by Gina Azzi
He exhales loudly. “Good. Because I’d really hate to see you repeat your junior year breakup and ruin senior year for the whole house.”
I laugh. “What the hell are you talking about? It wasn’t that bad.”
He raises her eyebrows. “Are you fucking kidding me? Lauren was devastated. She used to sit outside our house waiting for you to get back from practice in the morning. She would message all of us to see what parties you were hitting up with Adrian on a Friday night. Man, she’s a sweet girl, but she was borderline psycho when you guys broke up.”
I furrow my eyebrows. “How don’t I know any of this?”
D’Arco shrugs. “Adrian didn’t want you to know. Said her sadness and shit would get to you, make you rethink your breakup. That you’d probably get back together just to spare her feelings.” He cuts me a look. “We all know you’re a pussy like that.”
“Shut up, man.” I knock the hat off of his head. “I’m not a pussy for caring about a girl’s feelings.”
“Spoken like a true pussy.” He laughs. “Please, try and redeem yourself. Get a beer, bro.” D’Arco nods toward a case of Bud Light and wanders back into the kitchen.
Shit, did all of that really happen and I didn’t know about it? Was Lauren devastated? She seemed fine, a little sad maybe, when our paths crossed after the breakup. But I had no idea she was hanging around the house, blowing up my friends’ phones.
Definitely dodged a bullet.
“Hey.” Hunt comes up next to me and hands me a can of beer. “Better drink up before it’s all gone.” He laughs wolfishly and whistles under his breath. “Shit, here comes Candace.”
I shake my head and raise the beer to my lips. Why the hell am I still standing here thinking about my breakup with Lauren anyway? It’s my senior year; I should be enjoying the party with my friends, watching Hunt strike out with Candace.
Tipping the can back, I take a swig and plop down on the couch, leaning back into the cushions. I smirk as Hunt starts to make his move.
This is much more entertaining anyway.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Maura
It’s barely dinner time when the ringing of my cell phone wakes me from a particularly horrible dream about Adrian’s car accident. Breathing heavy, gasping for air really, I sit up in bed and flip on the lamp on my nightstand. Damn, I must have taken a nap. Feeling around my duvet for my cell phone, I manage to locate it halfway beneath my pillow.
“Hello?” I croak out without bothering to check the caller ID. I can barely see the screen without my contacts in anyway.
“Maura? Are you sleeping?” Lila’s voice comes through the speakers, high-pitched and tight.
“Li? Is everything okay? You sound weird.” I run a hand through my knotty hair and settle back against my pillows, wincing as my fingers snag on a particularly large knot at the back of my head.
“Oh God, Maura, it’s terrible.” Lila wails in my ear, her pitch reaching hysteria. She hiccups, and I realize she’s been crying for quite some time.
“Lila, what is it? What’s happened? Are you okay?”
She’s silent for several moments, and I want to reach through the phone and shake her to tell me what has her crying hysterically. “It’s Cade,” she whispers.
“Did you guys break up?” I ask gently. They practically just got together but sometimes, things aren’t meant to be.
“No, no, nothing like that,” she says quickly. “He’s … it’s … oh God. He’s sick, Maura. Like really sick.”
I take a deep breath. “Okay. Did you take him to the doctor’s?”
A strange, strangled sound erupts over the line. “He has cancer. He was just diagnosed. Osteosarcoma.”
Fucking hell. I pause, my torrent of questions freezing in my throat as I try and process the words Lila just said. Cade is sick. Her boyfriend has cancer. Another young person ripped from the earth too soon, too early, before their time. Another tragic loss. I shake my head. Cade is still alive. He’s fighting to live. Not like Adrian. Adrian gave up.
“Oh, Lila.” I sigh out on a breath. “Fucking hell. Are you okay? How’s he handling it?”
She hiccups slightly. “He’s … I don’t know, he’s managing. Coping. He’s trying to make me smile and laugh and I’m dying inside. I know I can’t let him see me fall apart like this, and I need to be strong for him but, but God, Maura, it’s cancer. He has to have chemotherapy. And surgery. And I’m freaking out.”
