Tell Me Something Real

  If it makes him hate me, because I can’t let him live that darkness alone, it’s a price I’m willing to pay. I just hate that Lincoln has to pay it, too.

  “Tell me something real,” I say. “About Colt. Tell me something only you know.”

  She hesitates, eyes heavy with worry and unshed tears. “He’s the best friend a person could have. Not just me,” she says. “But anyone. He’s loyal, and smart, and so funny he actually made me pee my pants from laughter when we were younger.”

  I smile, and so does she. Lifting her hands from her lap, I turn it over so I trace my fingers across her palm. “Do you think he’d let you live in pain, Lincoln? All alone, without at least trying to save you, no matter what?”

  She shakes her head, a small movement, but one that shows me what I already know: she needed someone else to be the one to step in and help. As strong and independent as this girl is, hurting Colt, even if it was to help him, isn’t something she’ll ever be able to do. I don’t blame her—I just want her to know that I did it for her as much as I did it for him.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you—about talking to Maggie. I’m sorry Colt blindsided you that way this morning. But, Lincoln, I’m not sorry for doing it.”

  One of those tears escapes and she nods, pulling her hand from mine to wipe it away. “I know—and I’m not really sorry you did it either. I just…I wish I could have been the one to tell him. That I was strong enough to walk up to my best friend and tell him how much I love him, how much I need him.” Her breath hitches, and she wipes fruitlessly at tears. “And how scared I get each time he goes through a low period. I wish I had been the one to tell him, so we could have had that moment alone, instead of this morning with everyone staring at us, and him looking at me like I didn’t love him. Because I do,” she says, and the sob bursts forth. “But I don’t know if I can love him enough for both of us.”

  +

  I walk Lincoln to the girl’s locker room so she can change for practice, hugging her tightly before walking to my own locker room.

  The noise halts almost immediately when I step through the doors, and I make eye contact with every guy who stares at me before walking to my locker and yanking it open. The chatter picks up after a second, and I drown it out while I yank off my street clothes and pull on mesh practice shorts and a practice shirt. I’m sitting on the bench, shoulder pads next to me while I yank on socks and cleats, when the door bangs open.

  The room goes silent, and I know it’s Colt without turning around.

  He clomps across the cement floor to his locker, and I watch him through my peripheral, continuing to lace up my cleats. The chatter doesn’t return, only a few awkward whispers and mumbles.

  Before Colt gets more than his jacket off, the door to Coach’s office bangs open and his voice booms out. “Slaughter one! My office. Now.”

  Colt stares into his open locker, shoulders square and tense. I stay where I am, cleats on, my own shoulders tense while I watch him. Finally, he slams his locker shut, spinning around and striding toward Coach’s office. He stops on his way past me, looking down with a sneer.

  “You run and tattle about me to Coach, too, Rich Boy?”

  I stand slowly. “Colt,” I say, voice low so only he can hear. But I stop because I don’t know what else to say—not with everyone watching us.

  “Colt, what? I’m sorry I ratted you out? Sorry I dragged your personal life into the spotlight and made everyone think you were a freak?” His hands clench and unclench, and then he raises them to my chest and shoves me back. I stumble from the force, my cleats unsteady on the slick concrete. “Colt, what, Rich Boy? What is coach about to say to me?”

  “Hell if I know,” I spit out, jaw clenched. “But you aren’t making it any better by being a volatile asshole.”

  “Another reference to my mental health?”

  “No, just your shitty attitude. You think I wanted to do that? You think it was fun for me to go behind your back, and hurt Lincoln?” Now I’m angry, too, stepping forward until we’re only inches apart. “You need someone to help you, man.”

  His breathing is uneven, and I belatedly realize that poking at him when he’s already keyed up is the worst idea. But I can’t help it. Maybe, just maybe, if he fights with me, he’ll get whatever it is out of him, enough that he can see this is what’s best.

  He never gets the chance to take a swing, though, because Coach is there, saying his name again. “Stop doing me favors, Rich Boy. You don’t know dick about what’s best for me.”

