For the next few days, I hide. Either in my apartment or under a car, but I don’t step a foot outside the garage. Not because I regret what I said or because I’m ashamed or whatever. I hide because I don’t trust myself.

Because I know what I’ll do if I allow myself so much as a millimeter of slack.

I’ll go to her. Tell her I’m sorry. Get down on my fucking knees and crawl if I have to. I’ll beg her to forgive me. Tell her I’m sorry. That I’m a fucking asshole. That I’ll do anything she wants, for as long as she wants me to.

Anything, as long as she lets me stay.

Or even worse, I’ll pretend it never happened. That I never said it out loud. That I didn’t look her dead in the eye and tell her that I’m still in love with her. That I’ve always be in love with her.

That I’ll never stop.

Worse because I know it would hurt her. Even if she doesn’t love me the way I love her, hearing something like that would hurt her. She’s always been fragile on the inside. Never trusted me. The way I feel about her. Even now that I’ve given in, given her what she wants, she can’t believe a word I say. Confirming her suspicions would devastate her.

It’s either hurt her or keep hurting myself and I don’t want to do either one.

Not anymore.

So I hide.

I make sure Tess sees me eat. I make sure she knows that my no-sleep streak is over. I don’t tell her why or how and she doesn’t ask. Tess is smart, I’m sure she figured it out. Not like it’s rocket science.

It’s Saturday and I stick close to home.

I eat the last of the chicken salad Henley made for breakfast. I spend three hours in front of my computer watching her play Mahjong Titans and shelve books on my computer screen. I work on cars, bent over until it feels like my spine is permanently fused into a curve. I read Gatsby, cover to cover, a few times. Make myself some eggs and force myself to eat them. Fuck around on my computer. Work on my Millennium Problem—the Yang-Mills existence and mass gap. I know if I buckled down and really gave a shit, I could’ve solved it years ago but that would mean publishing my findings. Defending my work. Giving lectures. Let the mathematics community trot me around like a goddamned show pony.

No, thanks. I’d rather eat glass.

When Tess texts and asks me to meet her for a drink I don’t ignore her like I want to. I tell her that I’m in the middle of something and I’ll see her on Monday. I don’t tell her that what I’m in the middle of is laying in my bed because it still smells like Henley and while I’m feeling more stable than I have in a while, I know better than to believe it’s going to last.

It’s Sunday and I’m in my car.

When I climbed behind the wheel this morning, I told myself it was because I have cabin fever and needed to get out from behind the same four walls I’ve been staring at for the past four days. It’s been a while since I made one of Cap’n’s games. I’ll go. Watch from my car. No big deal. I won’t even stay for the whole thing.

I back into a spot at the far end of the lot under the trees, in direct sight of the ball field but at enough distance that I’m not noticeable. It’s not because I’m a fucking weirdo stalker. It’s not because I know she’s going to be there. It’s not because I need to see her. He’s been hounding me for years about sponsoring a team. Maybe I will. Maybe I’m tired of doing the same thing, over and over. It’s been years since I got serious about anything except banging chicks, picking fights and killing my liver. Maybe it’s not even Henley that I want. Maybe I want what she represents to me—who I could’ve been if she’d stayed. Normal. Real. Not the fucked-up freak I turned into.

Yeah—and maybe I’m goddamned liar.

Christ, she looks good.

Long auburn hair pulled through the back of her ball cap, tugged low over her face. Jeans and team shirt tied into a knot at her hips. She’s third-base coaching, posture hunched over so she can talk to her runner. The catcher is a big kid. Wide and muscular. The type who won’t give an inch. I know what Henley’s telling her runner to do. I can practically hear her from across the field.

Take the plate.

The batter swings and is rewarded by the crack of the ball. Like’s it’s a starting pistol, Henley’s runner explodes off third, bolting for home while she keeps pace, coaching and cheering her way down the baseline.

I watch the ball, a deep fly that drops perfectly between fielders, rolling across the grass while they scramble for the catch.

