My chest aches. What would the past five years have been like if I had known, if I hadn’t been all alone?
“You should get some sleep, kid,” he says suddenly. “You look dead on your feet.”
“Where will you stay?”
“Here for tonight. I’ll check into a hotel tomorrow.”
“I should stay too.”
He shakes his head. “Nope. You go get some rest. I’ve got this.”
It’s strange, the way those words make me feel. It’s just an expression, a throwaway line. I’ve got this. But somehow it’s more than that. It feels like the weight is lifting from my shoulders. Like the heaviness of the guilt and the fear I’ve been carrying for the past five years has suddenly slipped away, at least a little bit.
I’ve got this.
He insists I take his car back to the house for the night. I climb into bed, sure the things I’ve learned tonight will chase their way through my brain, keeping me up. But they don’t. For once I fall asleep straight away, knowing the responsibility, at least for now, belongs to someone else.
Chapter Twenty-five
Taylor
I spend the next several days flat-out drunk. I drink like I’m trying to make up for all the time I spent sober with Zoe. Come to think of it, maybe that’s exactly what I am trying to do. Fred is almost always there, following me from house party to house party, from bar to bar. I know he’s worried about me, know he thinks I’m taking it too far. I don’t give a shit.
This is it, man. This is my life. I was stupid to think it could be different, stupid to think I might be worthy of the kind of happiness Zoe brought me. I should have known better. My mom has been reminding me every chance she got for the past five years, and it’s about time I listen—you’re worthless. You broke my heart. You let your brother down. It’s your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
That’s the mantra I hear as I pound whiskey night after night, wherever I can get it.
“Think you’re gonna let up anytime soon?” Fred asks me. We’re sitting in the basement at Preston’s house, on the very spot where I first talked to Zoe, five days after she walked out of my life for good. Or is it six days? I’m having trouble keeping track.
“Nope.”
“Dude, you haven’t been to work all week.”
“Oops.” I take another sip from the bottle.
“You do realize where we are, don’t you? Preston’s house. The place you vowed never to set foot in again.”
I raise my hands as if to say, “Oh, well.” I don’t like it much, but it’s the only party in town tonight. Where the hell else am I going to get booze without paying for it? Besides, being in this place, the place where I first met Zoe, the place where I very nearly couldn’t save her, fills me with just the right kind of pain. The searing, burning kind that I figure I very much deserve.
Fred sighs. “It’s getting old.”
“Hey.” I shove him, hard, tipping him sideways. “No one said you had to be here, dude. No one fucking invited you.”
He straightens up on the couch. “I know, man. I know.”
I decide it’s best to ignore him and return to my bottle. Then I see Ellie across the room. I couldn’t miss that black hair with the blue streaks if I tried. I yell over to her.
When she sees me, her face tightens. Her eyes flick to Fred, then back to me, before she crosses the room toward us.
“Hey, guys.”
“Hey, Ellie.” I sneer, and then laugh at the sound of my voice.
“You’re pretty hammered there, Taylor. Don’t you think you should cool it?”
“You’re one to talk. Little Miss Virtuous.”
“Don’t be a dick, dude,” Fred says, his voice close to my ear. “She didn’t do anything to you.”
I wipe the sneer from my face. He’s right and Zoe would be pissed at me if she knew I was giving her friend a hard time. “Sorry,” I say, trying to keep my voice from slurring. “Just wanted to say ‘hi.’”
She crosses her arms. “She wouldn’t like this, Taylor. You drinking this much. It would upset her.”
“Yeah? Well she’s not here, is she?”
Ellie’s eyes narrow. “She’s having a pretty shitty time, you know? Please don’t make it worse by doing something stupid.” Then she turns on her heel and strides away.
“Give me a minute,” Fred says, and jumps up to follow her. “I’ll be right back.”
