I slice open the clear tape that seals the contents—knowing I’ll find as much of my childhood as Sasha’s inside. A mishmash of things that I recognize well: A never-worn Notre Dame jersey that Sasha bought nine years ago, when Cyril and my dad took us down to a game. Ironic that we ended up playing for one of their rival teams. A well-used Nintendo game box with every version of Halo ever made. I kicked Sasha’s ass in every single one of them. He had to replace the controllers twice after whipping them against the wall in anger. A binder with his baseball card collection, including his prized Mickey Mantle card.
Beneath a bunch of ticket stubs from games and concerts that we had seen together—it’s not so much that Sasha was a nostalgic guy as he just got into the habit of tossing those into his sock drawer—is a folded piece of paper.
When I open it up and find the four lines in a child’s large print staring back at me, a chill rushes through me. I haven’t seen this in years. Sasha, Derek, and I wrote the friendship pact in second grade, after I got pissed off at Sasha for lying about a doctor’s appointment and ditching me to play with Derek. We didn’t talk to each other for four days. An eternity, back then. When we finally made amends—thanks to the intervention of our mothers, who were tired of seeing their sons moping around every night after school—we made the pact.
Friends and brothers forever.
We will never lie to each other.
Your stuff is my stuff and my stuff is your stuff.
We will never leave a man behind.
Slightly dramatic, especially for three seven-year-olds. The words blur behind my unshed tears but I’m chuckling. That last line must have had something to do with the G.I. Joe comics we were obsessed with. The three brown stains on the bottom, where we jabbed ourselves with Susan’s sewing needle and signed with our bloody fingerprints, added a nice touch.
The page slips from my fingers and floats down to land soundlessly in the box. I kick the box once, sending it sliding across the floor. And then I fall back onto the mattress, a wave of bitterness coursing through my veins.
I don’t know if Sasha ever lied to me in the fourteen years in between, but I know he lied to me again three months ago, when he said he was fine to drive. When he held his hand out. I trusted him and he lied.
And they both sure as hell left me behind.
There’s a loud knock against the front door. I contemplate not answering it, but it’s probably Rich. At least I hope it’s Rich. As much as I’m not ready for him, I’m definitely not ready to deal with any surprise guests.
The sight of him standing on my doorstep knocks the air out of my lungs.
“Hey.” He bites his bottom lip as he holds out a hand, as if he’s as uneasy about this reunion as I am.
When I offer him my right hand, he shakes it for one, two, three seconds, before I see a decision flicker through his eyes and he pulls me into him in a hug. “Good to see you again, man,” he says, his voice suddenly husky.
I swallow against the flood of emotions that hits me and simply nod, backing up to give him some room.
He doesn’t enter, though, his gaze drifting down the long hall. He came here with Derek before. It must be weird for him too. “How about we grab that drink? Looks like a happening Friday night downstairs.”
I grab my keys from the hook by the door and follow him out without a word.
■ ■ ■
It took five pints for Rich to bring the accident up after mindless babble about everything but that night. “I still can’t believe it happened. I had no idea you guys were heading out. If I had known, I would have stopped you. I swear.”
I imagine that’s the standard response anyone would give after hosting a party where a guest leaves drunk and kills five people plus himself. I could answer with, “If I had known Sasha was drunk, I wouldn’t have given him the keys,” but that sounds like an excuse. There are no excuses. So, I simply nod and take another long haul of my beer. I thought I was going to puke on the first one but, after choking it down, the rest have gone down too easy.
“I miss him. We had some good laughs growing up, me and Derek. Even though he was two years younger than me.” Rich’s blue eyes survey the young crowd, I’m guessing mainly students who decided to stay around and take summer classes. I recognize one or two faces but I avoid eye contact. Judging by their frequent glances over, they know who I am. “It sure stirred up a shit storm in our family. It’s been radio silence between my mom and my aunt for months now. She wanted to sue me for hosting the party. Luckily my uncle talked her out of that. I know she’s just angry and hurt. Suing me isn’t going to change anything.”
“Yeah, it’s crazy what people will do when they’re grieving.” Though my parents haven’t said too much, I know that the parents of Billy, Kacey’s boyfriend, are still looking to sue my dad for more money and my dad’s looking to avoid that mess by settling out of court.
He waves down the waitress for another drink as he sets his beer down. “How are Sasha’s parents doing? And your girlfriend?”
“They seem to be moving on. Madison and I are . . . taking a break.” When I saw Madison loading her suitcase in her car, I went out to say goodbye. She crumbled in my arms all over again.
“Shit. How are you with that? With all of this?” I feel his gaze on me as I swish my beer around in my glass.
“You know.” No. He doesn’t. No one does, really.
“Well, I can tell you one thing for sure: it was one hell of a wake-up call for a lot of people around here. The newspapers were all over that story. Hey, what ever happened to that girl? The one who made it out?”
I shift in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable. “She’s alive, the last I heard, but that’s all I know. She won’t let anyone near her.”
“Yeah, that must have fucked her up bad. I saw the pictures of the car.” He clears his throat roughly.
