‘Yep.’ I put myself down on the left side, May on the right, and let out a heavy exhale as I lean back against the pillows. ‘Night.’

‘Night,’ she echoes and flips the switch on the lamp. We’re plunged into that immediate black-out-curtain hotel darkness, and it becomes very, very obvious when there’s nothing to see that there is definitely a palpable tension between us. I can hear May’s breathing as she rolls over to face away from me, sheets crinkling around her, a slight tug on the comforter alerting me to her need for a little more warmth. I surrender it gladly, turning away on my side.

I’m on the verge of sleep faster than I’m prepared for, my eyes lulling shut, at least until I sniff to keep a sneeze at bay, and the smell of May’s peach shampoo is the first fragrance in the air. I suddenly remember something Sav told me once when we were still in Prosperity, way back when she was in middle school. ‘People like you and May Velasco can never be just friends, idiot.’

I figured I’d try to fix it when I first got to Boston. But all I felt was this deep, stifling sensation of being uprooted, of missing a limb. I needed May. I’d picked up my phone, drafted a text message, missing home – missing her – more than anything else.

May. I know I messed it up, how I left, but I can’t do this without you. I guess that’s what I was so scared to tell you. You’ve been by my side for years, on the field and off it. I don’t think I can stop now. I need you.

And then I saw the last text I’d sent her. That lame shit about ‘Been great playing with you’ and ‘Mom’s garden’. Those strawberries I left her with.

I thought about Sav’s stupid advice again. Thought about the fact that I’d left things this way, and how I’d been expecting her to just text me back like we were still totally cool. Like I hadn’t up and left without so much as a word to her. Just that text.

Instead of fighting the fear, I gave in. I had played chicken for years.

Now, in the dark, with nothing to look at, nothing to distract myself, it all rushes back to me in an enormous wave. I don’t know what gets into me, or why I let it get into me, but by the time the first fateful words are out, it’s too late.

‘Hey, May?’

She grumbles groggily into her pillow before turning to the wall between us with a muffled, ‘Hmm?’

My voice is floaty, quieter than I’ve known possible, like I’m listening to myself talk from out of body when I say, ‘I really fucked up. Fucked a ton of stuff up.’