not dragging anyone down. I’m here with you, Sabrina. Every step of the way.”
That’s what I’m afraid of.
*
Tucker
In hockey, nearly everyone plays with a partner. The offense forward line is made up of a left wing, a center, and a right wing. The defense skates in pairs. Only the goalie is alone and he’s always weird. Always.
Kenny Simms, who graduated last year, was one of the greatest goalies at Briar and probably the reason we won three Frozen Fours in a row, but that guy had the strangest fucking habits. He talked to himself more than he talked to anyone else, sat in the back of the bus, preferred to eat alone. On the rare occasion that he came out with us, he’d argue the entire time. I once got into it with him over whether there was too much technology available to children. We argued about that topic for the entire three hours we were knocking back beers at the bar.
Sabrina reminds me of Simms. She’s not weird, but she’s closed off like he is. She thinks she’s alone. Basically, she’s never had anyone skate with her—not even her friends, Carin and Hope. I kind of understand it. The guys outside of my hockey team that I’ve been friendly with are decent, but I haven’t bled with them, cried with them, won with them. I don’t know if they’ll have my back, because we’ve never been in a position where that loyalty has been tested.
Sabrina doesn’t know what it’s like to have someone stand beside her, let alone behind her. And it’s for that reason that I don’t give in to the urge to shake her like a pi?ata for saying shit like I’m free to see other women. The fear in her eyes is palpable, and I remind myself that patience is the key here.
“Want me to follow you home?” I offer as I pull into the campus lot where she left her car. “We can hang out a bit, make some plans?”
She shakes her head. Of course not. The girl hasn’t been able to look at me since she broke down in tears. She hates crying in front of me. Hell, she probably hates crying in general. To Sabrina, tears are a sign of weakness, and she can’t stand being viewed as anything less than Amazonian.
I stifle a sigh and climb out of the truck. I walk her to her car and then drag her stiff body against mine. It’s like hugging a frozen log.
“I want to go to the next doctor’s visit with you,” I tell her.