We shift back into idle chatter as a few of Rich’s old friends swing by. Guys I don’t know, who don’t know me, thankfully. They’re football junkies. We talk about the coming NFL season and some dumb trades made by franchises. Nothing important. I mostly sit and listen, not interested in participating but less interested in sitting in my apartment alone. Though I’m beginning to hope that Rich will crash here tonight, seeing as he’s going beer-for-beer with me.
Funny. I never really noticed that kind of thing before.
When the girl that Rich has been seeing shows up with her friend, I give them an obligatory smile and shift over in the booth to make room. By their infectious giggles and the way the girl mauls Rich’s face, I’d say they’ve been enjoying a few drinks somewhere else tonight.
“Hey, I’m Monika.” Sparkly-painted nails catch my eye as she holds out her hand. “Cole.”
She bats her lashes as she tests my name out on her tongue. “Cole . . . I like that name.”
That makes one of us.
“Do you go to school here?”
“Does he go to school here? Don’t you know this is Cole Reynolds, tight end for the Spartans?” Rich bellows, his girlfriend now perched on his lap.
Not anymore. “Shut it.” I manage a half-smile as I toss a coaster at him. But I’m also holding my breath, waiting for this girl to recognize my name, to bring the accident up.
After a few long seconds, when she does nothing but giggle, I release it and let my body melt back into the bench. Maybe this is all I need. A few pints, a night out with a friend, some laughs. Maybe this will be the night that kick-starts my new life without my best friends.
■ ■ ■
What the fuck have I done?
I was drunk, but I remember every step that led to having this blond lying in my bed, tangled up in my sheets, leaving me buck naked and stretched out next to her. It wasn’t because I thought she was particularly attractive. I just didn’t want to be alone and she was convenient.
And more than willing.
I don’t think I was even nice to her. What the hell is her name?
I stare out the window at the overcast sky, trying to dull the pounding ache between my eyes with thoughts of a red-haired girl. Wondering how she is.
Wondering if she feels like I do right now, like she’ll never be free of that night. She must feel it. She’s the only one who possibly could.
Maybe it’s time I found out.
Chapter 7
As big as Grand Rapids is—almost twice the size of Lansing—I’ve never had any reason to visit the city before. As I face her door, a bunch of flowers gripped within my sweaty, shaking hands, I acknowledge that I still have no valid reason.
It wasn’t that hard to find Kacey Cleary. It took visits to two hospitals and several inquiries, but finally I got a room number. I’m not sure what that says about our privacy laws, but right now I’m thankful for the nurse who doesn’t seem to respect them.
With cautious steps, I close the distance, the taste of bile sitting in the back of my throat. I never used to hate hospitals. Now, that sterile smell overwhelms me, and each gurney that rolls by causes my back to tense.
I’m ready to turn around and run. What am I going to see behind that glass? Three months later, she’s still here. Can she even get up? Is her body trapped in casting and a Frankenstein metal contraption?
Whatever athletic figure she had pre-accident must have wasted away by now. Is she a pile of skin and bones? Enough muscle to simply function and nothing more?
And that pretty face of hers . . . is she disfigured now?
I’m ten feet away and I can’t will myself closer to the deeper, harsher stage of reality that I have yet to face. What will I even say?
Hi, I’m Cole. I was the guy who couldn’t just not drink for a night, who didn’t uphold his end of the deal to drive his friends home.
Hi, I’m the dumb ass who handed the driver his keys, enabling him to kill your loved ones.
Hi. You’re here because of me.
More than likely, I’ll just step into her room and stand there, staring at her like an idiot, because there is nothing that I can say to make this better. In fact, I’ll probably only make today even worse for her than it already is. I certainly won’t get what I was coming here for. Why did I come again? Did I think this would somehow alleviate my guilt?
I still can’t will myself forward.
When the door suddenly opens, my stomach drops. A girl with raven black hair steps out. I recognize her immediately. Kacey’s little sister, Olivia, who goes by “Livie.”
She’s crying.
All she has to do is look up and she’ll see me. Will she know who I am?
She doesn’t look up though. She simply rubs the tears away with the palm of her hand and then walks past, leaving me now dreading what’s behind that door even more.
“Excuse me, can I help you?”
I jump at the voice, and turn to find a brown-haired nurse standing next to me. “Yeah, can you please put these in Kacey Cleary’s room for me?” I shove the bouquet into her face, forcing her to accept them.
And then I get the hell out of there, heading in the opposite direction of Livie and anything to do with facing this nightmare.
■ ■ ■
A hundred or so beige seats stretch out in front of me. For as big as MSU is, with 47,000 students in attendance, many of my program classes are relegated to the same area. This will be my seventh time taking a class in this lecture hall. It’s my first time sitting in the back row, though.
And it’s definitely my first time consciously avoiding all eye contact.
I can feel them watching me. From glances over their shoulders to full-on stares, countless eyes full of everything from curiosity to judgment burn my skin.
They all know exactly who I am. Our program isn’t that big, and given that I’ve spent three years with most of these people and I played for the Spartans, my name is known. My face is, too, based on the comments I’ve received over the years from the female student population.
