I stay to help out with practice. My heart is no longer heavy. It’s soaring, because Allie was right—I love this. Skating with the kids, giving them tips about how to position their bodies, when to take their shot. After the final whistle blows, I help Ellis put away the equipment and we spend ten minutes discussing options I never even realized were available to me.
My anxiety resurfaces when I climb the bleachers.
Dakota has her pink notebook in her lap, pencil poised on a blank page. She tenses when I sit beside her. She doesn’t say hello, and I clearly see the hurt flickering in her huge blue eyes.
“So what did the evil Mrs. Klein assign for us today?” I ask gruffly.
She ignores me.
“If you’re supposed to write a paragraph about your hero, I’m sure I don’t qualify. But if it’s a description of the person you hate the most? I bet you can write ten pages on me, easy.”
She giggles, then covers her mouth in horror, as if she’s trying to shove the high-pitched sound back inside.
“Dakota,” I sigh.
She finally looks at me. Fiercely. “I’m mad at you.”
“I know you are, kid.” I swallow a lump of shame. I’m such an asshole. I bailed on our skating lessons, didn’t come by to explain. I just disappeared from her life.
Dakota and Robbie are being raised by a single mother. Dakota talks about her often, and she admitted that her dad walked out the door one day and never came back. It makes me sick to my stomach that I might have brought back those painful memories for her.
“My friend died—” I stop abruptly, because I can’t think about Beau without feeling a shooting pain in my heart. Fuck, I miss that big oaf. I miss talking to him, just shooting the shit with him. Who else can I discuss Twilight with and not feel judged?
“I didn’t handle it very well,” I tell Dakota. “I’ve never lost anyone before. Well, Gramps Kendrick, but he died when I was five. Maybe I was more resilient as a kid?”
She’s watching me warily.
“I’m sorry, Koty. I’m really fu—fudging sorry for disappearing without a word. I give you permission to punch me in the face as hard as you can. But quick, do it now, when Coach Ellis isn’t looking.”
She giggles again. Then, proving that kids really are more resilient, she reaches over and pats my arm. “Stop being such a girl, Dean. I like you again.”
I choke down a laugh. “You do?”
“Uh-huh.” She blows a bubble with her gum, then points to her notebook. “I have to write one page about my favorite movie and why I like it.”
“Gotcha. What’s your favorite movie?”
“The Princess Diaries.”
Of course it is.
“Okay then.” I crack my knuckles as if I’m preparing to throw down. “Let’s do this thing.”
DAKOTA ✓
I call Joanna Maxwell when I get home, luckily catching her on her dinner break at the theater. I apologize for not coming to the memorial. She forgives me. We talk about Beau for almost an hour before she reluctantly says she has to rehearse. We promise to keep in touch, and there’s a dull ache in my heart as I hang up. I’m not breaking that promise, though. Beau was important to me. Joanna is his big sister. I’m keeping in fucking touch.
JOANNA ✓
I have one more phone call to make, and I’m not looking forward to it. A few days ago, I asked Fitzy to track down Miranda O’Shea for me. Fitz illegally gets his hands on video games all the time without buying them, so I figured he might have the skills to track down a phone number. Turns out I was right. I have no idea how he did it, and I don’t plan on asking because I’d rather not go to jail.
I dial the number, then wait. I haven’t seen or spoken to Miranda in years. I don’t have feelings for her anymore, but hoo boy, there’s definitely unresolved shit between us. And there was one thing I never got to say to her. I hope to change that today.
If she picks up the damn phone. It rings and rings, and I’m about to disconnect when a harried voice comes over the line.
“Hello?”
I take a breath. “Miranda?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“It’s…ah, Dean.” I pause. “Dean Di Laurentis.”
Shocked silence fills the line.
“I know I’m calling you out-of-the-blue—”
“How did you get my number?” she interrupts, but her voice is soft, not angry. “My dad?”
“No. A friend of mine tracked it down.”
There’s an awkward pause on both our ends.
“I won’t keep you long,” I tell her. “I just had something to say to you. Something I never got to say back then because your dad pulled you out of school.” I exhale in a rush. “I’m sorry.”
