by Ginger Scott
I haven’t had a real boyfriend, well, maybe ever. It’s a topic my mom and I talk about when we watch romantic comedies or teen movies where all girls seem to want are boyfriends.
“Where is your boyfriend?” she always asks.
My consistent response: “I don’t have one.”
She pushes me about it because deep down she’s afraid that her and my dad’s ugly relationship is ruining my perspective on love and matters of the heart. And honestly? It is. When I think about love, I can’t help but associate it with animosity, jealousy, regret, hatred, destruction. My list is endless and so very negative. But I can’t tell her that. Besides, I’m not so sure it’s a bad thing that I got to see love for what it is—a dangerous gamble, high on distraction and low on reward.
There’s no risk in dating Hayden. He’s kind and I know I can confide in him, and I like that he needs to lean on me right now. But I know I don’t love him. I don’t think I could. I’m not sure I’m capable of it . . . at all. I like him a whole lot, and he likes me. But love? No. The only danger I’ve found in being with Hayden is one that I’ve only recently realized. And I don’t understand why it’s happening.
“Tory.” My mom says his name and it shakes me from my thoughts, bringing me back to the conversation unfolding between Hayden and my mom.
“Right, that’s your brother’s name,” my mom says, snapping her fingers as if Hayden just filled in a gap in her memory. My mom is playing along now for my benefit, which means she picked up my silent plea. She doesn’t forget anything. It’s half the reason we’ve been able to fight my dad’s legal team so well. My mom has a photographic memory, and she’s a touch of a hoarder, saving every remotely important piece of paper on the planet to back up those memories. There’s no way Tory’s name slipped her mind.
“You know, it’s amazing how damned near identical you and your brother are,” my mom says. I kind of wish she would drop the comparison conversation because lately it feels as if Tory and Hayden are doing plenty of it on their own. And I’d rather quit thinking about one of them.
“The only difference is I’m a little better looking,” Hayden responds, his joke getting a short chuckle from my mom.
The slightest hint of a smile remains on her lips long after Hayden turns his attention back to me. I find myself caught in the look on her face, trying to decipher it while Hayden is talking.
“Earth to Abby,” he says, waving a hand in front of me and cupping my shoulder. I jerk and reengage with the world.
“Sorry, you were saying something about Saturday night.”
He laughs at my pathetic summary.
“Umm, yeah. That’s your birthday. I was talking about taking you out. To celebrate?”
My mom has suddenly given us space, disappearing into the mudroom in the back of the house, folding things I’m sure are already folded and staying just close enough to the door that she can hear every word we say.
“I’m simple. We can just go to dinner or something.” Truthfully, after the day I’ve had, my birthday feels completely insignificant. I looked forward to the independence of being eighteen, but it’s looking more and more as though my dad will be an unwelcome business partner until I’m successful enough to pay for lawyers who can fire him.
“Okay, well, it might be a little better than simple, but I promise you’ll enjoy it,” he says, pulling me into arms that have been nothing but safe and a home for my restless mind. This time, though, his embrace does nothing to stop my racing thoughts.
“Hey, is that Tory’s?”
My stomach drops at his question, my mouth watering in reaction to the dose of adrenaline injected into my veins. That fucking sweatshirt! He left it here like a Trojan horse and it will put me right smack in the center of whatever bullshit pissing contest is happening between him and his brother.
“Oh, yeah. I’m not sure why I have it, but—”
“I’ll take it to him,” Hayden says, grabbing it forcefully before I can come up with a lie as to why it’s here.
“Great.”
I’m too weak to elaborate. Too scared to invite more conflict. Too afraid to lose this other version of myself that I get to be with Hayden. And that’s what this is all about. It sinks in suddenly. With Hayden, I’m the girl who can have a steady relationship and a person to call, and I’m the person who solves someone else’s problems. My problems are in the background, easier to ignore tucked neatly in the shadow of something normal—like just being a high school senior planning to celebrate her birthday with her boyfriend.
Hayden leaves for practice with the token left behind by his brother in hand, such a trivial piece of clothing to spawn such an intense shift in my world. One more hug from arms that feel a little colder than before and leave me feeling nothing, and Hayden is gone.
13
Tory
I’ve texted my brother six times with no answer. I hung out with June and Lucas after school so I had them drop me off and told Hayden I didn’t need a ride. I didn’t hear back then, and the five texts after have all gone unread. Normally, I’d lie for him about being late to practice, but I think I’ve made enough concessions in the last twelve hours to hold me over on favors for a little while. He can come up with his own excuse for this one. Besides, it’s not like he or I would ever get benched. Coach sits us and he might as well spot the other team twenty points.
I toss my phone into my temporary locker and fling the door shut, jogging out the door to begin warm-ups with the team. Our shoes squeak a little more than normal on the junior high floors, and we set a playful rhythm as we jog our laps around the gym. I’m comfortable in the pattern, laughing with Chaz, who actually isn’t being a dick for once, when something quickly throws our rubber sole musical off beat.
“Hey!” My brother’s fast pace is accompanied by screeching steps that spin me around as I run. I take a few steps backward before my own sweatshirt is thrown at my face, followed by my brother’s fist.