But they’re not looking at me for those reasons now, and so I keep my head down.
I smell her perfume a second before she slides into the seat beside me.
“Hi.” It’s a flat word, not genuine at all.
With a sigh, I turn to look at the brunette. “Hey.” I recognize her but I have no idea what her name is.
By the set of her jaw, she looks like she’s not here to introduce herself to me. She looks like she’s on a mission.
“I knew Mr. Cleary. He was one of the nicest, funniest teachers I’ve ever had.”
She pauses, as if waiting to see how I’ll respond to that well-aimed verbal stab into my stomach. What the hell am I supposed to say? Especially with an audience. Even Professor Giles is now standing at attention by the podium, her attention focused on the back of her room when she should be starting the class.
Gritting my teeth, I manage, “I’m sure he was.”
The girl opens her mouth to speak but then hesitates. She must see that she’s already sufficiently wounded me, that the guilt is pouring from me in a constant stream. “He didn’t deserve what you and your friends did to him. None of them did.” With that, she gets out of the chair and heads toward the front of the lecture hall, her chin held high, having said her piece. I wonder if she’s been planning that confrontation all summer long or if it was a spontaneous outburst.
“Welcome back, everyone!” Professor Giles calls out, pulling everyone’s attention to the front.
Except mine. I quickly tune her out, dropping my gaze to the blur of words in my textbook. Why the fuck am I even here? When I chose Art History and Visual Culture as my area of study, I knew it was purely a stepping-stone. Truthfully, I could have skipped the degree and gone straight to a one-year design school program. I’d already be working full time at my mom’s agency. But I wanted the full college experience—the parties, college ball, the piece of paper that should be coated in gold for what it cost. So did Sasha and Derek. Our parents weren’t the least bit surprised when we applied to the exact same list of colleges and made our decision based on where all three of us had been accepted.
Now, though, I don’t care about any of it.
Because everything has changed. Being here doesn’t feel right anymore. It’s like I’m trying to step back into the past and the door is firmly shut, with deadbolts barring it, the key thrown into a deep well.
I close my textbook and slip out the door, escaping the judgment.
■ ■ ■
“How’d it go?” Rich asks from the couch, one foot on the coffee table, one beer in hand.
I toss my empty knapsack on the floor. I returned my textbooks. All of them. “I’m out.”
He sits up straight, a frown on his face. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m out.” It took one more class of staring at pages and not hearing a single word spoken for me to make my decision. Though no one else decided to bludgeon my conscience, I felt the stares. I have a hard enough time living in my own skin right now. I can’t deal with this.
Falling back into the couch beside him—even sitting on this couch is uncomfortable—I sigh. “Do you think you can find a roommate to take over my half of the rent?”
Rich’s gaze burns into my profile for a long moment but I ignore it, gluing my eyes to the TV, zoning out on nothingness. “Yeah, for sure.” Another long moment of silence. “You wanna beer? The fridge is loaded.”
“Nope.” I’m done with alcohol.
I’m done with this apartment.
With this school.
I’m done with everything.
■ ■ ■
“Hey! Can you get that for us?” The boy points to the bush at the end of my parents’ driveway, where the hockey puck landed.
I retri
eve it and toss it back onto the road. He and the other kid resume passing it back and forth between their hockey sticks without even a thanks my way.
Little shits. I smile. They’re good. Not as good as Sasha and I were. The Danielses’ front door opens and a brunette woman steps out. “Boys! Dinner.” Of course they ignore her, too focused on the puck.
Slinging my duffel bag over my shoulder, I walk up the flagstone path to the unlit front porch. Our house is modest. My parents had talked about moving once, to a wealthier neighborhood in Rochester a good twenty minutes away from Sasha. I threw such a fit that they never talked about it ever again.
I find my parents sitting at the kitchen table, a tumbler-full of amber liquid in my dad’s hand, my mom’s face full of resignation. Whatever they were talking about has created a tension in the air so thick that I feel like I’m walking into a fog. Ten bucks says it’s about me.
“Cole?” My dad’s brow tightens in a frown. “What are you doing here?”
I look to my mom when I say, “I needed to come home.”
She nods slowly. I wonder if she expected this.
“You can’t just walk away!” My dad yelling is such a rare sound, I have to wonder if he’s graduated beyond one glass of scotch a night.
“I can’t do it.”
“You have one year left of your degree!”
Yeah, one unbearably long year. I know myself well enough to know that I’m not getting up for class tomorrow, or the next day, or the next day. “And then what? It’s a fucking piece of paper.”
“A piece of paper that we’ve paid for!” My dad slams his fist against the table.
“Carter!” My mom’s yelling now too.
I knew there was a good chance I’d be facing this and yet I can’t deal with it. I stroll out of the kitchen and head for my room, tossing my bag on the ground and flopping into my bed, the feel of my cool pillow a relief.
A few minutes later, the door opens and shuts softly, and I know it’s my mom without looking. “I just need to stay here for a while, until I can get back on my feet.”
In Her Wake: A Ten Tiny Breaths Novella (The Ten Tiny Breaths Series) Page 5