I snort. Could have guessed that’s how that would turn out. He’d had a thing for her since the day they met. I wonder if she’ll stomp on his heart too, the way her best friend stomped on mine.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
I look up and see Preston lumbering toward me, clearly just as wasted as I am. That old rage returns, that urge to pound on him until he can’t stand. But the whiskey has made me heavy, tired, so I just blink at him instead.
“I’m drinking,” I say, lifting the bottle.
To my surprise, he joins me on the couch. “I’m sorry, man. Really. I was out of line.” He rubs at the fading outline of a black eye, and a little thrill of satisfaction breaks through the torpor of the booze.
When I don’t respond to his apology, he points down at the bottle. “I heard you gave that stuff up.”
“Life’s too short.”
He chuckles. “You got that right.”
We lapse into silence as I work on my bottle. I’m getting close to the bottom. I try to remember how full it was when I picked it up, but I can’t—a pretty good sign that it was pretty damn full.
“You’re spiraling, dude,” Preston says. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong, dude. Life sucks.”
He watches my face, maybe trying to figure out if I’m serious. “You thinking about your brother?”
The urge to hit him returns. “Well, I am now.”
“Sorry, man.”
I have to take two more long pulls of Jack before I can quell the desire to punch him.
He watches me, quiet, the entire time. “Look, I really am sorry. About…everything.”
I just nod, and he moves to get up. I’m struck with a brilliant idea, and I grab his arm. “Hang on a second. Is your mom’s stash still in the same spot?”
He raises his eyebrows. “You should stay away from that stuff, dude. You’ve had enough.”
“I think that’s for me to decide. Is it in the medicine cabinet?”
“Seriously, Jet. You need to be careful, man.”
His avoiding the question is all the answer I need. Besides, I’ve borrowed from his mom’s stash enough over the years to know she won’t have moved it. “Okay,” I say, releasing his arm. “I’ll be careful.”
He watches me for a minute, as if debating whether or not to leave me on my own. Fred appears at my other side, and Preston jumps up to go, apparently deciding I’m in more capable hands. “See you.”
“You about done with that?” Fred asks. “Seeing as how you drank most of that fifth on your own?”
“Yeah, I’m done.”
“Can we get out of here, then?”
“Sure, sure. Let me just pee first.”
I stand on shaking legs, kind of embarrassed when he has to steady me. After a few steps I get the hang of the whole walking thing again. We make it to the first floor, and I set off for the master suite.
“Where you going?”
I point in the direction of Preston’s parents’ room. “The line is probably huge for the can in the foyer. I’ll just use this one.”
He nods, trusting me, and I smile grimly as I stumble toward Mrs. Barkley’s bathroom and the drugs I know I will find there.
***
I dream of Zoe.
It’s cruel, really, that my subconscious does this to me. The image in my mind is perfectly clear, as if she were really right there in front of me, her soft hands caressing my face, brushing my hair away. Her voice, so familiar and sweet, tells me that everything will be okay.
W
hen I open my eyes, she’s gone. Of course. My life is way too fucked up to believe for even a second that something so beautiful might have come back. I stare up into the harsh overhead lights, blinking.
It takes me a minute to realize that something is wrong. That light is definitely not in my room at home. And neither am I. My temples pounding with the movement, I turn my head slightly then bite back a groan. It’s not just my head that hurts; my entire body aches as if bruised.
That’s when I realize something else; I’m not alone.
“Dad?” My voice is a croak. My throat is dry and painful. Why is my dad here? Maybe I’m still dreaming after all.
“Jeremy,” he says, leaning forward.
I realize that he’s holding my hand and my confusion grows. Why is he here? And for that matter, where is here? “What’s going on?” God, my throat hurts.
“I thought I might lose you there for a while,” he says. I look up into his face, confused. His eyes are red. Has he been crying? I haven't seen him cry since the funeral. I take in the wall behind him: a whiteboard with my name on it. Next to him is a metal stand holding a bag of liquid—liquid that appears to be dripping down a tube directly into my arm.
Holy shit.