I nod in understanding and then remember she can’t see me. “But it’s okay to freak out. It’s a lot to handle and take on. And you’ve just started dating.”
“It’s not that,” she cuts in quickly. “I don’t care that I barely know him. I’m here for him. I’ll do anything he needs me to do. But I just feel so helpless. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do.”
“Just be there for him. That’s all you can really do now anyway. Support him, distract him, make him laugh. And don’t treat him like there’s something wrong with him or like you see him differently now. Everyone is going to do that to him. You need to be the person who still sees him for him. Does that make sense?” I wonder aloud, trying to halt my rambling.
She sighs again. “Yeah, actually, that makes a lot of sense. Thanks, Maura. I just, I’m just scared, you know?”
“Yeah, Li, I know.”
“Oh wait, that’s him clicking in. I got to go. Sorry, Maura, thanks for listening. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” She rushes through her words, frantic to click over to Cade, to check on him.
“Just take care of your guy. We’ll talk soon,” I reassure her.
“Thanks.” She hangs up and I toss my phone back under my pillow.
Unbidden, the tears come as I think about Adrian. How no one was there to worry for him or be scared on his behalf. How no one even realized he was slipping away, little pieces of him disappearing into nothing. He didn’t have a Lila. He didn’t have anyone.
And when he died, he was all alone.
* * *
My appetite for dinner completely gone and plagued by thoughts and memories of Adrian, I slip out of bed and grab a bottle of red wine from my secret stash. Popping the cork, I pour myself a generous amount and turn on some appropriate emo music. Letting the music wash over me, I pull out an old photo album of Adrian and me as kids. I swiped it from my parents’ house after he died to have something other than his baseball hats that remind me of him. For weeks after his death, I stared at his face every night. Pictures of us dance across the pages. Our fourth birthday party at Chuck E Cheese. Us riding boogie boards at the beach in Wildwood, NJ. A funny memory of Adrian dropping his ice cream cone on the boardwalk. Our eighth grade graduation. Photos from prom, both of us in that ridiculous prom pose with our dates, a large corsage on my wrist and a boutonniere pinned to his jacket. Endless rowing regattas. Us holding up our college acceptance letters next to each other, Adrian’s face beaming with pride. He was larger than life. And now, him being gone has created a massive black hole in my orbit. Each day, instead of getting closer to the sun, I want to slip a little further into the darkness.
The only relief comes hours later in the form of Mia’s smiling face on the screen of my phone. I accept the FaceTime and her face comes to life before me.
“Ciao, bella!” she squeals, excitement heavy in her eyes, her cheeks flushed. She looks beautiful, happy. And it’s so good to see her, hear her voice that I’m immediately transported from my own sadness, swept away in Mia’s giddy lightness.
“Mia! How are you?”
She shakes her head, pressing her fingers to her lips as she tells me all about her incredible date with Lorenzo, the hot Italian guy who has been making her blush from their first encounter. I can’t help but smile. Seeing Mia this happy, this carefree, is rare. It sounds like she’s really found someone special, and I couldn’t be happier that someone so deserving of love and goodness seems to have finally found it.
“So it was a real date? He really lik
es you!” I whisper on FaceTime.
“It was definitely a real date.” She presses her fingertips against her lips again, a dreamy look crossing her face. Oh jeez. “He was the perfect gentleman: sweet, caring, interested. Why are you whispering?”
Am I whispering? Probably. “Because,” I tell her. Isn’t it obvious? I swallow a hiccup.
“Because why?” she asks, her eyes widening.
“Because I’m drunk.” The hiccup escapes. Damn it.
“What?” she exclaims.
“Shh.” I try to quiet her. “Don’t tell anyone. We’re technically dry.” A big thank you to Kay Hillard. We’ll see how her new little rule goes over during Halloween weekend. Maybe she’ll give us a free weekend pass? Ha! I doubt it.
“Why are you drinking?” Mia’s eyes grow serious and dread fills my stomach as I realize she’s going to want to discuss this now. I adore Mia, she’s one of my best friends and she’s always been there for me, but sometimes not everything needs to be discussed, analyzed, and dissected. Am I right?
