Eli looked at me suspiciously. “He’s talking about kissing, right? He’s saying that you’re a good kisser?”
“She was the best, buddy.”
“You weren’t bad yourself,” I admitted grudgingly.
This was beyond inappropriate. “Eli…” I paused, not sure what exactly I planned to say. “I’m sorry. Sometimes adulting sucks and there just aren’t any good answers. Sometimes, you gotta play it safe.”
He screwed up his face in concentration, lifting his chin in the air as if the answers were somewhere between the rows of fluorescent lights. “But sometimes playing it safe is bullshit.” Eli said the words like a judge delivering a verdict. “It’s like cancer. Sometimes, you have to kill all the cells, the good ones and the bad ones, and start over again from scratch. And that’s the part that hurts the worst, the time when you just want to fucking give up because of all the pain, but you can’t. You have to be strong because you know once you’re on the other side, it’ll be even better than it was before. And you can be happy again. And… and peacock and stuff.”
“Oh, Eli.” My voice broke, and I swiped at my face to bat away a tear. “Sometimes it’s just not that simple.”
I couldn’t look at Laird, couldn’t let him see how much I wanted us to give Eli’s advice a try.
He’s just a kid. He doesn’t know how complicated this shit is.
“Whatever. Y’all can handle your drama on your own time. This is about me right now.”
I giggled despite myself at Eli’s ego, and sniffled.
“I heard the doctors talking to mom the other day. I think I’m getting discharged soon.”
“That’s great!” Laird’s voice sounded like gravel over sandpaper, and he cleared his throat. “Do you know when?”
“Next week maybe? I don’t know, but I promised Amelia a date. And I can’t do that once I get home, so y’all need to figure your shit out. Whatever issues you’ve got, they’re cockblocking my peacocking, if you get my drift.”
I barely held back my laugh.
“You’ll get your date, Eli,” Laird said.
“Promise,” I added.
Reese
Smith: Where are you?
Me: Home. Back in Morgantown.
Smith: You left early for Thanksgiving break?
Me: Laird wouldn’t let me come to the game because of my wrist, so yeah, I left Friday.
Smith: What happened btwn you two?
Me: What do you mean?
Smith: Marco’s gone. Laird did something, and now Marco’s gone.
Smith: Like gone gone.
Smith: Expelled.
Me: WHAT?!
Me: What about the game today?
Smith: Justin’s in for you and Heath’s in for Marco.
Me: What about the snare duel?
Smith: I dunno.
Me: Is he okay?
Smith: Who? Laird? Marco?
Me: I don’t give a fuck about Marco.
Smith: But you do about Laird?
Smith: Hello?
Smith: You still there?
Smith: No.
Smith: He looks like shit.
Me: How did he get Marco expelled?
Smith: I don’t know. He’s not saying. Maybe you should ask him.
But I didn’t.
Later that day, I watched the game online.
There was no snare duel.
Laird played a solo, the shadows under his eyes visible even on my laptop when the camera zoomed in.
Four days later, I got a text from him.
But not the one I expected.
Laird: Eli’s dead.
Reese
“I don’t understand what’s gotten into you.” My mother fiddled with the hem of her sensible white shirt while she stood in the doorway of my bedroom, watching me scour the internet for a flight back to Alabama that afternoon while simultaneously flinging clothes and toiletries haphazardly into my suitcase. “Your behavior has been so erratic this week. First, you showed up unannounced on Friday, after skipping your classes”—she said it in the same horrified tone one would use when describing a terrorist attack—“and now you up and decide to go back early. Thanksgiving is tomorrow, Reese. Do you know how many people will be at the airport today? Do you know how many germs and viruses will be there?”
Ahhh, now we were getting to the root of her fears. My health.
“I know, Mom. The germs, the viruses, the diseases, oh my!” My dry sarcasm went right over her head.
“Exactly! And we still need to go over all your scholarship paperwork for next semester too. Who is this guy you’re so worried about? You’ve never mentioned a guy to me in your calls before.” Her practical shoes tapped over the hardwood floors—carpet wasn’t sanitary—as she approached.
“He’s…” I wasn’t sure what label to stick on my current situation with Laird. “It’s complicated.”
But my gut screamed that Laird needed me. That whatever else had transpired between us, he was hurting and needed someone—needed me—by his side. And I knew he’d never ask outright. It wasn’t in his nature.
Laird was the guy in charge, the one who handled things, who shouldered the heavy lifting. He’d try to bury the grief, pretend it wasn’t there, that it didn’t matter.
He needed permission to grieve. To let it out so the pain didn’t fester.
My heart broke at the image of him in his townhouse alone, facing the loss of someone I knew he’d looked at as another younger brother.
Regret, sharp-edged and swift, flooded me when I realized that the Starbucks double date Eli had wanted so badly never happened.
I’d failed him too.
I blinked back tears.
She touched my bruised wrist softly. “Is this part of the complication? I know you don’t want to talk about it, but your dad knows a lawyer he could call if—”
“No!” I cut her off harshly. “He had nothing to do with this. I told you, I fell.”
