by Lexi Ryan
“You don’t have to answer,” I say. “I know you don’t like that question, and anyway, it’s none of my business.” You wanted him and not me. You chose him, and I don’t get to make you happy even if he’s failing.
Sighing, she leans against the locust and steadies her gaze on her bare feet in the grass. “When I was a little girl, my mom would tell me stories about the way Dad swept her off her feet. It was as if they met and fell in love in an instant. She was eighteen and in Chicago visiting some cousins, and one night, Dad showed up at a party. She said the way he looked at her lit her soul on fire. They married less than a month later, despite the objections of my grandmother. She was already pregnant with Nicholas.”
Set her soul on fire. I take a breath, fighting to regain the wind I just got knocked out of me. Fuck, that hurts. I don’t want him to be the one who sets her soul on fire. “That’s how you feel about Brogan.”
She meets my eyes for a beat and then looks back down before continuing on with her story. “As we got older, Mom slowly added details to the story. She’d been engaged to a boy back home. A boy who was quickly becoming a man. A good man who made her smile and kept her safe. She said he was the steady, reliable warmth of the sun, and my father was the flash and heat and passion of the fire.”
My gut knots because I think I know where she’s going with this and I don’t like it.
She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth. This time when she lifts her gaze to mine, she holds it. “Mom didn’t leave a good marriage. Dad was moody and jealous. Their life was never half the things he promised her it would be. I knew that any fire they’d had between them had burned out years ago. The day she left, she told me she’d been greedy. She’d been content with her boy back home, her steady warmth, but she’d met my father and was seduced by the excitement of the fire. She said the best thing I could do for my life was choose the steady warmth. The sun isn’t going anywhere, but eventually the fire runs out of fuel. I’m not saying that Brogan is perfect, but no one is.”
“That’s a nice metaphor,” I say softly, “but you’re not your mother, and Brogan isn’t some sweet kid you left behind in Mexico. Does he make you happy, Mia? It’s not a hard question.”
“It’s not his job to make me happy. It’s my job.”
“But are you?”
“Why are you pushing this?”
Because I’m in love with you, and I need to know I’m not making a mistake by keeping that to myself. “I’m pissed at him,” I say. I’m a fucking coward. “I told him as much myself when I found out he canceled on you this weekend. And don’t stand there and tell me it doesn’t matter when you and I both know it does. I was there last spring when his grandma died, remember? I remember how it made you feel when his mom didn’t want you at the hospital.”
She pushes away from the tree and wraps her arms around her middle. “I want to go home now.”
Fuck. I pushed her too much. Too far.
We walk back in silence, and she doesn’t look at me until we reach the door to her apartment. She turns to me and leans against it. Her hair falls over one shoulder, and her cheeks are pink from the wind. I want so badly to step closer and kiss her that my stomach aches with it.
“Thanks for coming over, Arrow. I do appreciate your concern for me. You’re a good friend.”
A good friend. “Just . . .” I have to look away. How am I supposed to look into those deep brown eyes and not fall harder? “I’ll always be here for you. If you need a friend.”
The door clicks as the deadbolt releases. Mia steps forward, and the door cracks open. Bailey peeks out at us, her hair tousled, her eyes squinting against the light in the corridor. “What the hell are you two doing out here?”
“Arrow just stopped by to give me a birthday present,” Mia says.
Bailey raises a brow and opens the door the rest of the way. “Is that so?”
Mia steps inside and grabs the gift bag, lifting it up for Bailey’s inspection.
Bailey looks at me then Mia. “What is it?”
“I haven’t opened it yet,” Mia says. She opens the bag and pulls out the tissue paper.
I flinch. I didn’t really want her to do this with an audience. “You don’t have to—”
She pulls the small canvas from the bag, and her jaw goes slack and her eyes soften.
“Oh,” Bailey says. “It’s a painting. It’s—”
“Dancing fairies,” Mia says, skimming her fingers across the words in the bottom corner of the canvas. “Where did you find this?”