“I’m in the hospital?” I ask. I try to turn my head again to get a better look, but it hurts so much that I give up.
My dad nods. “You had your stomach pumped. The doctor says you…you weren't breathing.” He takes in a shaky breath. “They weren't sure you were going to pull through.”
I’m silent, shocked. I can’t believe it went this far. I remember being drunk at Preston’s, really drunk. But that was certainly nothing new for me.
“They say you had a lot of Xanax in your system,” he says.
I close my eyes. I remember the Xanax. I’d taken a lot. So much that I’d lost track.
“And alcohol poisoning. But it was the combination that made you stop breathing.”
“Dad,” I say. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…I’m sorry you had to come home for this.”
Something in his face changes, like he’s grimacing. “I should have been at home,” he says, his voice quiet.
I stare at him, not knowing what to say to that.
“I talked to your mother.”
I close my eyes. She’s not here at my bedside, but I’m not surprised. I’m embarrassed that a shot of pain courses through me. Like I’m some little boy who needs his mom when he’s sick.
“Jeremy, I had no idea that things had gotten so bad. I…I should have known. I should have been here to see it for myself.”
“What did she say to you?”
He looks down at me, and I can tell he doesn’t want to say. I smile grimly. “It’s okay, Dad. I guarantee I’ve heard worse from her.”
“You should have told me that she was talking to you like that. That she was…blaming you. God, Jeremy. I wish you would have told me.”
I look away. I find it hard to believe he didn’t know. Granted, she got herself together a little more when he was home. She still drank, but she was less violent, less emotional. And I made sure to stay clear as often as possible. It was bad enough to hear those things from my mom—I don’t think I could handle seeing the blame in my dad’s eyes as well.
“This has been going on since the beginning?”
I shrug. “It’s gotten worse the last few years. Mostly when she’s had a lot to drink.”
His expression darkens. “Which is all the time.”
We’re both quiet for a long moment. I wonder what he’s thinking, coming home to such a disaster. My dad had taken the transfer without a second thought, eager to get away from the house, from the memories, from us. Ever since then he’s been in denial about the state of our family. On the weekends that he was home, he’d hide away in his study while Mom hid away in the library, both drinking, both pretending. Those weekends had gotten fewer and farther between as time went on. And I got that, I really did. If I’d had a way out, I probably would have taken it, too.
“Things are going to change, Jeremy. I promise you that.”
I look up at him, surprised. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll take some time off, move back home. Your mother obviously needs help, much more than I realized.” He rubs his palms roughly against his face. “It’s my fault. I didn’t want to see.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say, meaning it. Out of anyone in the family, he’s the least to blame. He’d done everything he could to save Jim, spared no expense. In those last weeks he’d stopped working and sat by his son’s side all day. And then Jim was gone and what was my dad left with? A drunken wife and a son he couldn’t bear to look at half the time.
“It’s not your fault either,” he says, taking his hands away from his face to meet my eyes. “You know that, right, son?”
I just stare at him. I know he’s just saying it, just trying to make me feel better. It must be pretty shitty for him, seeing another kid in the hospital. But then he leans forward, bringing his face close to mine. His eyes are wide now, intense and locked on mine. “Jeremy, you know that, don’t you?”
A lump forms in my throat. I want to brush off what he’s saying, to play along with him, to tell him “of course” like it’s no big deal. But I can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I shake my head.
It breaks my heart, watching his face crumple the way it does. It’s like someone punched him in the stomach, like the breath is sucked right out of him.
“Oh, Jeremy,” he whispers, closing his eyes. “No, son.”
Tears gather in the corners of my eyes, and I try to bring my heavy hands to my face to hide behind them.
But my dad grabs my hand. “You listen to me, Jeremy. You did nothing wrong, do you hear me?” His eyes are blazing, and my stomach clenches. “It was not your fault. None of it. I promise you that.”
I shake my head, the tears streaming down my cheeks now. I want him to stop. There’s no point to this. None. The words aren’t true, I know that. But I want to believe them so bad.
