Nothing Like the Movies

Liz

Keep going.

It was seven o’clock, the sun was in my eyes, and I just wasn’t feeling the run today.

But I was going to keep going.

Usually, running calmed my thoughts, but all it’d done so far was make me more stressed out as I replayed last night, over and over again, in my head.

It’d been perfect.

Then it wasn’t.

And then the cop showed up.

Hooooow is that the way the night ended? I thought (in mental-screaming form) as I ran past the sculpture garden. One minute we’d been on fire in the dugout, the next we were fighting, and then we were being questioned by the officials for breaking and entering.

Officer Nerada had lectured us about sneaking onto the field, told us that he could charge us if he wanted to (but he didn’t), and then he proceeded to drive Wes and me home like naughty children.

Since Hitch was closer than my place, he dropped Wes off first. And by the time I got out of the cruiser at my apartment, he’d already sent a text.

Wes: Can I come over and talk to you?

I stared at that message for the next twenty minutes, trying to figure out what I wanted my answer to be.

Which had driven Clark crazy because he was 100 percent Team Wes now. Why not talk to him? You’re going to leave him on read? You’re a monster.

Because if I was being honest, yes—I still had huge feelings for Wes. Maybe they’d never left, or maybe he’d successfully wooed them back, but last night, with him, had felt a lot like love.

And that was the problem.

Even though I had those feelings, I still wasn’t sure I necessarily wanted to follow them. There was a very loud voice in my brain that kept telling me it was safer to just move on from Wes forever. It was good to know he’d never cheated and wasn’t a jerk, but that didn’t mean it was good for me to go back to him now.

So when he called—three times—after I ignored his text, I turned off my phone.

Clark disgustedly went to bed at that point.

But I needed to think.

Even though I knew it was an irrational thought, something had occurred to me last night while I sat on the sofa and binge-watched Friends until around two. I knew Wes was sorry he’d hurt me, and obviously he’d been going through hell at the time and had done what he thought was best, but would he behave differently if something happened again?

If he threw out his shoulder or lost his scholarship and had to quit school, would we deal with it together, or would he walk away from me this time too? It was an unlikely scenario, but my cautious brain couldn’t stop asking the question.

I was still pondering this idea while I finished my run, I was still pondering it while I showered, and I was still pondering it when I let myself into Morgan to upload some footage and check out equipment for the scrimmage that was later that day.

Would history repeat itself?

I really didn’t want to see Wes until I figured out my own thoughts, so the timing of the scrimmage really sucked.

Because there was no way for me to get out of going without looking like a total coward.

When I got to my cubicle, I distracted myself by editing film until Clark showed up.

“So,” Clark said, dropping his stuff onto his desk. “Did you talk to him?”

“No,” I said, not looking up from my computer.

“You’re a dick,” he said grumpily, and I heard the tone of his laptop turning on. “At least respond.”

“I can’t, though,” I said, dragging a hand through my hair. “He’s going to want to talk, and I don’t know how I feel, so I can’t actually have that conversation.”

“You can, too,” he disagreed, his keyboard clicking. “I don’t know what your problem is, Liz. As long as I’ve known you, you’ve always been levelheaded. Like, not dramatic at all. But for some reason, you’re acting like an emotional teenager about this.”

“No, I’m not,” I argued, turning my chair and wheeling it back a foot so I could glare at him. “This isn’t as simple as you want to make it.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not!”

“For God’s sake, it is, too,” he said, looking at me through ridiculous round fashion glasses that had blue Bruins all over them. “Bennett loves you, is sorry for hurting you, and wants another chance. If you have feelings for him, why wouldn’t you give it a shot?”

I sighed. “It’s not that easy.”

“It is, but whatever.” He stood and said, “I’m going to get a coffee, and don’t even ask me to grab one for you because I won’t.”

“Clark.”

“Totally serious.” He turned and left the production office, leaving me alone in the quiet that I wanted nothing to do with as the door clicked shut behind him.

Wonderful.

I stood, knowing I should probably go talk to him, so when the door squeaked open a minute later, I said without turning around, “I knew you couldn’t stay mad.”

But then I heard the sound of a familiar throat clearing.

And I smelled him.

I took in a deep breath and wondered if my imagination was running wild.

“Lib.” His voice was deep and scratchy, like he hadn’t really used it yet, when Wes said from behind me, “Can we please talk?”

My heart was instantly racing as I turned around.

He was standing beside Clark’s empty cubicle, a step away, looking down at me with a seriousness I almost never saw on that face. His glasses amplified the intensity somehow as his dark eyes watched me from behind the lenses. The tips of his hair looked damp, like he’d showered but the walk across campus hadn’t completely dried the curly ends, and he was wearing gray sweatpants with a white Bruins hoodie.

He looked like he’d woken up, thrown on clothes, and rushed right over.

“Um, here’s the thing,” I said, feeling shaky as I met his gaze, clueless how to communicate all the things I’d been thinking since last night. The sight of him made all my reservations impossible to remember. So I just said, “I’d rather not.”

His jaw flexed and his eyebrows furrowed together. “You’d rather not?”

I nodded and tucked my hair behind my ears. Nodded again. “Yeah, um, I think I just need some time to think. Alone.”