Chapter Twenty-Five

CeCe

In November, we were on the road for two or three nights on average a week. We spent Thanksgiving eating turkey sandwiches from Subway at our hotel and watching Gladiator in a conference room. I was always frustrated when I heard people claim that athletes were coddled or spoiled. There was a reason why we had tutors dedicated to working with us on homework and projects. Between practice, traveling, weight lifting, games, and meetings, playing a varsity sport was like trying to balance a forty-hour work week with school and studying. We crammed for tests on bumpy bus rides in the dark. We woke up to early morning practice while most of the world was still fast asleep and sunlight was just a faint whisper in the sky. When we suffered a heartbreaking loss and were faced with post-game publicity, frustrated parents, angry coaches, not to mention the letdown of the entire high school, we went home and attempted to focus on a math problem set.

One night on the road, the entire team squeezed in VanBree and Schmitty’s hotel room, gorging on pizza. The girls were swapping their weekly dating statistics, weekend make out play-by-plays, and boyfriend status reports. They discussed watching the basketball team practice in order to build their fantasy relationship roster. It was like ESPN highlights for girls.

I tended to stay out of these conversations. I slowly blended into the background, like a chair or a curtain. I didn’t have a whole lot of input on the matter of dating. If a running track resembled our love lives, they would all have lapped me about a hundred times by now.

“What I don’t get,” Tuba said in between bites of cheese and dough, “is, how do you know if it’s more than just a fling with a guy? More than a crush?”

“They need to make a grand gesture,” Schmitty said. “That’s what sets the good guys apart from…everyone else.” The girls leaned forward, listening to her words like she was the Dalai Lama of dating. Schmitty had a long-term boyfriend all throughout high school. To us, that was saint-like.

“A grand gesture? You mean, like, they want to talk to you instead of fondle you?” Bryn asked.

The girls laughed and I looked up from my notebook.

“I think some guys assume that sexting at 2 a.m. is a grand gesture,” Aisha commented.

Schmitty shook her head. “It’s when they drive through a blinding snowstorm just to be with you. Or they agree to tour an art museum, even if they could care less, because they know you care. They sit on the couch all day with you when you’re sick and watch movies. Even if it means no chance at making out. They cook you dinner at their apartment, despite all the heckling they get from their roommates. They put themselves out there. They put you first.”

“A grand gesture,” Tuba repeated the words, like they were her new mantra.

“That’s when you’ll know it’s something more,” Schmitty said.

My eyes traveled around the room, but my thoughts were on one person. When we were home, the football team was on the road. I only saw Emmett at Shakespeare class, and Watford was careful never to give us a second of conversation time during her sacred fifty minutes.

…

Emmett

It was three a.m. and I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to text Bryn, but I knew she was on the road and I didn’t want to wake her up. But I needed to vent. I grabbed my iPad off the nightstand and turned it on. The screen illuminated my room in a blue electric glow. I opened up my email, and there was a message from Bryn, sent four minutes ago. I smiled and opened it.

Bryn: I can’t sleep. When I close my eyes, my mind burns with thoughts about you. I’m not complaining. I like the heat. But they keep me awake, defenseless in the dark.

I started to type.

Emmett: I’ve been trying to piece you together. That song was my way of telling you the effect you have on me—how I understand how complicated you are. I can’t do it justice in writing. I’m not as good with words as you.

Bryn: I loved the song.

I smirked at the screen and started to type.

Emmett: That’s not what you said at my house.

Bryn: My mind was still marinating on it. It was so unusual, I needed time to digest it.

I nodded.

Emmett: It didn’t follow a typical melody.

Bryn: It’s when something is disproportionate that it becomes interesting.

I nodded slowly. I needed to hear that from her.

Emmett: I’m glad it had an impact on you. You don’t realize the impact you’ve had on me.

I blew out a sigh and continued to type.

Emmett: But you’re still holding back. There’s something you’re not telling me.

Bryn: I’m trying. You have no idea how much I want to show you everything. All of me. You and I are so similar, straddling two worlds, and not fitting into either one completely.

Emmett: Why do you prefer to write to me?

I waited for a couple of minutes. There was no response. I creased my forehead and wondered why she was stalling. A response lit up my screen.

Bryn: There is a beautiful disease. It’s called hypergraphia. It’s a compulsive need to write. It’s rumored David Foster Wallace had it. That would help to explain Infinite Jest, why it took a thousand pages of a continual stream of consciousness just to unfold a single layer of his complicated mind.

Some people call the compulsion a curse. Others see it as a gift.

I think there is something beautiful about having that constant lust for words.

I need to write to you. It’s how my emotions make sense to me. It’s how this knot of tunnels in my mind all unravels.

I wouldn’t mind having hypergraphia.

I would love to drown in a sea of words.

I felt myself nodding along to her words. I completely understood.

Emmett: I feel that way about music. I need to play in order to make sense of a million jumbled thoughts. It’s like meditation. Or worse, a security blanket.

Bryn: I don’t think it’s a security blanket. I think it’s about vision. It’s about seeing more than what’s right in front of you. Once you learn to do that, you start to see beyond what’s there and you spill over into seeing what you imagine is there. Or what you wish was there. I’ve had this problem ever since I was young.

Emmett: Problem? It sounds like a gift.

I tapped the edge of the screen. There was a question gnawing at the back of my mind. I typed slowly.

Emmett: What are you afraid of?

I hit send.

Bryn: I’ve always been afraid I won’t get my fill. I go to bed every night, starved. Wanting more. Wondering what I’m missing, and why I feel trapped. I don’t know what could satisfy this feeling—a place? A person?

Emmett: I think you’re afraid to take a risk. You’re brave, but only when you’re in control. Like on the volleyball court. But taking a physical risk in one thing. You might get a broken bone or a bruise, but you’ll get over it. That doesn’t make you fearless. It’s taking risks with your emotions, with your heart involved—that’s what makes you brave.

Bryn: You’re right.

Emmett: So what are you waiting for? Go all in with me. If you’re not all in, then what’s the point of anything? If you hold back what are you going to gain?

Bryn: You don’t understand that I see it from the flip side. I still see everything I have to lose. I can’t explain it to you right now. That’s why I write to you. This is where I’m at my best.

I breathed out a heavy sigh and sank back into my pillows. I didn’t understand it, but I was willing to wait. Her words were gasoline to me, and I was playing with fire. There was only one thing left to say.

Emmett: I wish you would think out loud more often. I love this side of you.

I stared at the word love and hit send. I was going too far. But I knew it was too late.

Bryn and I emailed every night for the rest of the month, while we were on the road or she was traveling for games. But I realized the problem with words. They were too stationary. They contained you. They held you at a distance. And nothing worthwhile happened at a distance.