29. Because I Wanted to See You

CHAPTER 29

BECAUSE I WANTED TO SEE YOU

WESTON

It’s a great game tonight. Our first line is on fire. And on defense, Tate and I make total nuisances of ourselves, keeping Merrimack away from the crease and holding them to a single goal all night.

My guys put up four goals. It’s the best kind of drubbing, and the hometown crowd is a sea of green sweatshirts and cheering. My family is right behind the bench, and Lauren even bought a pennant somewhere. She’s waving and smiling whenever I return to the bench.

I don’t spot Abbi. But I sure hope she’s enjoying herself. And, sue me, I’m hoping she got a little thrill when I stripped the Merrimack sniper during my last shift. I’m too cool to brag about my exploits, but if she happened to witness that, then I’m a happy man.

So I’m feeling pretty great as the boys blast some music in the locker room after the game. And that good feeling lasts about a half hour, until I pick up my phone and find Abbi’s message.

My hair is still wet from the shower as I’m listening to her tell me we should stop seeing each other now .

Immediately the glow of victory is extinguished. I’m not even sure she attended the game. I looked for her, too. I found my family in the stands, but I couldn’t find Abbi.

And she’s not coming over tonight .

Or ever again.

Fuck .

So this is what it feels like to be at the wrong end of a breakup. I hate it so much. It’s not because it’s a blow to my ego, either. I’m going to miss her. A lot. Even though I know Abbi is right. Even if I feel low after listening to her message.

We weren’t ever supposed to become a real couple, although it was starting to feel like we were. Tonight she’d asked why I invited her to have pizza with my family. And the answer was so easy— because I wanted to see you .

But that isn’t fair, is it? That was abundantly clear when my sister started spouting off about the wedding. The one I never invited Abbi to.

Note to self—the fake boyfriend thing is only fun until one or both of you forgets that it’s fake. And who knew I’d be the one to forget?

Abbi didn’t. She cut me loose, and I ought to be grateful.

So why do I feel so blue?

“Yo, Griggs,” Tate says. “Whatcha doing standing there? Let’s go play some Beer Jenga and get our drink on.”

“ One beer,” Coach says from across the room. “Don’t celebrate yet. Gotta beat ‘em again tomorrow night, boys. And what the fuck is Beer Jenga?” Coach asks. “Wait—never mind. I don’t wanna know.”

“Right, Coach,” Tate agrees. “Good call.” He grabs me by the elbow. “Let’s party.”

I follow him out the door. But I don’t feel like partying.

The next couple of days are rough. My brain goes in circles, like a dog chasing its tail. I vacillate between knowing this break with Abbi was inevitable, and a guts-deep feeling that I’ve just made a huge mistake.

Either way, it feels wrong to me to end things on a bad note. So I try to call her. Twice. But she won't pick up.

Then I try texting. Hey, I know you're a little mad at me, and you made a few good points. But can we at least have a talk? But I get no response.

And now I’m just plain irritated.

“How bad was this argument?” Tate asks as I sit on the bench in the locker room, checking my texts for the millionth time.

“It wasn’t that bad! I had no idea Abbi was so damn stubborn.”

“Then maybe it's better that you broke up,” Patrick suggests.

“Maybe,” I grunt. “But I’m in such a pissy mood. I feel so..."

"Dismissed," Paxton, Patrick's twin, says. "Prolly the same way the girls usually feel when you're done with them.”

“No way,” I argue. “They know the score going in.”

“Do they?” Paxton mutters.

My shoulders slump. It's starting to dawn on me that I have inconvenient feelings for Abbi. If it weren’t true, I wouldn’t care so much that she's done with me.

Shit. How did this happen?

“Time for dinner,” Tate says. “Let's go to the Biscuit.”

I let out a low moan, and the whole locker room laughs.

“Aw, Griggs!” Tate says, patting my back. “Maybe this is just what you need. Your girl can't ignore you face-to-face.”

I'm sure he's right. And I really want to talk to Abbi. But I'd rather do it without an audience.

“Come on, man.” Patrick slaps my shoulder. “Back on the horse. Maybe you can find another playmate for the night. Someone to take your mind off her.”

“That's not happening,” I snap. Not only am I not in the mood, I'd never do that to Abbi.

“He's right.” Tate says. “Our guy has to be discreet at the Biscuit after this. What if we lose our table?”

“What if the entire waitstaff turns on us?” someone else asks.

“Then no more wings and beer,” Patrick says sadly. “Didn't we warn you about this already?”

“I’m not ready to switch to a steady diet of pizza,” someone complains.

“Fix this, Weston,” Tate says. “Do it for the team.”

“Okay, guys,” I sigh. “Let's go to the Biscuit.”

I feel tense as we walk through the door. And part of me expects to see the lacrosse team newly installed at table seventeen, gloating while we try to find adjacent booths in the dining room.

But, no, our table is waiting. I take my usual seat and look around. Maybe Abbi will emerge from the kitchen and smile at me like she always does. Can't we at least stay friends? At least I’d have that.