  Colt walks into Coach’s office, slamming the door behind him, and I’m left standing there, all eyes focused on me. “Maybe you two can go to couples therapy when Colt’s done getting his head examined by the school shrink.”

  I whip around to see Wacko, the same idiot sophomore from the homecoming game with more speed than smarts, laughing at his own joke. Though I see a few others lips twitch initially, one speared look from me has them stopping. Wacko—also of the coined “that’s Wack-ooooo” every time he does something—doesn’t heed my silent warning.

  “God-dayum, Colt’s gone crazy, everyone, just like I said he would.” The younger boy throws his blonde head back and barks out a laugh. “Watch out, Ford, or he might try killing you instead of himself next time.”

  The anger I’ve been leashing all day finally makes itself known, and there is no holding it back when I see Wacko and another idiot whose name I can’t even remember high-five each other.

  “Batshit crazy, just like his old man,” the other kid says.

  There’s a roaring in my ears after that, one that warns me I’m not in control. I don’t care.

  In two steps, I’ve got Wacko by the front of his shirt, swinging him around until his back slams into the metal lockers. It’s easy enough to hold onto him with one hand and beat his face with the other. The first hit shocks him, the second leaves him dazed. He never has time to get his hands up before the third.

  Wacko slides down the lockers, blood seeping from his nose and lips, and I don’t give him a second glance. I turn, ready to take on the other idiot, but Kaz is saying my name from behind, his arm snaking around my chest to restrain me.

  “All of you Slaughters are fucking crazy,” the nameless idiot shouts. I lunge, but Kaz is a burly bastard, and he’s stronger than I am, even when I’m this angry.

  “Shut your mouth, Dao.” This comes from Grier, who shoves Dao up against a locker just hard enough to make some real impact. “You want to talk about a teammate that way, you do it to his face, and get ready to take a hit. Otherwise, shut the fuck up.”

  Dao nods, and when Coach walks in, it’s Grier who speaks when he asks what the hell happened. “Nothing, Coach. Dao and Wacko had a little disagreement. We set them straight.”

  Coach’s eyes find mine, assessing. I don’t speak, just stare back, grateful when I see him nod. “Get on the field, ladies. It looks like we could all use a little cardio to get our piss and vinegar out.”

  He walks away, and I eye Colt, who’s standing just outside of his doorway. For the fourth time, the room goes silent and heavy with curiosity and awkwardness. It’s Grier who steps up again. “I never know what that means. Why piss and vinegar? Who the hell is pissing vinegar anyway?”

  A few laughs rumble out, and Grier catches my eye. I nod my head, grateful for his honesty in this moment. Whatever he did to Lincoln, I remember now that he wasn’t one of the guys who lied and spread rumors about her. There’s something to be said for that—and for what he’s done here.

  Kaz releases me, hollering at everyone to get their asses in gear. It eases the tension enough so that we all get moving, slipping pads and practice jerseys over our heads before grabbing helmets. Colt doesn’t move, and I wait until everyone else has gone before I turn to him.

  “You can be pissed,” I say. I don’t want him to talk—don’t need him to. But I need him to listen. “You can hate me and punch me every time you see me. It won�
�t change my reasons, and it won’t change my stance that telling Maggie was the right thing to do.”

  “Why? Because I need help?” The word is derogatory, and it reminds me of Wacko and Dao a minute ago, and the rest of the guys who, even though they didn’t say anything, didn’t meet Colt’s eyes when they walked out.

  It’s sometimes easy to forget that things move slower in this small town—that it’s not just missing sushi restaurants and a live music scene, but progress when it comes to how we view the world, how we view the words mental health and help.

  They see it as taboo—a weakness, something to be used against a person. Right now, that person is Colt, and he’s battling harder than anyone to make it untrue. But that’s not how happiness works. It isn’t a battle, it’s a process, one that includes relationships and support, help and kindness.

  “You might not be ready to believe this, but needing help, any kind of help, isn’t a bad thing.”