“You left something at Abby’s house, you fucking snake!”
I’m still a bit wobbly from the first punch, struggling to get my feet under my weight as they scurry. Hayden seizes the moment, shoving me backward completely, and I fall on my ass. Hard!
“What the fuck, Hayden!” I run the back of my hand across my nose, getting a streak of blood on my skin. The bright red fuels my own rage. So much for high roads and forgiveness.
I scramble to my feet as my brother charges me with his shoulders lowered, like a bull seeing red. I brace myself for impact, catching him around his midsection and lifting him in the air before throwing him to the ground. Our bodies tangle, a fury of awkward punches and flails. He smacks my ribs and sides so hard I get the wind knocked out of me, but I’m undeterred. I’m finally able to get my knees on his arms, pinning him to the floor as I straddle his body. I’ll only be able to hold him like this for a second, three tops.
“Hayden, what is going on?” I hold his wrists to the ground and lean all of my weight on him as I look into his raging eyes.
“You tell me, brother. You tell me!” He thrusts me off and grabs the sweatshirt from the floor, once again throwing it at my face.
I know what it is. I know why he’s pissed, but this reaction—in front of everyone—feels a bit excessive. It’s not like anything happened. Not that I didn’t try.
Maybe his reaction is more on target than I give him credit for.
“Abby get cold or something and you just need to warm her up? Or you leave that over there when you were sneaking around behind my back?”
Chaz snickers in a low breath, loving this drama between me and my brother. We should both forget about our issues and take out Chaz right now.
“Hayden, I’m not sneaking anything. And if you don’t know your girlfriend well enough that you have these kinds of trust issues, then maybe you need to step off and deal with that.” I toss my sweatshirt into a corner then tug down my jersey before testing the blood on my nose again. My cheek is puffy, and I�
��m sure there’s a bruise forming under my eye.
“We about done here?” Coach Newsome steps into the space between Hayden and me. My brother and I are maybe eight inches taller than the man, and we each outweigh him by forty pounds. His physical authority isn’t intimidating, but he has this disappointing tinge to his expression that tends to dominate whenever he needs to use it. He’s using it now, his mouth a flat line and his eyes drooping with disgust. He tucks his clipboard under his arm to clap. I’ve seen this move before too. He does this to referees when they blow calls. Hell, he’s gotten thrown out of games for mocking them like this. Pretty sure Hayden and I don’t have the authority to throw him out of anything.
“Sorry, Coach,” Hayden says, getting to his feet.
“Yeah, sorry,” I reiterate.
His clapping continues, long enough for us to feel truly uncomfortable.
“You two figure this shit out. You’re done here today. We’re going to work on some defense, and since you’re both shitty at defense, you’ll just be in my way anyway. So, go on. Get out of here. Maybe Monday will be a different story. Last game before the holiday break, then our invitational tournament. Try not to ruin Christmas, yeah?”
He glares at both of us over the top of his black-rimmed glasses. His brows are thick caterpillars that meet in the middle when his eyes narrow like this, and it makes him look meaner. His method works because I feel like an asshole, and I can tell Hayden does, too. His shoulders sag, and his body drags as he walks over to the place where I threw my sweatshirt. He picks it up and shakes off the dust from the floor, then holds it out for me without making eye contact.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
We both head into the locker room like puppies caught chewing the new couch, tails tucked between our legs and chins buried into the nooks of our neck.
Neither of us says a word as we switch out our shoes and stuff our belongings into our matching gym bags. Dad bought these for us for the start of the season last year. I’m not sure why they feel so symbolic now, but the fact they’re exactly the same seems important. Inside, they are so incredibly different.
I sit down on the bench with a heavy exhale and stare at the empty locker in front of me for a few seconds while my brother zips up his bag. Eventually, I get the courage to swivel my head in his direction. His jaw is tight and his movements are rigid. He’s still mad, and now that the heat of the moment has passed, I realize he probably should be.
“Dude, I’m sorry,” I say in a low voice.
“It’s fine,” he says, tugging the strap of his bag up his arm and popping his gaze to mine just long enough to show me that he’s no longer in the mood to talk about this.
I breathe out and get to my feet, stepping in front of him before he’s able to just walk out the door. I hold the side of my fist against his chest and he looks down at it with narrowed eyes.
“Don’t do that. I mean it. Abby and I are . . . friends. That’s it. And I’m sorry if it seemed disrespectful.” The words feel like acid on my tongue.
Hayden covers my fist with his hand, wrapping his fingers around it then tossing it from his body. His eyes shift to meet mine and we stare hard at one another, each of us knowing there is a layer of bullshit coating the things we’re saying to each other.
“Like I said. It’s fine,” he grits out.
He makes his way to the door and I wait for it to slam closed behind him before I scream out “fuuuuuck!” so loudly that the word bounces off the walls around me. I follow his footsteps through the door, expecting our car to be long gone, but it’s not. Hayden is idling near the curb by the exit.
I get in and Hayden begins driving before I buckle up. We ride the few miles in silence, and he pulls into the driveway at an uncomfortable speed, taking the bump in the curb hard enough to scrape the chassis of the car. I shoot him a glare because we share this thing, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Get out,” he finally utters.
