Ryder’s body stills. “So, you’d just want me for…sex,” he says quietly. “Just to fuck.”
The words are simple, but his voice rattles my ribs and lands between my thighs with a resounding boom.
“Yes,” I whisper.
His thumb’s still at work, drifting along my exposed collarbone. I want him to bite it. I want him to throw me over his shoulder again and lock us in his room. I need him to tear off my clothes, pin me against the wall and pound into me with my leggings binding my knees. I want filthy depraved things from him.
Ryder’s mouth dips to my ear, as my body changes states from solid to liquid. “What are you thinking about right now?”
I swallow loudly. “Dirty things. Things I shouldn’t think about.”
His quiet laugh vibrates across my skin. “The look on your face suggested that.”
“Uh.” It comes out breathy and weak. I’m searching for whatever it is that solidifies my molecular structure, whatever it is that normally sets my spine with steel and sends these soft, hazy feelings far from my mind. But I can’t find it.
His hand curls over my shoulder and bumps down each vertebra of my spine. It feels obscenely sexual. “We’re at an impasse, then.”
“N-no, we’re not. You want me, I want you.” I lean into his touch, watching with satisfaction as he hisses a breath and tips his pelvis away. “I felt that.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s getting what he wants.”
“Okay, so we’re talking about your tailpipe in the third person now—”
“Sutter, so help me.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes deeply.
“Come on. We can do this. We won’t have class together anymore, won’t see each other unless we make time to. We can be fuck buddies.”
Ryder winces as I say it. I realize I said something he didn’t want to hear, but it’s all I have to say. I wish I thought I could give Ryder what he wants, but I can’t. I can’t set myself up for heartbreak. I can’t be vulnerable when I’m about to go through the worst pain of my life as I say goodbye to Mama. I can’t fracture my soul into another piece and give it to someone else, just to have to say goodbye to him, too.
“Lumberjack, if I gave it to anyone, it would be you. But I can’t.”
His face tightens. One large hand wraps around my waist. “Give me what?”
I press on tiptoe and kiss just above his beard, as I whisper, “Everything.”
Cowardly. Willa the cowardly lion. I slink away and join Mama on the couch, threading my arms through hers. She smells like peppermint oil and vanilla bean ice cream.
She pats my thigh softly. “How’s my girl?”
I smile up at her and kiss her cheek. “Okay. How are you?”
Mama smiles, turning away long enough to lay down a card that seems to secure the victory. She throws her hand up in a celebratory fist, ushering in a sweeping memory of her presence in my soccer career. It hits my chest with the force of a sledgehammer. Mama screaming in the stands, her hands fisted high. That piercing whistle she’d send up into the evening air. I always heard it. I always knew she was there, cheering me on.
What will I do when I can’t hear her anymore? How will I know she’s still there?
“You’ll always know, Willa,” she whispers, tapping over my heart. “I’m right there, forever. Listen close enough, and you’ll hear it. I promise.”
Mama died New Year’s Day. The night before, we watched the ball drop from the TV in her room, curled around each other under a pile of blankets. She’d been quiet most of the day, staring out the window a lot. She held my hand and asked me to sing to her, lullabies she sang to me, growing up. I massaged her body with her favorite vanilla bean lotion, rubbed her feet when she said they were cold. She wasn’t hungry. She licked her lips and wanted Chapstick, but didn’t drink any time I tipped the straw her way. I knew it meant goodbye was getting closer. But I didn’t know it was that close. I don’t think anybody did.
I fell asleep, my arms wrapped around her tiny waist, my head buried in her neck. And when I woke up to chirping birds and the faint light of sunrise, I knew she was gone. The room felt empty. The world seemed dimmer.
It hasn’t felt full or bright once since then.
I lay with her for hours and cried. I kissed her cool cheek and whispered all my fears about how I was going to live without her. I tangled my fingers in hers and promised I wouldn’t forget a single moment, that everything she’d given me was locked safe in my heart. I looked at her beautiful face and told her she was brave, and if I was half of who she was, I’d be proud of that. Then I kissed her one more time, as I whispered goodbye against her lips.
The moment Dr. B took over for me, I walked the room in a daze and swept up every trace of us into two duffel bags. My mom’s life and mine, so easily contained in a few flimsy pieces of fabric. When I got back to my empty apartment, I threw them against the wall and screamed so loud, the windows shook.
I ignored Ryder’s calls. I didn’t have a funeral. Her ashes sit in a white ceramic urn on my dresser. I talk to her whenever I’m home, hiding from Rooney and Coach and Ryder, and Tucker and Becks and my whole team. Anyone who cares has been shut out. Because my heart is vacuum-sealed. If I open it in the slightest, if one slip of air sneaks in, then my memories aren’t safe, and my life moves forward.
I don’t want a life without my mom. I don’t want to move forward.
I’ve heard Rooney talking on the phone. I’ve heard Ryder walk into my apartment. I’ve picked at the food he leaves. I’ve seen the notes he scribbles. Once, when he dared to enter my room, I hid in bed, the blankets thrown over me. Ryder stood with a hand on my back for long minutes, until slowly, his fingers slid into my hair, trying stupidly to make order out of chaos.
Just like Mama.
Somehow, I held it in. For a desperate moment, I let myself pretend each soft stroke through my wild hair was her hands, the warm steady presence behind me, hers, after a long shift at the hospital. I shut my eyes and held my breath and bathed in that dream until his touch faded and the door clicked shut. Then I cried until sunrise blazed through my curtains.
I’ve made progress. I eat regularly now. I run and lift a few times a week. I keep up with my drills at the field with Rooney. But I’m a shell of myself. I know that. I just don’t know how to be anything else anymore.
“Hey, you.” Rooney sets a warm hand on my back. “What are you hungry for?”
I stare down at my homework, knowing I need to memorize these equations but also knowing I’m too tired and hungry to get anything accomplished. On a heavy sigh, I drop my pen. “Anything. You pick.”
Rooney sits slowly at the dining room table and clasps my hand. “Willa, I want to say something. I think… No. Let me start again. Willa, your grief is valid. Your pain is real.”
I stare at her. “But?”
“But nothing.” Rooney shifts in her chair, scooting closer. “And it’s threatening your well-being. I think it’s time to go talk to someone. Go to grief counseling. I don’t know if they’re appropriate for this, but maybe also look into antidepressants. Not so you can be some unnaturally happy person, but so you can live again. It’s been months, and you’re still struggling to function, Willa. There’s no shame in grief. You’ll grieve as long as you need to. There’s just room for caution when it’s compromising your well-being.”