Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out, and I feel the stabbing pain of the knife in my heart, over and over, because I caused that. Regardless of how many times people have told me that it wasn’t my fault, that a lifetime’s worth of torture and turmoil led to her actions, they’re wrong. And I know that, because with every single click of a shutter I hear, every piece of elation I feel when I land a trick, every time my name’s shouted from the stands, I think of her. And I know that it’s because of her I get to have all that. And I wonder if every time she opens her mouth and silence falls from her lips, every time she types on her laptop to communicate, every time she shows a message on her phone because her voice no longer works—she thinks of me. Because I’m the one who made her that.

“It’s hard for me to have you both here,” I continue, my voice cracking. “But that’s on me, not you. I’m sorry I keep hurting you, Becs. It’s the last thing I want.”

She looks up, a perfect frown on her beautiful mouth, and I force myself to not reach out and run my thumb across her lips. After putting the camera away, she grabs her phone from the back pocket of her denim shorts and starts to type, moving closer so I can read it. Friends?

No single word in the history of unrequited love has ever caused more pain than the word friends. Not that I’d know. I had Nat, and then I had her. I smile. I nod. “Sure.”

Her grin is instant, and for some pathetic reason it causes more pain than that single word. But I remember Robby’s speech and remind myself that it isn’t about me, so I return her smile and throw in another nod, because it’s what I promised I’d do, but in my mind, I’m already picking out the boards I plan to smash the second she leaves. But then she steps closer, and closer again and her arms start to rise and a part of me wants to run, wants to push her away, because I know she’s about to touch me… and when she finally does, her arms around my neck, I feel the burst of life kick in… the exact same moment I feel a part of me die.

Her cheek presses against my chest and my arms go around her waist and I die a little more, and the longer we stand there, my arms wrapped around the only person who’s ever truly seen me, I can feel myself sinking, drowning, begging for air. I force myself to pull away, but she holds me to her, her head lifting and her eyes locked on mine. Her smile’s gone now, the frown back in place, and I get lost in her gaze, a place that holds all my secrets, my fears, my desires. Then she rises to her toes, her mouth against my ear, and her breath warm against my skin. “Thank you,” she whispers.

My eyes widen in shock, my heart… I have no idea what it’s doing, but apparently she finds my reaction amusing because she laughs, or at least her version of a laugh and seeing it gives me the same feeling of life and death. I’m about to speak but my name being called cuts me off. Chris walks up the driveway, his look of shock matching mine from only seconds ago. “Becca.” There’s distaste in the way he says her name and I know why, I just don’t want her to know why. So, I release her quickly and turn to Chris, squaring my shoulders as I move her behind me.

“Thanks for coming,” I tell him.

“It’s no problem. In fact, I’m glad I showed up. Who knows—”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

“No, Warden,” he says. “I think we should talk about it now.”

Shaking my head, I narrow my eyes at him. Then I give in to the inevitable and turn to Becca. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

Her bottom lip traps between her teeth, her eyes worried as she looks between Chris and me.

“It’s fine,” I assure her, then face Chris and motion toward my apartment.

The second we’re behind closed doors, he lets me have it. “What the hell are you doing, Warden?” he yells.

“I’m not doing anything! Jesus Christ.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks, his eye roll adding punch to his sarcasm. “I can totally see that.”

“Not here. Not now,” I grind out. “Give me a fucking break!”

“A break? You had a break! You took two weeks off after the shit you pulled in St. Louis.”

My head lowers, my hands at my hips. “So fucking what?”

“So fucking what?” he repeats. “This isn’t a fucking game, Warden. You’re a pro athlete now. You have people paying you big money and those people depend on you—”

“I don’t want any of that shit! I told you that. I just want to skate.”

His eyes narrow. “That shit is what allows you to skate for a living. It’s what allows you to travel with your son everywhere so you don’t have to miss a second of him growing up. You think I’m doing this for me? I have money, Josh. I couldn’t care less about any of that.”