  “What the fuck do you know, Rich Boy?”

  What do I know?

  “I know that wherever darkness consumes you, there’s also light, even if you can’t see it. I know that Lincoln needs help a lot, and you’re the one to give it to her—and demand she accept it. I know what it’s like to look in the mirror and feel like you’re all alone, and that no one understands you,” I admit. “And I know what it’s like to walk through a field and find someone I consider my family on the edge of something terrifying, scared as fuck that I’m not going to be there the next time he needs me.”

  Colt’s eyes are still dark, but they also glass over and I feel it—that weight of emotion. It’s not anger anymore. It’s pain.

  “I don’t need anyone, Rich Boy.”

  I know I can’t change his mind, so I nod and pick up my helmet, staring down at it before I say one last thing. “You might not need us, Colt, and that’s fine. But Lincoln? That girl you’ve spent your entire life loving? The one whose given you a purpose when you had no one and nothing else? She needs you.”

  “She has you.”

  I nod. “She does. She has me, and I’m not leaving her. But I can’t give her what you do, Colt. I can’t be her best friend and her family. That’s your place. And if you don’t try, if you don’t look for a way to get out of the dark… it’s not just yourself you’re hurting. It’s her. And she doesn’t deserve that.”

  I’ve been at work for two hours when Colt walks through the door. He doesn’t come to the counter and order, just nods his head at me and takes one of the only available two-tops in the back.

  It’s busy tonight—both the drive-thru and the restaurant filled with families and singles, so I don’t get to him for almost thirty minutes when my manager tells me I can take a ten minute break.

  I grab a biscuit and some chicken, motioning so she sees and writes it down. Then, I take off my apron and ridiculous visor and head toward my best friend. “I know I should be concerned about you when you don’t order two tons of food and shake me down for extra biscuits.”

  It’s meant to be funny, but when Colt looks up at the food I set in front of him, and then me, neither of us laughs.

  “Are you concerned about me?”

  I swallow, wishing he didn’t look as scared as I feel. “Should I be?”

  He shakes his head no, but then he blows out his breath and hangs his head, resting his chin on his chest for a second. I can’t stand how alone he looks.

  “Colt, talk to me.”

  His shoulders lift and fall with his deep breaths. “I don’t know how. It’s not… I’m not crazy, Lincoln.”

  “Jesus, I know that Colt.”

  Now he looks up, and I can see some of what he’s feeling: confusion, hurt, and a lot of fear. “I’m not crazy,” he repeats. “And I don’t need a shrink prying into my head, even one that the state pays for. I just… sometimes I need space to disappear. To get drunk and feel nothing instead of always feeling everything.”

  There’s more. I know there is. Ford isn’t wrong when he says that to love Colt means to be the strong one. But not tonight—not right now when he looks vulnerable and what we have feels fragile for the first time in forever.

  Right or wrong, I can’t call him on his lie—I hate that one of the reasons I can’t is because I know he doesn’t view it as a lie. Colt isn’t crazy—he’s not someone who is doing this for attention or to get a rise out of people. He isn’t trying to hurt anyone. But…he isn’t whole. And I don’t know how to change that.

  Or even if I can.

  Reaching over, I put my hand palm-up on the table in front of him, waiting until he settles his on top of it so we’re gripping hands. “You’re not crazy, Colt. But I’m here, whenever you need someone. I’m always here. No matter what.”

  He nods, and when the tension gets to be too much, we drop hands and ease back. Colt is the first to paste on a small smile, motioning to his food.

  “I could eat a bucket of this by myself.” I laugh when he picks it up, teeth sinking in and ripping chicken and batter from the bone. I’ve gone over on my break, but I stay a few minutes longer, talking to Colt and making sure we’re both settled before I leave. When I finally grab my visor and stand, he stops me before I get two steps away.

  “I’m sorry—for this morning. For scaring you.” He clears his throat and blinks a few times. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  I shake my head, immediately back-tracking so I can rest my hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t hurt me Colt. I’m tough.”