“Felt like it.”
“Okay…” she studies me closely “…Maura, I—”
Oh brother, here it comes. Suddenly, I remember my earlier chat with Lila, how her words set my whole evening off-kilter, and I know it’s the only news that will distract Mia from her pep talk in this moment.
“Oh, I have to tell you something important,” I cut her off.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s about Lila.”
“Is she okay?”
I shake my head and tell her about my earlier conversation with Lila, the anguish in her voice, the hysteria lacing her words. And just the thought of Lila’s pain has unbidden memories of Adrian floating in my mind again, drudging up all the feelings of loss and grief I’m desperately trying to bury.
Jeez, I am all over the freaking place tonight.
And there’s only one way I know how to fix that brokenness, to numb that pain, to halt that assault of anger that pumps through my veins like adrenaline. After hanging up with Mia, I slip out to a club down the street. It’s late. Too late. Sure, I could always hit up Hector but sometimes, just when I’m about to forget everything, even he looks at me with concern fringing his brown eyes. And I want to scream. Tonight, I need anonymity. I just need to work out my feelings on a hot guy who wants to use me just as much as I need to use him. Jeez, if that doesn’t make me sound slutty. But who cares, right? I mean, there’s literally no one here whose opinion I care about, no one to judge me except myself, and I’m giving myself a pass tonight. I need this.
The club is shady as hell. Smoke clouds the air even though it’s illegal to smoke inside. The stench of stale cigarettes sticks to the walls and clings to my hair the instant I step foot inside. A hulk of a bouncer cards me and stamps a small red circle on the underside of my wrist.
I beeline to the bar and order a Jack and coke. Pressing my shoulder blades against the edge of the bar, I scout the talent. One of the guys I spot looks somewhat familiar, but I can’t place where I know him from. He’s tangled up in the embrace of a girl, her fingers laced behind his neck. I shake my head slowly and then the muscled and heavily tattooed arms of a guy in a tight black T-shirt catch my attention.
Done.
I swirl the small black straw in my drink, pushing the lime around aimlessly, and wait for him to look up so I can catch his eye.
When I do, I smile slowly, a stretch of seduction crossing my lips. And he takes the bait, meandering toward me with a predatory gleam in his eyes.
Jesus, it’s getting too easy.
“Hey, sweetheart. What are you doing all by yourself at the bar?” he asks, his voice deep.
“Waiting for you to join me.” I blink once and look down for a beat before meeting his gaze through my double-coat of mascara.
He smiles as if he won the freaking lotto. Flagging down the bartender, he orders a couple shots of tequila.
By my third shot I can barely see straight. His rough hands feel good on my skin, his stubble coarse against my cheek as he leans down and kisses me. I don’t even balk as he leads me to the dirty, disgusting bathroom on the second floor. His fingers are lost in my hair, his grip tight on my head as he controls the kiss, the moment, me. I let his huge frame envelop me, encapsulate me, make me disappear for a while and when I resurface, my thighs shaking and my heart racing, my mind is blissfully numb.
* * *
The next day at practice I can hardly see straight. My head pounds, each heartbeat ringing in my eardrums, throbbing in my temples. My throat is dry and scratchy and my eyes burn in the morning sunlight. Sporting ridiculously large, non-athletic sunglasses and carrying a massive water bottle, I try and nurse my hangover as much as I can before we push out onto the water.
Naturally, no one is buying my story that I’m coming down with a cold.
The oar feels heavy in my hands, the boat dragging underneath my weight as I struggle to get it together. My timing is off and I catch a series of crabs, my oar practically trailing the shell, stuck in the water, slowing down the entire team.
“Jesus, Maura, focus,” our coxswain yells, hitting the side of the boat loudly with her palm.
The noise is jarring.
We set up for some drills and each time I get a small break I’m so relieved I could cry. The water looks cold and shockingly inviting as I sweat, half from exertion, half from alcohol pouring out of my veins. I wish I could fall overboard.
