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I wince. “White lies…”

Shy rolls her eyes. “When is baby due?”

The sounds of the bar are beginning to come back to me, the ringing in my ears beginning to settle. Tate’s arm around my shoulder is heavy and comforting. I slide in closer until I’m pressed tight to his side. He notices. I know he notices because his chest expands with a breath, I think might be both surprised and happy.

“April,” me and Tate say together.

We’ve agreed to tell everyone that the baby is due April instead of early March. I’m not sure what we’ll do if either of our parents find out the truth. Or…heaven forbid the baby comes early. Please, please don’t come early.

Elijah sits back in the booth, eyes on me and Tate. I know what he’s going to ask before he asks it. Even still, I fail to prepare myself.

“Does Holt know?”

Tate’s jaw clenches. I think he’s getting tired of this question. In a way, I am, too. But I also think it might be my penance to pay for being—for doing—this.

“He knows,” I say softly. I sniff when that familiar prick of emotion pinches at my nose. “All of his dreams are coming true. He’s on the ice every day. He’s playing for a real team. He’s—going to be everything he ever dreamed of being.” I suck in a big breath, because I never want to talk about this with my friends again. It’s easier to rip off the Band-Aid. “He never wanted this life. This quiet life in a quiet town, with babies and—he just wants more from life. And that’s okay. I support him in his dreams.” My eyes drift between my friends. “But this is my life I’m talking about now. I want this quiet life in this quiet town with babies—with a husband.” I look up at Tate to find his eyes are already on me. A blush stains my cheeks, but I push on. “I support Holt’s dreams completely, but I’m allowed to have my own dreams, too. I’m choosing this life for myself—and I won’t feel guilty for it. I won’t feel guilty for the life I lived before, with Holt. I refuse to feel guilty for loving him in the past—or for letting him go now.”

“Have you let him go?” Andy asks.

“Yeah, I have.” I smile as I nod, because I realize that I have let Holt go. I’ll always love him, that’s the truth. But it’s a soft, quiet kind of love. A far away kind of love, an echo of a whisper, somehow distant even in its nearness.

I don’t know when it happened. Perhaps just now. Either way, I feel good about it. About my decision to let myself know happiness again. To let myself dream, to catch those dreams, and perhaps even build a life around them.

Andy lifts her drink high, “Then I guess congratulations are in order!”

15

AS LONG AS I LET HIM

DECEMBER 2009 – 18 YEARS OLD

It’s dark and quiet by the time we enter the apartment. There’s a weightlessness inside me that I didn’t realize I’d lost when I saw those two pink lines, and began carrying my secret mostly alone. Now that my secret is out, that weight is lifting.

I can breathe again.

Who knew oxygen could be so invigorating? Normally, by this time of night I’d be dead asleep. Or at the very least dead asleep between brutal wakings assaulted by tears and guilt and memories I’d rather leave lost in slumber.

Now, I just feel energized. Like sleep is the last thing I need.

My eyes land on the box Tate bought two weeks ago where it sits in the corner of the living room. It’s not the real tree Dad always lugged home for me and Mom to decorate, but it is a tree. The box of bulbs also isn’t the messy tote of mismatched ceramic decorations Mom loves, nor does it boast a single hand-crafted memory. But it glitters.

Under the spill of white moonlight in a dark, star-blasted sky, it glitters.

A prick of emotion needles my heart, spinning Tate’s thread through the cobwebs of Holt’s memory.

A warm light floods the space and I turn to find Tate watching me, studying me. Questions linger behind his eyes, but he only dares to ask one.

“How are you feeling?”

He’s always so concerned about how I am feeling. He’s always so considerate of every wave of emotion I ride, both high and low.

He’s so amazing.

Still, I realize then that I’ve not thought to ask how he feels in all of this.

My cheeks burn with shame. I’ve been selfish. So, so selfish.

“How are you feeling?”