“Yes, that is the one, that is exactly the one and it’s like a million miles away and oh my god I fucked up. I fucked everything up. And you know what’s going to happen now? He’s going to fucking die. He’s going to be fucking killed without ever knowing that I know all of this and I just…I just I’m sorry and I—”
It was Lydia’s hands on her arms that stopped her babbling. That slow stroking, with the little squeeze on the end. The way she urged her to sit back down, even though she didn’t remember springing to her feet. And then came her soothing voice, like soft rain on scorched earth.
“Calm down. Breathe, okay. Breathe,” she said, and Letty breathed. She believed everything was going to be okay—until Lydia attempted to reassure her. “He’s not going to die. This isn’t a shitty novel written by Nicholas Sparks. This is real life, where we just sit down and wait for his triumphant return, at which point you then tell him you fucked up with as much beautiful vigor as you just told me.”
Now her voice was trying to rise again.
She was shrugging off those soothing hands.
“But you don’t understand. The reason this has been nagging me is because he’s not going to throw the match. He’s not going to throw it. I messed him all up and now he’s not going to throw it.”
“Okay, so you’re seriously going off the deep end. But that’s cool, because I have Valium that my mom gave me in case college was a nightmare, and we can just take half and then maybe talk about why not throwing matches is a good thing.”
“No, no, no, goddamn it’s not a good thing. He’s all mixed up with these…these…mobsters and he’s already fucked them once and if he does it again…if he does I don’t…I can’t breathe. I need to put my head between my knees.”
She did, though it didn’t help.
Mostly because Lydia said after a long silence, “Holy shit. We are living in a Nicholas Sparks novel.”
“Exactly,” she said from between her knees. “And I’m so not okay with that.”
“I know, I know. Just…you know what? Gimme a second to call the Hendersons about the babysitting I was going to do.”
“Why, why what do—why do you—”
“We’re going to take Brad’s car. We are just going to drive right up there and tell his coach or stop him or maybe, I dunno, murder a mobster behind some Dumpsters.” Lydia paused in the middle of texting, face so suddenly determined it flooded Letty’s chest with something like hope.
And especially when she added one last thing with a grin.
“Important question: do you have something we can murder the mobster with?”
“My insides feel pretty toxic right now. I could probably bleed in his mouth.”
“Perfect. Let’s go.”
Chapter 25
It seemed to take forever to get there. Every light was red, and they went the wrong way at least twice. By the time they pulled up outside the gymnasium her teeth were chattering. Lydia had to smooth Letty’s hair down once they were out of the car because of all the pulling and finger combing she had been doing. She had to talk to her in a soothing voice about life and how it doesn’t work this way.
“It’s only in movies that people get there, like, a minute too late,” she said.
And Lydia was right. Of course she was right. They snuck in behind a cheering, sign-waving crowd, and Tate was just wrestling some guy in the same way he always did. In fact, if anything he seemed even more focused than usual. She caught a glimpse of his expression, as tense and fearsome as she’d ever seen it. Saw him dodging and going for the weak spots like it hardly took any effort at all.
He was going to win, no problem.
Then she remembered in a rush: winning was bad. Winning in this case was really, really bad. She could even see two suspicious-looking dudes three rows down—one in the most beautiful suit she’d ever seen in her life, the other so big he dwarfed everyone surrounding him. Both of them watching intently, like they were just waiting for him to make the wrong move. “It might not be what you think,” Lydia said, but that only suggested she had seen the same thing.
Now Tate was hurling his opponent around as if he were made of skin and air, and god god god, she just had to get down there right now. Even if it wasn’t true. Even if this was all just somehow part of one last grand trick—she didn’t care. She saw herself as he must have seen her, when he had asked her out all those years ago and she had laughed. Saw how mean it must have looked, even though she’d never intended it that way. She had always thought of it as the start of his cruelty, the start of his jokes and his tricks, instead of what it really was.
The thing that had divided them.
She couldn’t let that divide happen again.
Not purposefully. Not like this. Not ever.