Breakaway (Beyond the Play, #2)(59)

I hold up the sheet. “We’re good. Let’s go.”

“And deny me the pleasure of seeing your bedroom, Red?”

“Trust me, it’s nothing to write home about.”

“What if I told you it came with a make out session?”

I bite back my smile. “Fine. But you’re not allowed to make fun of my Robert Pattinson poster.”

“Like that’s news, sweetheart. I’ve seen the way you look at Edward.”

I reach over to pinch him, but he steps out of the way in time. I sigh, leading the way upstairs.

We moved to Moorbridge before my senior year of high school, so I spent an entire year living here full time before starting at McKee. Cooper was a freshman during my dad’s first year of coaching at McKee. For whatever reason, it’s weirder to think about me going to Moorbridge High School while Cooper was only ten minutes away than to think of last year, when we were both on campus and didn’t cross paths. If we had, though, I doubt we’d be doing what we’re doing now.

I flick the switch for the overhead light. Cooper has a thoughtful expression on his face. It’s one thing, seeing my dorm room, and something else entirely to see a version of my teenage bedroom. Yellow paint on the walls, a blue area rug on the floor. A tiny twin bed settled against the wall and books everywhere. My Twilight poster, which I pinned over my bed and never took down, and of course an entire shelf full of trophies and medals, relics of a time in my life that’s long gone. I reach down, rubbing at my knee. Phantom pain always crops up whenever I ponder the cost of those awards.

“You made first place a lot,” Cooper says.

I smile wryly. “I had a good coach.”

“Was it your mom?”

“Yeah. Someone else took over when she got sick, but before that, she was my coach.” I sit on the bed, swallowing down the wave of emotion that always accompanies talking about her. I know I could stop, and Cooper wouldn’t push, but something about seeing him here makes me want to continue. He sits down next to me on the bed, taking my hand in both of his. “I know that the stereotype is like, the mean mom forcing her daughter to do the same thing she did, reclaim her glory, whatever, but she wasn’t like that.”

“What was she like?” he asks softly.

I trace over his palm. “She was wonderful. She made it fun. I did all my routines to upbeat songs. At my ballet lessons, she danced alongside me. We kept scrapbooks of all my competitions, the program notes and ribbons. She always kept gummy bears and sour worms in her purse in case I needed cheering up. I know her career ended because she got pregnant with me, but she never made it seem like I ruined her life. I was a surprise, but my parents wanted me.”

I smile, remembering a time she told off another mom for yelling at her daughter after a disastrous program. “She never yelled. When I made mistakes, we went over them in a way that somehow made me feel better, even though I messed up, you know? She made me feel grateful that I had the opportunity to make the mistake in the first place and learn from it.”

My voice sounds thick, the way it always does when I talk about her. It’s almost been a decade, and yet I can’t reminisce without crying. I wonder sometimes if that’s how it’ll be for the rest of my life; if I’ll tell my kid about her one day and sob the whole time. It’s like the pain becomes fresh all over again, like I’m experiencing every moment in that hospital all at once.

Cooper pulls me into a hug, and I melt against his chest gratefully. “I’m sorry,” he says. He winces. “And I’m sorry for saying that. I know those words aren’t helpful.”

I shake my head. “It’s fine.”

“What happened? If you want to share.”

“She had ovarian cancer. It was really aggressive.” I wipe at my eyes, looking at him. “She had the same hair as me, you know. This pretty ginger color. It all fell out the moment she started chemo. I was thirteen. Fourteen when she passed.”

He hugs me so tightly it knocks the breath from my chest. “I remember from the picture on your nightstand in the dorm. Should I stop calling you Red? Does it bring up bad memories?”

“No.” I sit up, sniffling as I try to manage a smile. “I really like it. Don’t stop.”

He brushes his lips over my forehead. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I don’t talk about her often enough.” My smile goes wobbly again. “Dad doesn’t like to. I think it still hurts too much.”

“You know, it would feel weird to make out under the gaze of Edward Cullen,” he quips.

I laugh wetly. Three times in a row now, his thoughtfulness has taken me aback. Asking about my mom. Checking that I still want to be called ‘Red.’ And now this—knowing exactly when I need humor to keep from spiraling.

“We go way back,” I say. “I started reading Twilight in the hospital. It was the series that made me fall in love with reading.”

“Well, that settles it,” he says. “We need to do a book swap. I’ll read Twilight, and you can check out Lord of the Rings.”

I reach over to the bookshelf next to my bed; my well-worn copies sit right in the middle of the top shelf. I take out the first one and flip through it. If he reads it, he’ll see all the passages I highlighted. I’ve read hundreds of books since, and I know the series isn’t perfect, but I still adore every single word. “You probably won’t like them. The books are nothing like what you usually read.”