Henley’s runner is halfway to home plate when one of the fielders recovers the ball. He’s too far away from the plate for a direct flight so he relays it to the shortstop while the catcher plants his feet, hunching slightly to wait for the ball.

I can hear Henley yelling.

You’ve got this! Keep going! You want it more! You can do it!

Her runner turns on the gas, sprinting down the baseline, chin tucked. Steps away from collision, she lowers her shoulder without missing a step. At the same time, the ball rips through the air, exploding out of the shortstop’s glove like it’s been shot from a gun, a white blur rocketing toward home.

Henley’s runner gets there first and trucks the catcher like a semi, knocking him on his ass, right before she claims home plate and wins the game.

Henley pops up from her crouch, the second the ump calls her runner safe, pumping her fist, grinning and yelling like a lunatic.

The players rush home plate, whooping and hollering. Patrick carrying a huge trophy onto the field and hands it to Henley who in turn gives it to the girl. Trophy hoisted, her teammates lift her onto their shoulders and cart her off the field while Henley high-fives and fist bumps everyone around her. I feel my face split in its first real smile in days.

Right now, she doesn’t just look good to me.

She looks like the girl I remember.

She looks real.

My phone rings. Thinking it’s Tess because everyone else who has this number is right in front of me, I answer but only half listening.

“What’s up, sugar tits?”

What I expect to hear is, not much glitter dick. What I actually hear is, “You speak six languages son, and that’s the best you can come up with?”

Oh shit.

“Hey, Mom,” I say, physically cringing. “I thought you were Tess.”

“If Tess lets you talk to her like that, then that girl and I need to have a talk,” she says but she’s laughing. My mom knows how it is with me and Tess. That she gives way better then she gets.

“She’d love to hear from you,” I say even though it’s probably not true. My mom and hers grew up together. Were best friends until the day Mrs. Castinetti died. My mom tried to keep in touch with Tess after Mrs. C died but Tess pretty much pulled away from everyone except Henley. With Henley gone, the two of us were left unmoored. Drifting. We sort of just bumped into each other and stuck.

Kept each other from going under.

Because my mom knows I’m full of shit about Tess wanting to hear from her, she ignores what I said. “You never changed my oil.” That’s my mom. She’s blunt. To the point. But she worries about me. Knows I struggle sometimes. Knowing I do that to her adds another layer to the blanket of self-loathing I like to smother myself with. “I’m wondering when that’s going to get done?”

“I can come over and do it now, if you want.” On the field, I watch Henley throw her arms around Patrick in a celebratory hug and he swings her around while she whoops and hollers. “I’ve got time.”

That’s what I say. What I’m thinking, my gaze glued to the scene in front of me is, that’s what we’d look like. If I weren’t such a fucked-up, pathetic shitsack, that’s what Henley and I would look like together. What people would see if she’d let me touch her somewhere where they could see us…

“Your brother and cousin are coming to dinner,” she says. “I told Declan to invite Henley. I haven’t had a chance to see her since she’s been home, so if that’s going to be a problem then—”

I forgot that I’m not the only Gilroy who loves her. When Henley left, my mother was heartbroken. It was like one of her own children went missing.

Now she’s talking to Declan, her grin never wavering. Her posture easy. Face open and bright. Like they’re friends.

“I won’t stay.” I close my eye because I can’t watch anymore. I can’t see the two of them together without wanting to destroy everything I can get my hands on. Reaching for and finding the key still stuck in the ignition, I start my car, the hemi under the hood turning over and catching with a low-throated rumble. “I’ll just change your oil and leave, okay? I’ll be gone before they get there?”

“I don’t want you to just change my oil and leave.” She sighs. “I want to have a nice dinner with my family without having to turn the hose on the whole lot of you. Think you can manage that?”

No. I don’t think I can manage it. I don’t think I can be anywhere near Henley without dragging her into the nearest dark corner or saying something shitty. Both of which will just damage us both, even more.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Alright then. We’re having fried chicken,” she says, her tone telling her that matter is closed. “Stop at the store and get me some potatoes.”

“Okay,” I say, shifting into first. “I’m on my way.”