One of my mom’s best friends is an artist, and after the night last spring when I lay under that tree with Mia, I got the idea to commission her to paint this.
“It’s like the stories your mom would tell us when we were kids,” Bailey says, studying the painting of the stars peeking through the moonlit tree branches. “Wow.”
“This is the most thoughtful gift anyone—” Mia bites her lip, as if she won’t allow herself to finish that thought. I want to revel in the moment and enjoy Mia’s reaction, but I can’t with Bailey standing there, scowling at me, seeing too much.
She doesn’t like that I gave this gift to Mia. She doesn’t like that I showed up here in the middle of the night when Mia was having a rough day. Maybe she thinks I’m encroaching on Brogan’s territory.
Maybe she’s right.
“I don’t know what to say, Arrow,” Mia says. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I shift awkwardly under Bailey’s scrutiny. “I should go.”
Bailey nods. “Night, Arrow.”
I can’t take my eyes off Mia and the way she holds my gift. As if it’s the most precious thing she’s ever received.
Bailey clears her throat and gives me a hard look. “Drive safely.”
“Happy birthday, Mia.”
When I get back to the dorm, Chris is awake and sitting in the common area between our rooms. “You okay?” he asks me. His voice is low, but with Mason with Bailey and Brogan out of town, there isn’t anyone to overhear.
I frown. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because.” He tosses his magazine on the end table before turning back to me. “I see how you look at her.”
I shake my head. “No. She’s just a friend.”
He gives a sad smile. “And yet out of all the girls in the bar tonight, you didn’t even have to ask which I was talking about.”
Fuck. I study my shoes and shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Just be careful.”
I’m not prepared to see Brogan again, but here I am.
I’m not sure what made me decide to come. Maybe it was busting the shit out of my hand and breaking a couple of bones. Maybe it was hearing Mia tell me she doesn’t regret the night we spent together in October when I thought I was nothing more to her than a regret. Maybe it was my dad’s endless lecture on the way to the ER—how foolish I am, how this could screw up my football career. I wanted to tell him there are things that matter more than football. I thought of Brogan.
Whatever the reason, this morning, with a fresh cast and a bottle of painkillers I won’t take, I came here.
I told myself not to expect any change, braced myself to see him looking as bad as he did months ago, shortly after his parents had taken him home. But I wasn’t prepared for him to look worse. Smaller. A shadow of the man he used to be.
“Thank you again for coming,” Mrs. Barrett says behind me. “I’ll leave you two alone.”
I don’t know what to do with myself. Brogan sits in his wheelchair, strapped in so his body doesn’t fall forward. His eyes are open, his jaw slack.
My stomach suddenly feels completely empty of anything, and acid crawls up my throat. And my eyes—I blink—I’m not going to fucking cry right now.
For a while, I was grateful Brogan didn’t die that night, grateful he had a chance to fight. But seeing him like this, I know he got the worse fate.
He was a proud man, and I hate to think how he’d feel ab
out Mia seeing him like this every time she visits.
When Mrs. Barrett opened the door, she asked if I’ve prayed for a miracle today. Every time I see him this way, I say a little prayer that God will have mercy on this proud man. After more than four months as a vegetable, I pray he’ll be allowed to die. Before, the prayer was blanketed with shame, guilt that I’d wish for such a thing. But not today. Mia believes Brogan is conscious and aware of his world, but I don’t. I think he’s gone. Nothing but a brainstem keeping Brogan’s body alive with the assistance of a feeding tube. But I’m here anyway. In case I’m wrong.
“I’m supposed to talk to you,” I say quietly. “It’s supposed to bring me closure.”
He doesn’t respond. Of course. He can’t. God, wouldn’t it be nice if Mia were right? If Brogan could have the same fate as the guy who woke up after being in a persistent vegetative state for twelve years? If Brogan could be the miracle Mrs. Barrett asks everyone to pray for?