She exhales too, sharply.
“I’m sorry for everything that went down between us,” I continue. “For the part I played in your…uh…”
“Breakdown?” she finishes wryly. “It wasn’t your fault, Dean. I was dealing with depression long before we went out.”
“I know. But…we had sex…and afterward…” Jesus, this is uncomfortable. And this whole conversation feels…clinical. Like we’re strangers discussing someone else’s sex life instead of our own.
“We had sex because I seduced you when you were drunk.” She sounds deeply ashamed. “And then I tried to guilt you into staying together when I knew you weren’t happy with me. You have no idea how guilty I felt about it afterward. I wanted to call you, but I was too embarrassed. And my dad told me he’d ship me to Siberia if I ever spoke to you again. So I said nothing. I figured you’d forget about me eventually.” There’s a pause. “Obviously you didn’t.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Another pause.
“Anyway.” I clear my throat. “That’s all I wanted to say. I’m sorry if I did or said anything to contribute to what you were going through, or to exacerbate it. I never meant to hurt you.”
“I never meant to hurt you either.”
I gulp. “So…you’re doing okay now? Graduating from Duke this spring, huh?”
“Yes!” Excitement echoes over the line. “And I got into med school!”
The news startles me, because she always talked about wanting to be a social worker, not a doctor. I guess people change, though. God knows I have. We spend a few brief minutes catching up, and I’m relieved when the call ends. Miranda was an important chapter in my life, but it feels good to close it.
MIRANDA O’SHEA ✓
I didn’t bother adding Miranda’s father to my list. No amount of apologizing will make that bastard like me, and truth be told, I don’t owe him any more apologies. The only crime I’m guilty of is breaking up with his daughter. I didn’t deserve to be punched in the face and treated like dirt for it.
Frank can work through his issues on his own.
I’m working through mine.
*
Another week passes. Allie is still doing Allie. I’m still doing me. We’ve texted a few times, just brief how-ya-doings and not much else. I’m dying to see her. Hold her. Kiss her. Make love to her. But I promised to be patient, so I keep my distance.
I do, however, poke Hannah for information every chance I get. I know that Allie aced her screenwriting course. I know she got her nails done at the salon in town. Bright green, Wellsy had revealed, and it made me smile.
The next time I pester her for an update, Hannah reveals that Allie flew to LA. My heart immediately drops, because I think she left for good, but Hannah is quick to reassure me. Turns out the people at Fox wanted Allie to come in and read for them in person. They’d loved her audition tape, but wanted to test her chemistry with the two actresses she’d be working with.
My heart damn near explodes with pride when I hear that, and I send her a congratulatory text. I don’t hear back from her until several hours later. She says she’s about to board the flight home and that we’ll talk soon.
I board my own flight on Saturday morning out of Logan Airport. I’m making a quick trip to New York, because there’s one final item I need to cross off my list.
34
Allie
“You can’t turn down the part.” Hannah looks outraged that I could even suggest such a blasphemous course of action.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a lead role on a sitcom! What if the show’s a huge hit? You could win an Emmy!”
I shrug and sip my coffee. I know I’m talking crazy right now. Believe me, Ira already dished out his own dose of disbelief earlier, begging me to accept the job. But when it comes to my career, I always go with my gut, and my gut is telling me this is not the role for me.
“I haven’t made my final decision yet,” I tell Hannah. “They gave me until Wednesday.” It’s Saturday night. That means four whole days to think it over.
My gut insists there’s nothing to think about.
I’m tempted to call Dean and ask for his advice, but I force myself not to. I’m so used to running my decisions by my boyfriend. I did it with Fletch, Sean, Dean. But nobody else can make this decision for me. It’s all on me.
Honestly, I’ve enjoyed being on my own these past couple weeks. It’s nice to just think about myself for once. But I miss Dean. I really, really do. I know he’s doing well, because I’ve been harassing Hannah for status reports. She said he’s working with the Hurricanes again. He’s gone out to Malone’s with the guys a few times, but only had a few beers, as far as Hannah knows.