She Drives Me Crazy(60)

I swallow and fidget with my jacket cuffs. “You’ve been authentic since the moment our cars hit. I’d like to be authentic with you, too.” I clear my throat, and now I have to look away. “I’m not in a great headspace. I haven’t been for months. Breaking up with Tally sliced me open in a way that embarrasses me, because I feel like I should be over her by now. I don’t know how much of it’s my fault. Like it’s my fault for not seeing the red flags. It’s still my fault for believing she has a good heart deep down. I know she’s toxic. I really do. But I miss her in this way that physically hurts. It’s like my brain gets it but my heart is lagging behind. I’m grieving even if I don’t want to be.”

I recap everything that happened over the last week: my conversation with Danielle about needing closure, my decision to seek out Tally at the Candlehawk game, my experience at Prescott’s party. I even tell her about my conversation with my family the other day.

When I finish, there’s silence. I notice my chest rising and falling, my breath moving in and out. Mathew is blasting the television downstairs.

“Do you still miss her?” Irene asks.

I take my time answering. “I miss who she used to be, but that person is gone. Maybe she never truly existed in the first place. You’ve been telling me all along that trying to get back at her wouldn’t make me happy, and you were right. I’ve been competing with her but I’ve only been hurting myself. And I ended up hurting you, too. I never should have dragged you into this mess. That’s the part that really kills me. I’m so sorry, Irene.”

The shadow of a smirk crosses her face. “You didn’t drag me into anything. I made the decision myself.”

“Still. I should have been more self-aware. I should have stopped myself from developing feelings.”

She shakes her head. “You can’t control your feelings. If my big gay journey has taught me anything, it’s that.”

I give her a small smile. “True.”

“I knew you were grieving. I knew you were in a bad place. I guess I just hoped that things had changed by now.” She looks at me. “I’m sorry if I rushed you or pressured you.”

“You didn’t.” I tentatively reach my fingers toward hers. She lets me take them. “I want to date you. Really want to date you. But I’m not ready for that yet, and I don’t want to give you anything less than my best self.”

She nods. “I understand.”

I meet her eyes. “Irene?” My voice has the slightest quake in it. “Why did you never tell me the truth about the tow truck?”

Her stare is piercing. “Because I was too proud to admit I’d made a mistake. I didn’t know you and I didn’t know how to explain myself to you, so I let you deal with the fallout instead of taking it on myself. I was a coward.” She squeezes my fingers. “I’m so sorry, Scottie. For what happened to your car, but also for how it made you feel about yourself. Your family is right: You’re amazing. You’re more than enough. I hate that I made you question that.”

I set my hand on her knee. “I’m sorry you were in so much pain.”

“I’m sorry you still are.”

“Will it really go away? Eventually?”

“Yes.” She smiles sadly. “Look, I’ll prove it to you.” She reaches for her phone and scrolls until she finds a photo. “I know it’s probably weird to show you this, but I stared at this picture every day for about six months after Charlotte started dating Prescott.”

She hands it to me. It’s a selfie of the two of them, Irene and Charlotte, kissing with their heads on the same pillow, their hair messy and intertwined. Irene is smiling the way she only smiles during cheer routines: like she’s found the thing she was meant for.

“Oh.” I feel a twinge of jealousy, but I remind myself this isn’t about me; it’s about Irene and her pain. “Does she know you have this picture?”

“No. We were drunk. I didn’t find it until the next day.”

“You look so happy,” I whisper.

“I was.” She scoots closer, lays her arm along my thigh. “I loved Charlotte with everything I had. I know she loved me, too. When I look at this picture, I can still see the best parts of her. I can remember exactly how it felt to love her.”

I look up at her. “So how did you finally move on?”

“Time. Space. Acceptance.” She searches my eyes. “And knowing that I deserved better.”

I smile. We lean our foreheads together, breathing.

“I want to get to a place where I’m ready for you,” I whisper.

“Just get to a place where you know how wonderful you are,” she whispers back. “They’re one and the same.”

She gets up off the bed and pulls me to my feet. Before I can figure out how to say goodbye—for now—she grabs something off her dresser and presses it into my hand.

My basketball button.

I try to say something, but the words stick in my throat. We stand there for a moment, breathing, giving this decision the space it deserves. Then I nod and walk away.

I don’t cry when I get home. Instead, I pick up my basketball and run layups for an hour. I don’t think about anything other than my own heart and the healing it needs to do.