I could say, “Hey, remember that fight?” and he could say, “Yeah, I was a fucking idiot. And so were you.” Then we could hug it out like a couple of teenage girls.
What would that be like for him? Waking up and finding himself in this body? Learning to walk all over again? He had so many broken bones and torn-up ligaments and tendons that even before they were sure about the state of his brain, they said he’d never play football again.
I hang my head. “I won’t be playing ball next year. I got out of it the only way I knew how. Wouldn’t have been right to be on the field without you.” I sigh. “But you know Dad. He’s already pulling strings right and left to try to get me back in the game as soon as possible.”
A robin lands on the bird feeder outside the window, and I watch it peck at the food.
“I’m worried about Mia. We all lost so much that night, but it’s like she was a casualty, too, and nobody noticed.”
The bird flies away, and I put my good hand on top of Brogan’s, testing the feel of his too-pliant flesh against my palm. This is the part where I’m supposed to say sorry. I’m supposed to apologize for not being a better friend, for getting in the way, for every dumb-ass decision I made that night.
But I can’t. It doesn’t seem right to force-feed him an apology he won’t be able to reject. I don’t deserve his forgiveness.
Mrs. Barrett walks into the room and gives me a sad smile. “Thought I’d check and see if you’d like some coffee.”
I wonder if she knows she’s rescuing me from myself right now.
I release Brogan’s hand and nod as I stand and follow her to the kitchen. “That would be nice.”
“He looks good today, doesn’t he?” she asks over her shoulder.
No. He looks broken and empty. A shell of a man.
I smile instead of answering, and she shakes her head. “Sorry. I’m used to Mia’s visits. Saying what she needs to hear.” Her hands shake as she pulls two mugs from the cabinet and picks up the coffee pot. “I’m not blind. I do know how he really looks.”
She hands me a steaming mug, and I take a sip, letting the hot, bitter liquid scald my tongue. “Mia’s not handling this very well, is she?”
“No.” Mrs. Barrett wraps her hands around her mug and stares into it. “I wasn’t very kind to her while she and Brog were dating, and now I feel a little responsible for her. I should have been a better mother. Accepted her instead of worrying that he could have been with someone better.” She shakes her head, and her eyes fill with tears. “Sometimes the price of perspective is just too high.”
I don’t know what to say, so I steal my therapist’s words, rewriting them to work for Mrs. Barrett. “You loved Brogan. You were the best mom you knew how to be.” I’m almost surprised when the words fit between us, right where they need to go. When the doctor said them to me, they felt like just another platitude. “Let the rest go.”
“His kidneys are failing.” Tears wet her mascara-caked lashes and spill onto her cheeks, bringing smudges of eye makeup with them. “I keep praying that God will show me the way, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. The doctors don’t really think we should begin dialysis, but if we don’t . . .”
Let him go. The words sit trapped in my throat. Please, let him go.
“I think maybe it’s time for Brogan to join Jesus.”
Let him. I stare at her, willing her to feel the words I don’t dare speak. Would Mia hate me if she knew I felt this way? If she knew my greatest wish was for her boyfriend’s death?
She clears her throat and wipes away her tears. “We haven’t told Mia yet. I just want to be sure before I break her heart. Can you keep this secret?”
I nod, but I don’t dare speak. My throat’s too thick, my heart too full of secrets to carry another.
“This dinner is important to Uriah,” Gwen says, smoothing an invisible wrinkle in her skirt. “Make sure everyone’s wine stays full and their dinners are served while hot.” She takes a deep breath, and I almost feel sorry for her. It must be hard having to play the part of the perfect trophy wife all the time. But then she ruins it. “And try not to look at Arrow like he’s your celebrity crush, okay?”
My jaw clenches. “Not a problem. When will Katie be back?”
“Mom’s going to keep her all night. I don’t know how long Uriah’s guests are going to stay, and I didn’t want you distracted by your duties tonight with a fussy baby.”
