Is being someone’s girl the same as being their girlfriend? I’m contemplating the differences as we drive to Succulent Hill. Wes is driving, and I’m sitting in the passenger seat exhausted and satiated. He made good on the sex stats last night and this morning, not resting until my limbs were weak and my mind mush.

I could just ask him, but I’m a little afraid of the answer. I know he likes me. Suddenly that doesn’t feel like enough. And if being his girl is really his way of calling me his girlfriend, then why is the word so hard for him to say? What we’re doing doesn’t feel any different from what I’ve done with other boyfriends. Except, it kind of does.

I push back my disappointment, the niggling voice that wishes he would have stormed through the door last night and told me, accident or not, he does love me. Stupid, I know.

If Wes hasn’t been clear on labeling what we mean to each other, he has been loud and clear on basketball being number one in his life. His life revolves around the sport, and even with as much time as we spend together, I know that I’m the other woman, so to speak. The mistress when he’s away from his true love. And even as I allow myself to think this, I know how dumb it sounds.

Wes is who he is because of his passion. Taking ball away from him would take a piece of him that I love. I admire his dedication, but I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to have that kind of passion directed at me. Is there any room for him to love anything else the way he loves basketball?

Ugh, my mind circles around my insecurities, and I stew, too afraid to voice any of it. Every guy wants a desperate girl begging for love and attention. Yeah right.

I need to just focus on the things I can control, like my career path. I’ve been searching for my purpose since I arrived at school. I love business, but I haven’t found my place in a field that encompasses so much. After throwing myself into the cause with books, podcasts, vlogs, inspirational blogs, the only thing I’ve become passionate about is my quest for passion.

Wes puts the cruise control on and shifts so he can flex his foot.

“Your foot still bothering you?”

He waves me off with a shake of the head as he rests one hand on my leg. “All good.”

I turn toward him to revisit a conversation from last night. “Gabby won’t grill you. She isn’t like Vanessa. Actually, no she’s a lot like Vanessa—or she used to be. I should warn you, though, she is really sensitive about her scarring.”

He nods, and his eyes go thoughtful. After a moment of silence, I stare ahead, watching the familiar sights of my hometown come into view. When he finally speaks, we’re pulling up in front of my parents’ house.

“We all have scars we’re trying to hide. Gabby’s are just more obvious. I’m excited to meet her. She’s important to you, she’s a part of you, and I want to know all of you.”

His words are a promise, and I hold on to them as we step out of the car and walk to Gabby’s house.

Whatever fears I had about Wes meeting Gabby are short lived. They embrace like old friends, and as we sit in the living room after lunch, college football on the television as background noise, they chat like little old ladies at the hair salon. My face hurts from smiling even as my most embarrassing moments have become the topic of conversation.

“Blair always fails to mention that the reason Missy Thomas pushed her off the bike is because Blair was showing off. She was the first to get rid of her training wheels, and she rode up and down the street, ringing her bell and rubbing it in all our faces.”

“I did not. I was just excited and my parents would only let me ride in our cul-de-sac.” My attempt to defend myself falls on deaf ears. Wes and Gabby are in stitches, paying no attention to my rebuttal.

Traitor, I mouth to my friend and tug on the end of one of the bracelets on her arm.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Gabby reaches into her pocket and pulls out two matching bracelets of blue and yellow. She hands one to me and the other to Wes. “I made them with twelve strands of thread to represent your number.”

“Matching bracelets?” I stare at her a little dumbfounded. It’s one thing to wear best friend bracelets but a matching bracelet with my sort of boyfriend who is keeping me firmly in the I-like-you zone is a whole different thing.

Wes wraps the braided thread around his wrist and holds it out, indicating he wants me to tie it. “You embarrassed to match me?”

I roll my eyes and tie it securely before reciprocating and holding mine out to be tied with the others that don my arm. He shakes his head and nods to the other arm. He wants me to wear it on my right arm. It’s bare, and a shiver takes my whole body as I pull my left back and extend my right.

He seems to understand the significance of wearing it separately from the others because a playful smirk rests on his lips, but his eyes are dark and serious.

As he ties the knot snugly, my heart squeezes with possibilities and hope. I search for meaning in the gesture as my eyes flit to the many bracelets that adorn my other arm. The colors vary from vibrant to dull, but as a whole, they complement each other to create beauty. Years of friendship are living art that I wear daily as a reminder of years gone by and dreams that are still unfulfilled.