“Son.” His voice cracks. “Your brother’s death was a terrible tragedy. But it was not your fault.”
I turn my face away. Pressure builds in my chest, so strong I’m sure I won’t be able to bear it another minute. My dad makes a move as if to touch me, but stops short when a nurse sticks her head through the doorway.
“Are you okay?” she asks, moving toward the bed. “The monitors show that your pulse is racing—”
My dad cuts her off. “We’re fine.”
“I need to check—”
“Just give us a few minutes.” His voice is firm, the all-business bark I’ve heard him use on the phone so many times before.
The nurse takes a look at my face—God, I must look like such an asshole—and seems to soften. “Try to relax. I’ll be back in a few.” She looks at my dad. “You need to keep him calm. If his heart rate keeps spiking we’ll have to come in and monitor him more closely.”
I turn my face away as she leaves, glad for the interruption. Things are getting too intense in here, and I need to figure out a way to get a hold of myself. But then my dad grabs my chin and forces me to look at him, and I realize we’ve hardly touched intense so far.
“I am so proud of you, Jeremy. The way you were willing to go through that surgery. You were so brave.” He’s crying too, tears spilling unchecked down his face. And it’s the weirdest thing—he looks like he really means it. Like these aren’t just platitudes to make me feel better. Like the words are true.
“You think…” I swallow. “You think I was brave?”
He smiles. “Of course I do. As soon as you heard you were a match, you didn’t even hesitate. You would have done anything for your brother, kid. It was obvious. I’ve never been more proud of anyone.”
“But…but…he waited so long to tell me. Because I was so obsessed with freaking baseball. What kind of a brother was I, for him to think I cared more about a damn game than I did about him?�
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My dad shakes his head, still smiling. “He was proud of you, too, Jer. So proud. He loved watching you play. He didn’t want to miss that.” He pauses. “And he knew, just like I do, that you would have left the team immediately to go through with the surgery. Of course you would have.”
“Mom says…” I pause, not wanting to say the words. “Mom says I was always so selfish. That Jeremy didn’t tell me because he didn’t think I’d go through with it while the season was still going. That it was obvious to everyone I’d choose baseball over the surgery.”
I see anger in my dad’s eyes, but his voice remains even. “She’s wrong. She’s a very sad, very sick woman, Jeremy. And she’s wrong.”
We’re quiet for a moment, me in my hospital bed, Dad standing next to me. The pressure in my chest doesn’t go away, and I wait for something to snap so it can crush me. I want to cling to his words, to believe them. I want it so damn bad. But I’m still not convinced.
“You know, I would never admit it then,” my dad says, and now he’s looking past me, as if remembering. “But I think Jim knew, somehow. That it wouldn’t go into remission. He used to say things to me…” He trails off, his eyes clouded. I’m pretty sure he’s not really in this room with me right now. He’s with Jim somewhere, in his memory. “He said what he wanted the most was to see you happy for as long as he could. That’s what mattered to him. He loved you so much.” My dad’s voice breaks again, and my chest aches. “He wanted to watch you play, wanted you to finish the season. He knew he wouldn’t be there for the next one, and he wanted his memories of you to be happy.”
I can’t take much more of this. I feel like the weight of the entire planet is sitting on my chest, pressing down, destroying me. I can’t hold it off any more.
“He was so damn proud of you, Jeremy.”
And suddenly the dam is breaking. Everything I’ve tried to put away, to forget, to not think about for the past five years is crashing down on me, crushing me. The sound of my brother’s laugh. The way he used to grab me and hug me out of nowhere, laughing when I would push him off and call him a loser. How I could always hear him cheering over every other voice in the crowd at my games. Even at the end, when he was already sick. I could always look up from the field and find him in the stands, clapping for me. I remember how he’d taught me to ride a bike when I was five, tired of having to leave me behind when he wanted to ride down the street. He always waited for me, too, when my little legs couldn’t go as fast as his.
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