And that was all she’d ever know about the whole Marco situation. If she knew about the other hazing, she’d probably have flown down to Alabama months ago and insisted on accompanying me to practice, or whatever else she could come up with in my worst helicopter-parenting nightmare.
“But this guy you’re rushing back to, he took you to the hospital?”
She’d lit up like a Christmas tree when she found out real doctors had laid their hands on me and pronounced me only mildly injured. Nothing excited her more than a good report on my overall health from a licensed medical professional.
“No.” I shook my head as I clicked through the website to purchase the plane ticket. My flight left in three hours. “That was a different guy.”
“But a kid died? I don’t understand all this. This other guy who needs you so badly—was it his child? His sibling?”
“No, Eli was—” I broke off again. She didn’t know I volunteered. As much as she loved for me to go to the doctor, she didn’t like me being near hospitals. Too many sick people. Too many germs. “He was special. He had leukemia.”
“Oh, honey.” She turned away, her hand to her mouth. Mom preferred to live in a world where cancer never won, where kids didn’t die from things beyond their control. Her voice wavered. “How did you meet him?”
“Make-a-Wish.” The lie came easily. “He wanted to be in a football halftime show. He liked drums.”
Mom sniffed, nodding. “But, you have to leave now?”
I double-checked the clock. “In an hour.” That would still leave me enough time to get through security.
She sighed, her forehead creased with permanent worry lines. “Let me at least go over the paperwork with you then.”
By the time she returned with a stack of papers punctuated with colored sticky notes, my bag was packed and by the door, ready to go.
I’d won a total of nine scholarships during my junior and senior years of high school. There were a lot of people willing to throw money at cancer survivors pursuing higher e
ducation. Lucky me.
“Most of these are straight forward.” She pointed at the first one, where precise yellow highlighter marked the pertinent information and the Post-It that summarized in flawless script the actions I needed to take. “The merit-based ones just need a copy of your transcript, but some need additional documentation.”
I glanced over the first few neatly stapled packets. My mom had even included stamped, addressed envelopes for me to mail the forms back with.
A pang of guilt for leaving early spread through my chest.
Mom might show it in weird, overprotective ways, but she loved me.
I sat on the edge of the bed and patted the spot next to me. “Walk me through them, please.”
Her face brightened as she settled next to me, the dead cancer kid forgotten.
I listened attentively as she went through the first five sets of papers. Three of the scholarships didn’t require any action mid-year. The only one left to discuss looked to be the most complicated, based on the thick stack of print outs.
“And then there’s this one.” She tapped the page, and the bold font at the top caught my attention.
I’d filled out so many forms and written so many essays back in high school that the different awards had all blurred together in my head. I’d known escaping my parents’ clinging reach depended on creating distance, so I’d applied for dozens and dozens of prizes, the specifics of each long since forgotten.
But the name of this particular award sounded familiar, now that I was seeing it in black and white.
The Garrett Bronson Memorial Scholarship.
My mind tripped and stuttered over the name.
“For this one, you need to submit not only your transcript showing you maintained a 3.0 GPA, but you need one of your professors to…”
I tuned out the rest of her words.
Garrett Bronson.
G stands for Garrett, my brother.
Laird’s family was literally paying for my education.
Did he know?
Dear sweet heavenly Father who forgave those who profited from other’s misfortunes.
If Garrett hadn’t died, I wouldn’t be at Rodner.
I wouldn’t have met Laird.
I wouldn’t have fallen in love for the first time.
How messed up was it that I owed all the good things in the last few months to Laird’s biggest loss?
Guilt simmered low and hot in my gut.
And I felt a renewed urgency to get to his side, to tell him I understood why he didn’t bring up Garrett’s passing, to let him know he wasn’t alone.
I snatched the papers from my mom and stuffed them haphazardly in my bookbag, ignoring her gasp of dismay when the edges crinkled and bent. “Thanks. I’ll take care of it,” I said distractedly.
Despair at the broken situation between Laird and myself squeezed my chest, making each beat of my heart feel dull and heavy.
I needed to get back to Alabama immediately.
There was a green-eyed drummer who needed me.
Laird
The whiskey—expensive and nearly as old as me—was Dad’s favorite brand. I stared at the unopened bottle on my coffee table, a glass tumbler next to it ready to go.
It’d worked for him—drinking away the pain. Why wouldn’t it work for me too?
Yet the seal had remained intact for the last sixteen hours, while I slowly became one with the couch cushions.
The problem was, I couldn’t decide who to forget about first.
Everyone had left me.
Garrett.
My parents.
Reese.
Now Eli.
And I got it.
I deserved it.
I’d failed them all.
I couldn’t save Garrett.
I wasn’t enough for my parents—not without my brother.
I failed to protect Reese from Marco hurting her right under my nose, and didn’t deserve her even if she could forgive me.
Which she wouldn’t.
And Eli.
Motherfucking Eli.
He’d looked at me with those big, worshipful eyes the same way Garrett used to.
Like I could save him, so he could grow up to be a miniature version of me one day.
