Page 91 of Heal Me, Love Me

“I know.”

I dragged my fingers through my hair. “Don’t make me be the strong one. I’m not sure I can be today.”

If he stayed for one more second, I’d ask him to come home with me.

He stepped backward toward the doors without turning around. I stayed where I was with my hands shoved into the pockets of my Atlantic Combat hoodie, and my hair falling into my face, while my eyes stayed locked on his.

The sliding glass doors opened behind him, and with a final wave, he walked inside. He looked back once more, then kept walking.

I’d watched him leave once before from my bedroom window, too angry and scared to say anything to him. Back then, I’d given him nothing, no promise, and no reason to believe I’d ever come after him. This time, I’d given him everything I had, and it still didn’t feel like enough.

I stood there longer than I needed to, staring at the spot where he’d disappeared into the crowd. My heart felt like it was splintering into a million pieces, even though this wasn’t a breakup or the end of us. We weren’t seventeen anymore, stuck on opposite sides of silence because neither of us knew how to say what mattered. He was leaving because he had a shot, because he deserved it, and because loving him meant not making him feel guilty for taking it.

Eventually, I turned around and got back into my car, sitting behind the wheel with the empty passenger seat beside me. Rowan’s breakfast burrito was still in the center console, and I couldn’t help but chuckle, hoping his mom wouldn’t ask me whether he’d eaten it.

Before I drove away, I picked up my phone and typed out a message:

I already miss you and you’re not even in the air yet

A few seconds passed before my phone buzzed:

Rowan

I miss you already too baby

16

Rowan

Three weeksin Tampa had taught me that Florida humidity was bullshit, Dante Rivas smiled the most right before he made my life miserable, and Coach Isaac could spot a flaw in my footwork from across the gym while drinking coffee and barely paying attention.

I’d also learned that loving someone from almost three thousand miles away was easier to promise than to survive.

By the end of my second full week at Atlantic Combat, my body had stopped fighting the schedule and started anticipating it. By week three, the routine didn’t feel easy, but it felt familiar. Most mornings began before sunrise, with the parking lot still damp from overnight rain and the air already too thick to breathe comfortably. The gym smelled the same every day: sweat, disinfectant, leather, tape, and Coach Isaac’s brand of coffee. He drank that stuff at a pace and volume that made it seem as if it kept him alive.

The problem was that I liked all of it more than I knew how to admit, and that was the part I hadn’t figured out how totell Keaton yet. Not because he wouldn’t understand. He would. Out of everyone, Keaton knew what it felt like to walk into a gym and feel something inside you click into place. He knew the difference between wanting something and needing it. He knew what it meant to chase the next level, even when the cost was more than he wanted to pay.

But knowing Keaton would understand didn’t make it any easier to admit that Atlantic Combat was exactly what I needed, because that meant moving to Florida had been the right decision.

Each week, pieces began connecting faster. Striking flowed into wrestling, pressure opened up angles, and scrambles stopped feeling purely reactive. Coach Isaac didn’t let me get away with shit, and Dante seemed personally invested in making sure I never left the mat feeling too cocky.

“Again,” Coach Isaac called.

I reset across from Dante, sweat running down my back and into the waistband of my shorts.

He bounced lightly on his feet, gloves up, a grin spreading across his face. “You sure you’re ready for another round?”

“Do I have another option?”

“No.” He laughed.

Fucker.

“Then shut up and pressure me,” I growled.

His smirk widened. “There he is.”

He came forward fast—not wild, not reckless, just controlled enough that each step backed me into another decision. Three weeks ago, I would’ve backed out too soon or reached out too early for the takedown. Coach Isaac had spent time making sure I regretted both habits.