I don’t immediately, instead subjecting myself to the hot fumes of his temper and letting them reignite my own. But for once in my goddamn life, I manage to not engage.
“Whatever,” I say, kicking open the door and dragging my bag out from the floor. I slam the door closed behind me and Hayden speeds backward a beat later, tires squealing when he shifts back into drive and peels down our street. I stare at the space he vacated for a few seconds and replay the last thirty minutes in my head.
My mom is home. She almost always is. She’s had the same part-part-time job at Craft Mart for years. She works, and when they get in new displays, her job is to build them then do the sample craft for people to see on the tables by the entrance. Her degree is in elementary education, but I think her emphasis was on crafts. Hayden and I always turned in the best projects in grade school. Mom did every single one of them.
In a fantasy family, I would be able to walk in, call her name out then go tell her about my problems. She’d be able to help me work out a solution. Instead, she’s part of my mess. Hayden talks to her a lot more than I do. Now that I think about it, I don’t think my mom and I have spoken for maybe a full week—perhaps even two—not counting therapy, of course.
I glance through the van windows on my way into the house. There’s a pack of cigarettes in the center cupholder, the top ripped open and the end of one poking through the hole. She’s smoking again. She’s tried to quit about a dozen times. My dad hates it, so she keeps it to the van. I can’t help but think she’s stress smoking in the van out of respect for him, and her delusion that he’s coming back.
He’s not. I knew the minute he moved out. I guess even I clung to a thread of hope, though.
The kitchen is messy, bread left out from toast my mom must have made, so I dump my bag in the laundry room and spend a few minutes cleaning the house. This is another one of those things my father took care of, despite the fact my mom hardly works and has always had time to keep up with the house. He’s fastidious; Hayden got this trait. I’m normally more like my mom when it comes to neatness. I’m trying to shed any quality we share, so might as well start with tidying up.
The more I dust and straighten, the more caught up I get in making this place look as if Dad were still living here. I tuck the cord behind the coffee maker the way he would. The mugs in the cabinet all get turned with their handles facing the same way, and the random bags from shopping that my mom has just thrown into a drawer get neatly rolled into balls to save space.
I continue making little changes around the living room, dragging the dust cloth up the stair railing after I finish with the tables and shelves downstairs. My dad would use this wood shine stuff in a spray bottle when he did this. I couldn’t find any downstairs, but the rag smelled like it so it will have to do. I cleanse our space in the scent of something familiar, clearing away the layer of dust that’s formed on the record player top and along the spines of Dad’s albums. I pick up one of my trophies from the end of the book case and run the rag around the dusty base, pausing to read the inscription.
MOST VALUABLE PLAYER
I set the rag down and kneel, looking for the matching statuette on the bottom shelf, finding it quickly and holding them both in my palms side by side.
LEADERSHIP AWARD
Those are the words on Hayden’s statue. It’s not even a real thing that teams give out. It’s a made-up recognition to make sure our family wasn’t sent home with one trophy in a house with two boys.
Fuck, he’s right.
I pull out more of his things, reading the engravings and certificates more closely than I ever have before. Every single piece of hardware out on display is the equivalent of second place, a make-up award. When we were little, it probably didn’t register with him, but come on! There’s no way that by the time he was eleven or twelve he didn’t see the difference in our accolades. I can’t believe it’s taken him this long to act out on it.
My eyes glaze over, staring at the neatly lined up set of awards with my name on them. My mom’
s TV hums in the background, the noise muffled through her closed doors. She’s probably taking a nap.
I pull trophies and frames down from the top shelf—my shelf. I’m gentle at first, but the farther down the row I get, the less I care about these gold-painted plastic pieces of junk. By the time I get to the middle section, I’m done with it all, and I run my forearm along the rest of the space, sweeping everything to the floor in a clattering mess.
The space now cleared, I refill it with Hayden’s things. My movements grow more and more manic until I’m basically throwing his things up on the shelf while my eyes burn with a cocktail of anger and guilt. The top shelf becomes crowded with these trinkets that helped form the animosity my brother now exhibits against me.
Even his photos were kept down here. I lift up the one from our freshman year, his skinny arms barely filling out the varsity jersey, and as I hold it up to study, a folded piece of paper slides out from the back of the frame.
Setting the photo in the very center of the bookcase, I straighten out the paper, instantly recognizing the logo on the letterhead. I applied for Olsen Training Academy in eighth grade. It’s a boarding school in Texas where sports are treated with the same weight as math and science. It’s a factory for elite athletes, and more than half of the athletes that go through the program end up playing in the pros for whatever sport they specialize in. Almost all of them play in college. Dad helped me apply, and I bugged my parents every day for three months asking if they’d gotten a call, an email . . . a letter.
I fall to my ass and sit, holding the letter in both hands as I imagine this life I could have had, my almost life.
Provisional acceptance.
I was one visit to the campus away. An interview that I no doubt would have aced. There’s no way my dad knew about this, because he was the one who encouraged me. He was ready to travel with me, to buy a second home or a condo near the campus so my family could visit. It was my motherfucking dream!