But the minutes tick by with no sign of her. And it’s that lazy manager, Kippy, who finally swings by to drop off waters and menus. As if anyone at table seventeen needs a menu. "Someone will be with you in just a couple of minutes,” he says. “We're short-handed tonight."

That's when I feel the first twinge of concern. And it only gets worse when a harried Carly hurries up, pen and pad in hand, and works her way down the table scribbling down orders. But the whole time she's shooting me curious glances.

And when Carly reaches me, she doesn’t ask for my order. "Where is Abbi?" she demands instead.

"What do you mean?" I fire back. "I was going to ask you the same thing. Abbi won't take my calls."

Carly blinks. “You're kidding. She won't take mine either. She didn’t show up for work last night or tonight! And it's her one-year anniversary." She glances over her shoulder before continuing. "Kippy won't give her the bonus she's worked so hard for," she hisses. "He said she blew it by going AWOL. But Abbi would never do that.”

My stomach bottoms out. What the hell happened to Abbi?

“I’ve been calling her every ten minutes for the past two hours,” Carly says. “And she doesn’t answer. I’m going to go knock on her door on my break."

But I'm already pulling on my coat. "Let me do it.”

“What about dinner?" Paxton asks. "Should we put in your order?" I don't even bother to answer him. I'm already headed for the door.

But I pull up short as I pass the bar. That cretin Price is behind it, cutting limes into wedges. "Have you seen her?'' I bark .

"Seen who?" he says with a snake-like smile.

"Abbi."

He makes a show of shrugging. “Thought you were the boyfriend. Isn't that your story? Aren't you sticking with it?"

I want to punch him in the throat, but I’m in too big a hurry. So I dart out of the restaurant and start hoofing it uphill toward Abbi’s place.

Thought you were the boyfriend , Price said. Aren’t you sticking with it?

I had been, if I’m honest. I’d stuck to it until two nights ago. And I’d been happy, too. Playing the part of Abbi’s boyfriend—and then becoming Abbi’s boyfriend—had suited me just fine.

Then I freaked out when she said she might stay in Burlington. And now it’s hard to remember why. If something has happened to her, I will lose my shit.

I’ll lose it at myself, I guess, because I’ll be the one to blame.

I break into a run and make it to Abbi’s front porch in record time. Her car is parked at the curb, which is a good sign, right? I lean on the buzzer to her apartment unit, and then I try the doorknob of the front door. It’s usually open.

But nope. Not tonight.

Shit.

I buzz again, and I start pounding on the front door until I see someone descending the stairs. It’s another college student, I think—a skinny guy with round glasses.

Stepping back, I try to look nonthreatening. Although he’s eyeing me warily when he opens the door. “Hey man,” I say. “My girlfriend didn’t show up for work two days in a row, and I’m panicking. Can you let me knock on her door?”

“Uh…” he says, looking a little unsure.

“Or let me talk to your landlord? Abbi said the old lady lives on the first floor, and never turns up the heat.”

“Well that is certainly true,” the dude agrees with a snort. “Abbi is right here, no?” He points at the door just behind him.

“That’s right, and I’m really worried about her.”

He bites his lip. “Okay, come in.”

I leap past him and knock on the wooden door to Abbi’s little studio. “Abbster, honey. Please open the door. I’m worried about you.”

There is nothing but silence. I even press my ear to the door and hear nothing.

“Maybe she doesn’t want to talk to you,” the dude suggests.

“I can see why you’d suggest that,” I agree. “But I’m telling you—something is wrong.”

He sighs. Then he turns and heads down the little corridor toward the back of the building. A moment later I can hear him knocking on a door that’s just out of view. There’s a whispered conversation, and a tiny elderly woman with gray braids coiled on top of her head emerges with a huge number of keys on a giant ring. She’s like something out of Dickens.

“Knock again, please,” she warbles. “I don’t make a habit of breaking in on my tenants.”

I take a fist to Abbi’s door and knock urgently. “Abbi, honey. We’re worried about you. Open up.”

Nothing.

“Step aside,” Miss Havisham says, wielding one of her many keys. She unlocks the door and opens it slowly. “Oh dear,” she says, and my heart plummets. “It’s very cold in here. Like a refrigerator.”

I lose all patience, pressing the door open further and sliding past the lady as fast as I move to evade an on-ice opponent. Abbi’s room is dark, but I can make out a form in the bed. It’s ice cold in here, and I stop breathing as I approach the too-still lump on the mattress.

“Abbi. Honey .” I sit down and place a hand on the flannel of her pajamas. My heart is in my damn mouth until she shifts under my touch. “Hey beautiful,” I say in a broken whisper. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

“Sick,” she rasps.

“Oh no,” I croon.

“Hurts,” she mumbles, curling more tightly in on herself. “ Cold .”

I press the backs of my fingers to her forehead, which is burning up in spite of the chill in the room. “We’re going to fix you right up,” I say gently. “Everything is going to be okay.”

It has to be.