I thought perhaps just getting to play once would lift Reed’s spirits. But his unhappiness ran much deeper. When he was up, things still seemed possible; when he was down, though…well, I guess that wasn’t really my problem anymore. Except I knew that wasn’t true either. I’d never stop worrying about Reed. I was pretty sure I’d move on to college and spend my four years following him in newspaper clippings and daydreaming about how he was, hoping he was ok and hoping he was learning to be happy again.

I spent the entire Saturday holed up in my room, cleaning out my closet and listening to music. I pulled out a few of my favorite classic books, trying to get myself lost in the high-brow torture of the Bronte sisters, but I never made it further than a few pages. I wasn’t going to homecoming. Not alone. And I knew Reed wasn’t coming to get me. A small part of me was hoping he would ride in like a knight and shining armor and beg me to go with him, but when the clock ticked to 7, then 8 and finally 9, I quit that fantasy, too.

My mom was a little surprised that I wasn’t getting ready for homecoming, and I eluded that Reed and I had a bit of a fight. She tried to pry a little, but I told her I wasn’t ready to be upset about it yet, and she let it go. I knew she was worried, though, because she made excuses to check on me every hour or so throughout the night.

No matter how big of a jackass Reed was being, I still wanted my parents to love him. Such a dichotomy from how his mother felt about me. She didn’t even acknowledge me when I was around. Again, though, not my problem anymore…except it ate away at me every moment I was awake.

Sarah texted me from the homecoming dance, wanting to check on me. She was also telling me what I really wanted to know, needed to know—that Reed wasn’t at the dance either.

Weekends were easy, it was when I was at school, in the same room, building, campus as Reed, that things were hard. I was waiting for it to get easier, waiting for something to happen. Waiting to forget the last words Reed had spoken to me. I wanted confrontation, but I suppose that had come and gone. All I had now was, well, the now.

I couldn’t help myself, but I stole glances at Reed when he walked through the halls, looking for hints at his mood, all the while waiting for him to snap out of this spell he was under and remember he loved me, to pursue me, to chase me and claim me again. That never happened, though.

Most of the time he was quiet, just floating from one class to the next, sitting and watching the lessons, not really participating. I had worried that his grades were slipping, but Sean told me he was still managing to ace everything and that he still had UofA and Stanford pursuing him. At least something was going right.

Reed’s birthday had come and gone. There was no party this year, though Sean told me that Buck had tried to talk Reed into the annual barbecue. The UofA and Stanford hats I had bought him still lived on the top shelf in my closet, tucked away in a bag, waiting to be shaken out and delivered. But that wasn’t going to happen.

I noticed that his Jeep was showing up in the parking lot at school again, and I was glad to see it fixed and in working order. It was a part of him, and it was the way I liked to remember him. His dad had put special plates on the back, UofA ones. I mused at his not-so-subtle act, also wondering if that was any indication of Reed’s decision of where he would sign for next season.

The last Friday game was a week away. The school was set ablaze with the hype I’d grown accustomed to during the last four years. Streamers and banners were hung along the halls. Cheerleaders were decorating the football player’s lockers, many paying special attention to Reed’s. I thought about how I probably would have been the one to do that a month ago. But instead, I hadn’t spoken to Reed since the day I showed up at his door with his letters and my memories.

He hadn’t texted. He hadn’t asked Sienna or Sarah about me. And he and Sean talked about football and nothing else. It was like the last three and a half years had all been a figment of my imagination, that we were nothing more than mere acquaintances. Less than, in fact, as even an acquaintance would make eye contact with me on accident once or twice.

I spent most of my nights working on my memoir project. It turned out I loved my creative writing class. And after a few phone interviews and inquiries with the special education program at ASU, I found out I could specialize in reading and writing disabilities. For the first time in weeks, my mind was excited about something, and I even found I could forget about the hole in my heart every now and then.

It was my turn to present in class today, and a strange part of me was eager to share something so personal. I had spent weeks working on my piece and had even shown it to our teacher, Mr. Bosch, in advance. He encouraged me to submit it for a scholarship award, so after perfecting it (with his brutal editing), I did. If I won, I would be able to pay for my room and board at ASU, which would be a blessing because as it stood now I was looking at driving two hours each day through the desert. I had earned a full scholarship for my tuition, but that was only half the battle.