After nearly two hours of a grueling practice, I literally want to die.
We stow away the shell and prop our oars against the wall. My teammates guzzle Gatorade and squirt streams of water from Poland Springs bottles into their open mouths. I nearly collapse on the ground, lying like a star fish, or a snow angel, or a hungover drunken mess on the pavement next to the massive boathouse door.
“Get up.” Kay Hillard’s face comes into view, hovering over me.
I squint up at her. Shit, I forgot my sunglasses somewhere.
“Now.” Her voice is brisk, her impatience evident.
I huff, rolling over and climbing to my feet slowly. “What?” I ask her when I’m standing in front of her.
With three inches on me, it feels like I’m being scolded by a nun from my old Catholic school as Kay glares down at me, hands on her hips, pure frustration in her eyes. “This is the last time I’m going to address this issue, Rodriguez. Clean up your act and pull your shit together. We are months away from starting our season, our senior season. You know, the last one we get?” she asks sarcastically.
I raise my eyebrow, inviting her to continue.
“And I’m not going to risk our reputation or the hard work and commitment the rest of us are giving because you’ve turned into a bitter, unfocused lush that can’t see straight half the time.”
A few other girls are standing nearby. They keep their heads down, pretending to be fascinated with the straps of their sports bras or the seams of their socks across their toes. If I didn’t feel like death, I’d probably be mortified by this public scolding, but truthfully I’m too tired to care. Looking on the bright side, I’m glad Coach was locked in his office and not present to witness my dramatic fall from grace.
“Duly noted, Hillard.” I fake salute Kay and her face drops further. Didn’t realize that was even possible.
“I’m serious, Maura.” She lowers her voice. “I know things have been really rough for you since Adrian died. And I know you’ve worked really hard to get where you are, but I can’t jeopardize our entire season on this type of performance and attitude.” She gestures toward me. Stained and sloppy and unkempt me. Tainted may also apply here. “Stop with the drinking, cut out the drugs, lay off the partying, and get your head on straight. I will not tell you again. And if this crap continues, don’t think I won’t notify the NCAA for drug testing.”
My mouth falls open in what I can only assume is an unattractive gaping hole. Is she fucking kidding me? The NCAA? Low blow Hillard.
&nbs
p; I scoff instead, trying to keep my cool as I feel my blood begin to boil. “Don’t bother,” I scoff. “My name isn’t Adrian.”
Then I turn on my heel, cursing myself for even bringing my brother up, and stalk out of the boathouse in the direction of my dorm.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Zack
The sky is streaked with the soft blues and oranges of sunrise when I leave the boathouse in the early morning. Our practices are increasing in intensity and yet we’re all stepping up to the challenge. I don’t know what it is but there’s this unspoken agreement that seems to ripple through the boat every time we line up for a start. As if we have to win this race, be number one this season. It’s like if we don’t, we’re letting Adrian down. And no one wants to be responsible for that, especially not me. After all, he is the reason I’m even rowing this season. And now it seems like that resolve has spilled over to the rest of the boat. We’re all pushing ourselves, committed to the season, focused on each moment of the race. But Adrian Rodriguez’s name is never spoken aloud, as if just the mention of him will blow the whole season to hell. Jinx us all.
My back is sore and my legs are aching as I walk toward the Land Rover. It’s a good sore, though, one that reminds me I’m working toward something, fulfilling a purpose. Adrian loved rowing, reveled in the hours out on the water. And even though I couldn’t save him, maybe I can still save his dream. So we have to be the best this season, and I need to make sure that we win.
I click the key fob to unlock the doors and I’m just about to slide behind the wheel when an old Boston Red Sox hat and hot pink shoelaces catch my eye. Maura is running up the trail, an old hat of Adrian’s that I bought him on one of my trips to Boston perched on top of her curls. Her eyes are hidden behind a pair of sunglasses but her mouth is set in a line of grim determination. She almost looks angry. As she draws closer, she increases her pace, her arms pumping furiously.
“Maura!” I call out to her, convinced she won’t be able to hear me over the music playing in her earphones.