I’ve been waiting by the phone for hours to see if she’d call me or if she’d once again push me to the side.

I can help her.

She just needs to let me.

“Are you okay? I saw.” There’s no point in pretending that I didn’t witness her tear her ACL on national television tonight.

She sighs. “No.” Good. I’m glad we’re not starting this conversation off with a lie.

“How can I help?”

She laughs but there’s no humor in it. She’s barely holding it together. “Got any room in your schedule?”

I don’t, really. My schedule shouldn’t allow for another client right now, but I know I’ll make it work. I’d rather cut off my own arm than reject her. A part of me always knew it, but this moment just confirmed that I would still, to this day, do absolutely anything for this woman.

Olivia

Twelve Years Old

“Stupid Austin,” I mumble to myself as I kick the soccer ball I’m practicing with in our front yard. It bounces off the white brick of the house wildly before I stop it from going into the street. Why did we have to move here?

“Stupid Mom,” I grumble as I line the ball up with the exact brick I want to hit.

“Stupid Dad.” My next shot is sloppy, and I cringe as the ball doesn’t hit anywhere near my mark. I trap the ball beneath my cleat upon its return.

I can’t focus. There’s too much rage and annoyance flowing through my body. I do a few toe taps and then line up one final shot. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then I let go. It crashes against the brick and then whips past my face.

“Ow.” My body spins around at the voice I just heard. A tall boy stands across the street rubbing the back of his head. My soccer ball sits at his feet. He turns around to face me and I’m taken aback. He’s sort of…beautiful. His brown skin is highlighted by the sun setting behind him, and I’ve never seen a more glorious mess of curls on a boy before. He tilts his head as if he doesn’t know what to make of me, probably because I’m just standing here like an idiot instead of apologizing and going to get my ball. He bends to pick it up, and I think he’s going to throw it back to me, but instead he looks both ways and crosses the street over to my yard. “This yours?” he asks, holding the ball out to me.

“Umm, yes. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kicked it that hard.” I wince as I grab it out of his hands. So lame.

He chuckles and it’s a cute sound. I decide at that moment I’d like to hear what his full laugh sounds like. He’s tall and his deep-brown eyes are a little harsh, but his cheeks have a roundness to them that don’t match the rest of his body, so I can’t tell if he’s my age, younger, or older. “That’s okay. You must’ve been really mad about something.”