And he’d died too, a bad reaction to what was supposed to be his last chemo treatment before he was released.
Oscar whined and nudged me with his nose until he’d wiggled his head into my lap. I hadn’t bothered to put a shirt on after my shower, and his nose was cold against my side. He snuffled, staring at me with his soulful hound dog eyes, his ears spread wide like a superhero cape.
The only one who still loved me.
I rubbed his head absently, trying to summon the energy to lean forward and open the whiskey.
But it almost seemed too nice, too elegant to waste on a useless asshole like me.
I picked up my phone, scrolled to the text thread from Reese.
She hadn’t responded, and I hadn’t expected her to, but my fingers itched to reach out to her. To beg her for—for what exactly?
I didn’t even know. I just knew everything was better with her.
I was better with her.
My head throbbed and my mouth was gross and dry. I tipped my head back on the couch, studying a crack on the ceiling, the way it veered to the left of the fan before splintering into smaller cracks, like a tree branch.
The lights were off, and the sky had shifted to shades of purple, but I didn’t mind the dark.
Nothing worth seeing anyway.
I should probably get up and feed Oscar at some point though.
Maybe in a few minutes.
My head pounded louder, two thumps, a pause, then two more thumps. The same rhythm I’d told Reese to use during Shark Day.
I glanced at my phone again. I could call her, let it go to voicemail, and just listen to the sound of her voice. If I didn’t leave a message, she might not even realize I’d called. No harm, no foul, right?
More pounding.
Oscar jumped off the couch and headed for the kitchen.
Et tu, Brute?
I swore, if I listened hard enough, I could almost hear her saying my name.
I pinched my eyes closed.
Fuck. I was hallucinating now.
Oscar whined at the front door, his paw scratching against the wood plaintively.
“Laird!”
“Reese,” I muttered to myself. “Damn, I’m so sorry.” My hand clutched my phone until my knuckles paled.
“Laird!” The voice was louder this time, and Oscar barked sharply.
I opened my eyes slowly, wondering if I was dreaming.
My feet were unsteady as I stumbled to the door, my fingers clumsy as I twisted the lock.
The door opened a crack, and I stepped back, leaning against the wall for support.
“Reese?” I croaked, half wondering if I’d conjured her up.
Dark brown hair appeared first, tied in a messy bun, then those familiar long, tanned legs. She slipped inside, her expression solemn as she studied me in the darkened hallway.
Oscar danced around her legs, tail thumping like an out-of-control metronome, and demanded her attention. She stooped down to give his head a quick pat.
“What are you doing here?” My voice was monotone, empty.
Reese bit her lip, uncertainty lingering in her eyes. “Do you want me to go?”
“I—” I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat.
And then I moved, so fast I couldn’t second-guess the decision, wrapping her in my arms and burying my face in her neck.
Fuck, she felt good.
Her arms slipped around my waist, her fingers brushing against the bare skin of my back, and I shuddered at the warmth of her pressed against me.
For long minutes, I didn’t budge, just clutched her to me as if she was the only lifeline keeping me afloat, breathing in her familiar cherry scent.
I nuzzled into the curve of her sho
ulder, wanting to somehow get closer, to find that elusive comfort that only she seemed able to give me.
“Laird,” she whispered, loosening her grip and trying to pull away.
I didn’t let her, instead taking a step forward and backing her against the wall, so she had nowhere to escape.
“Please.” My voice cracked, and I shuddered when she squeezed her arms around me again. “Just let me hold you for a little longer. Let me pretend this is real.”
Her body softened in my embrace, and I burrowed closer, until she was wrapped around me like a fucking koala bear. I couldn’t handle there being any distance between us.
I just needed someone—no, I just needed her— to hold onto.
Time passed. Minutes, hours, eons. I didn’t know. But gradually, my muscles relaxed and my chest loosened enough that it didn’t feel like I was suffocating any longer.
I could breathe again.
“Laird.” Her voice was barely audible. “I’m so sorry about Eli.”
I turned my face so I spoke against the delicate skin of her neck, my eyes closed tightly. “It’s not fair.”
“No. It’s not.”
Reluctantly, I eased away from her. I didn’t let her go. I kept my fingers curled around her hips, but I gave her some space.
Her fingers skimmed up the plane of my chest, causing me to suck in a sharp breath, then she cupped my face and brushed her thumbs along my cheekbones. Through the darkness, she squinted up at me.
“You look like hell.”
I dipped my head in acknowledgement, then captured one of her hands in my own, lifting it and pressing a kiss to her palm.
“You look beautiful.”
She glanced down at her oversized Rodner sweatshirt and cutoff denim shorts, cheap flip flops on her feet.
I caught her chin, tilting her face back up. “You always look beautiful.”
She sighed, then took my hand and led me toward the couch.
When we reached the wall with the light switch, she paused and reached for it, but I nudged her forward, shaking my head.
“Leave it off.”
She sat on the cushion next to mine, but it was too far away. Hooking her under the knees, I scooped her into my lap, setting her down sideways across my thighs, and breathed a sigh of relief when she didn’t fight it.
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