“Right.” Damn, this job was easier when I liked Gwen, but she’s been increasingly bitchy since Arrow’s been home.
“You said your friend was going to help you?”
“Bailey’s in the kitchen. She has lots of experience serving, so don’t worry.” I don’t mention that most of that experience took place behind the doors of the Pretty Kitty.
The doorbell sounds at the same time as the buzzer rings from the kitchen.
“Let’s do this,” Gwen says. Her hands tremble slightly and she smooths her skirt, letting me peek at the insecurities beneath her bitchy façade for a split second.
When I step into the kitchen, Bailey already has the oven open. “The hors d’oeuvres are ready.” She pulls out the pan and wrinkles her nose. “What is this shit?”
“Shh!” I look over my shoulder to make sure no one else is in here, but of course, the guests are just arriving and oblivious to Bailey’s potty mouth. Loud, forced laughter carries in from the foyer and across the hall. “It’s escargot wrapped in bacon,” I tell Bailey, grabbing the glass serving platter I’ll present them on.
“Escar— That’s snail, isn’t it? That’s just the fancy-people way of saying snails.”
“Can’t get anything by you, Bail.”
“Just looking at them makes me want to gag. No way would I put something that disgusting in my mouth.”
“Never stopped you before,” a deep voice says from the hallway door.
Bailey spins around to put a face to the asshole, but her glare softens when she sees Mason. Bailey can take razzing from Mason because she knows he doesn’t mean it. Anybody else would probably have a knee in the balls by now.
“I made a one-time exception for you,” she says, batting her lashes.
“Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.” He looks over his shoulder toward the dining room, then shuts the door behind him and lowers his voice. “What the fuck happened to Arrow’s hand?”
The question kicks at my heart like a couple of shock paddles.
“Do you remember? I need to know.”
“I don’t regret it.”
Bailey and Mason both stare at me, and I realize I haven’t answered. “The idiot punched a picture frame, but it was hung on a stud, so instead of busting right through the wall, he broke two bones in his hand.”
His dad came out of his room while I was trying to get Arrow upstairs, and he took over. It was pathetic how much I wanted to be the one to take Arrow to the ER. Would he have kept talking?
“Ouch,” Mason says, massaging his own knuckles. “That’s . . .” He shakes out
his hand. “His hand.”
“His hand is his hand?” Bailey asks. “Aren’t you the genius?”
“You know what I’m saying. How’s he supposed to play ball with his hand all banged up? I know he’s out for this season, but he could have fucked it up long-term.”
“It’s like that’s the point,” I whisper. I hate the way he looked at his busted hand—as if it were inconsequential.
“If you’re in the kitchen, you have to help,” Bailey tells Mason, and I’m grateful for the change in subject.
Mason grins and unbuttons the cuffs of his gray Oxford, the one that makes his green eyes even dreamier than normal and his dark skin look like melted chocolate. He rolls up his sleeves. “Honestly, I’m more comfortable serving than being served. Put me to work.”
“Mason,” I say. “We can’t let you help. Gwen would kill us.”
Bailey presses the palm of her hand to my chest, gently pushing me away from Mason. “Mia, the sexy man is offering to do the dishes. Let him, please?”
I roll my eyes. “Get out of here, Mason. Gwen would be horrified to know the staff was fraternizing with one of her guests.”
He arches a brow. “The staff? That’s not seriously how you see yourself?”
“That is literally what we are.” I nudge him toward the hall. “So get out of here.”
Mason turns pleading eyes on Bailey. “Don’t make me go out there, Bail. They’re talking about the year of the wine, and I can’t pretend to care.”
“Who’s out there anyway?” Bailey asks. “We were told it was a party for some of Uriah’s friends.”
He grunts then drops his voice to a whisper. “Mr. Woodison is kissing ass. This dinner is all about sweet-talking Coach. I’m just here to make it less awkward, but Arrow’s mood is so foul you could have the whole team at that table and it would still be uncomfortable as fuck.”