Nine
Thursday nightZak and I didn’t make plans for tonight. Which feels weird after spending so much time together all week.
With the game looming big tomorrow, though, I think he wanted to work on his speech. Even though the time is all-too-quickly running out on our fake relationship—which only makes me want to spend even more time with him—I also want to give him the space he needs to get ready.
As I clean up after dinner, I try to picture what he might be doing right now. Working hard, bent over a stack of scribble-filled sheets of kelpaper. Going over every line—every word—again and again. Stressing out.
I wish I could help him.
Wait. I can help him.
Just because he didn’t ask for help doesn’t mean he doesn’t need it. Or even want it. Maybe he was just too embarrassed to ask.
I