This new bracelet, shiny and colorful without the grime and dirt of the real world to mar it, represents a new dream that I hadn’t realized I wanted until I met Wes. A life shared with new hopes and dreams. Like the others, I know it will soon be tested for durability and strength, but I feel certain of one thing as I stare at our matching jewelry. I’ll strive to hold on to Wes and our time together with the same passion and intensity that I’ve strived to hold on to Gabby and the plans we created when we were just kids. Bottom line, if he decides he suddenly doesn’t have time for me, I’m going to be crushed. I’m in deep.

As we stand to hug Gabby and say our goodbyes, she wipes tears from both cheeks. Wes hangs back as I embrace my friend.

“What’s wrong? Why the tears?”

She shakes her head and pulls back. “Ignore me. I’m just so happy for you. And maybe a little jealous too. You really did it . . . the whole college experience we always talked about. I know I’m not supposed to be ungrateful or sit around wishing things were any different from how they are. I’ve mostly made my peace with it. I don’t want you to think I resent your happiness, no one is more proud of you. I promise. But—”

“Gabs, of course. You’re allowed to feel that way. You can still have all those things. You just have to decide you’re ready.”

We share a sad smile, having spoken truths we usually leave unsaid. She turns to Wes and cocks her head at him. “Take care of her and promise you’ll come back. I want to hear more about how amazing she’s doing. She underplays it.”

His eyes slide to me and back to Gabby. “I bet she does.”

After more hugs and promises to return, Wes and I walk down the street toward my parents’ house. At the front door, he cages me in by putting both hands around my hips and pressing my back against the door.

“Thanks for letting me come. Gabby is something.”

“She liked you too.”

“I get it now. I see the way she drives you.”

“She was always the one who wanted to rule the world. I just wanted to be by her side while she did it.” The words taste bitter.

“That doesn’t make you less worthy.”

“Maybe not, but it feels that way.”

He’s quiet for a beat before he responds. “There are two types of ball players. Those with more talent than heart and those with more heart than talent. You’d think it’d be the ones with the most talent who perform the best, but it isn’t.”

“This coming from the guy who was sleeping through statistics. Where was your heart?” I tease.

“I’ve been running stats for myself and my teammates for as long as I can remember. That class is cake because I studied it early on in order to understand basketball.”

“And none of that is talent or brains?”

“Sure, of course. Listen, Joe Schmoe off the street who’s never touched a ball before isn’t likely to be able to beat Lebron, but when you’re talking players of a roughly equal talent spectrum, heart wins out. Sure, the most talented guys make some shots, pull off things I couldn’t dream of, but they never really become a part of the team. When it comes game time they never mesh, and we’re a team out there. We practice seven days of the week, year-round, and it rules our lives. Talent burns out before heart.”

I consider his words and how it relates to me. Am I all talent and no heart?

“You have as much heart as you do talent,” he says as if reading my thoughts. “You show it in everything you do. I’ve never met anyone with more heart than you. You’re holding on to dreams of your best friend long after most would have abandoned all hope. When you figure out what you’re passionate about, you’ll be unstoppable. It’s time to decide what your dreams are. As shitty as it is, Gabby may never be ready to stand by your side running a company, so whatever plans the two of you had back then have to be shifted some. Why are you holding on so hard when she’s making it clear she just wants you to be happy?”

“Because I can’t give up hope that, someday, she’s going to be ready. I just won’t let myself believe that’s a possibility. She’s the most deserving person I know. At first, I thought I could somehow make up for her absence by doing everything we planned like nothing had changed. And I guess I wanted to honor the dreams we made. I still want those things, and I want her beside me. The scars and the emotional toll of the accident changed her, but she has grit and determination hidden away somewhere deep inside. You two are a lot alike—well, Gabby before the accident.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. I liked her a lot.”

I nod toward his bracelet. “I’d say it was mutual. I’m a little jealous, actually. You’re the first person besides me she’s ever made one for.”

“Yeah?” He looks positively elated. “In that case, I’m gonna have to get a wristband so I can wear it during games.”

I roll my eyes, but it makes me happy he’s going to make a point to wear it even if no one else can see it.