  I flex my biceps the way I used to do when we were kids and I wanted to prove girls were as strong as boys. He smiles, but he sets his half-eaten chicken leg down, forgotten, and reaches up to rest his hand over mine. “I never want to hurt you, Lincoln. Never want to cause you any pain. You know that, right?”

  “Of course. Family, right?”

  He stares at me a second longer, and then eases back, nodding. “Family.”

  I go back to work behind the register, and Colt stays a while longer. When he stands to leave, he stops at the door and waves. Later, when I’m wiping down tables, I get to his and realize that even though he said he could eat a bucket, he didn’t even finish one piece.

  +

  Two days after he exploded at me in front of hallway gawkers, Colt goes back to being the easy-going, smiling, overprotective best friend I’ve always had. He teases me and Evie at breakfast, and he calls Ford out for being a nerd.

  “Seriously, this guy is always studying. Every time I walk into the kitchen, he’s got his horn rims on and a textbook in front of him.”

  “You do realize that doing homework does not make me a nerd. It makes me a student.”

  Colt looks across the lunch table at him, confusion written all over his face. Evie laughs. “Colt has never been one of those.”

  He smirks, reaching around her to tickle her sides, and I can’t help the goofy grin that crosses my face when they’re both laughing and touching. He’s so happy—it’s like he’s never been any other way, and a part of me wants to believe that talking to the school shrink, or whatever she is, is helping.

  When Evie punches Colt, citing cramps in her stomach from his tickling and the laughter she can’t control, he releases her, settling back in his own space on the bench they’re sharing.

  “So, senior night is coming up—and then playoffs.”

  Ford acknowledges Colt’s words with a nod and fist-bump.

  “And then Winter Formal.”

  I don’t know who looks more surprised at Colt’s social knowledge, me or Evie. Even Ford has his brows raised.

  “What do you say, should we go?” His suggestion is casual, like this group of misfits has ever gone to a school dance—well, at least three of us. I’m betting there has been a homecoming court, or three, with Ford’s name on them. Still, no one speaks, and Colt looks up from his sandwich, eyes wide in confusion when he sees us all looking at him. “What? I thought we could go as a group—you know, senior year,
blah blah blah.”

  Ford shakes his head, mumbling “chickenshit” under his breath, but he looks down at his own lunch instead of talking. Evie’s face is pink in the cheeks, and her eyes are looking anywhere but at Colt now. So it’s up to me.

  “Go as a group to the game?” I ask.

  Colt’s brows lower. “Of course not. Ford and I will be on the field—for the last time.”

  I nod. “Then, it was an invitation to go to Winter Formal a few weeks later? An invitation for all of us?” My eyes widen so they are giving him the death stare, and then I flick them to Evie and back to him. Like an asshole, he scowls.

  “Yeah—since we’re all friends. What’s with the look?” I sigh, dropping my head back.

  “You’re such an idiot,” Evie says. Then she stands, throwing her lunch items in her bag and getting ready to waltz off. Like an asshole, it takes Colt a minute, and she’s almost got her backpack fully loaded and closed before he clues in.

  “Evie, that’s not what I meant.” Putting his hand on hers to stop her, Colt sets his sandwich down and finally stands with her. “You know I want to go with you.”

  “Really? Because we’re such good friends?”

  Her words are louder than normal, but it’s the cafeteria at lunch time, and they don’t penetrate the hellish noise that is freshman and sophomores who have been cooped up in class all day. Still, Ford and I watch in amazement while Evie pops her hands on her lean hips and reads Colt the riot act.

  “Well, yeah.”

  I swear, Evie is two seconds away from going Bruce Banner. “How many friends like me do you have, Colt? Friends who sneak you into their bedroom at night? Friends who answer your phone call and sneak out of that same bedroom to meet you two blocks over where you kiss their lips raw?” Her voice is thick, and my own eyes sting. Colt… he loves Evie. I can see it. But I also know what that must do to him to love another person—one more who could leave him or forget about him.