She opens her eyes, a smile creeping up her cheeks. "You're right." She straightens up in her chair. "I stand by my earlier statement. I have certain beliefs, and I'm not afraid to share them, even if people disagree with me. I swear, I'm usually not worried about what people think. It's just with you I..."
"You what?"
"Never mind."
I'm still holding her wrist, my eyes on hers. My thumb moves softly over her palm and I ask again. "With me, you what? Finish what you were saying."
"I..." She looks down at my hand on her wrist. "For some reason, I care what you think."
"Why is that?"
She shakes her head. "I'm not sure." Her eyes lift back to mine. "Maybe it's because I seem to make you angry so I feel like I have to watch my words so I don't get yelled at."
She says it like she's joking but I know she's not. She's right. I keep getting angry and taking it out on her, even when it's not her fault.
I frown, now angry at myself.
"I'm sorry, Becca. I really am. I don't mean to yell at you. I don't know why I get that way but sometimes I do."
It's true, but it seems like it comes out more with her than with anyone else. Usually, I do a better job at hiding my anger, but with her, I can't. I keep snapping at her, saying things I shouldn't. Why do I do that?
"So going back to your mom," I say, realizing I never addressed her earlier comments. "Do you ever talk to her anymore?"
"Now and then. Mike said she called the other day. I wasn't home but he said she just called to check in." She rolls her eyes. "Her usual check in to make sure we're still alive."
"Are you going to call her back?"
"I don't need to. Mike talked to her. That's good enough."
She seems uncomfortable so I let it go, but say, "If you ever want to talk about it..." I stop there. She knows what I mean.
"I'd rather not talk about her."
"It's an open invitation." I point to the wheelchair. "As you can see, I'm not going anywhere. So if you ever want to stop by and talk, about anything, feel free. As long as sports aren't on in the background, I'm a good listener."
"Mike's the same way. If there's a game on, he tunes me out. It's like I'm not even there."
I'm finished with my burger so I shove my plate aside. I drink the rest of my soda and set that aside too.
And then, for some reason, I tell her something that I try to pretend isn't true.
"You were right," I say.
"About what?"
I look into those big brown eyes of hers that seem so honest. So caring. So interested in what I have to say.
"I was lonely." Telling her that was harder than I thought it would be and I can no longer look at her, my eyes forced down to the table. "Before you got here, I was lonely."
She's quiet and I'm wondering what she's thinking, desperate to know if she thinks less of me for admitting that.
"There's nothing wrong with that, you know? Being lonely? Everyone is at some point."
I just nod.
"Why were you afraid to tell me?" she asks.
I look up at her. "I wasn't. It's just not something I like to admit. I should be able to be alone and be okay with that."
"For a few hours, maybe, or a few days, but it sounds like you've spent most of the past month alone. That's enough to make anyone lonely. It's nothing to be ashamed of. It doesn't mean you're weak or needy. I don't know if that's how you're feeling but—"
"It is," I say, amazed that she knew that without me even telling her. "That's exactly how I feel. That's why I didn't want to say it. Or even think it. I keep telling myself I'm okay being alone. That I like it. But the truth is, it sucks."
"Well, if you ever want some company I'll come over." She smiles. "I don't lead the most exciting life so I can't promise to come here with any exciting stories, but I can keep a conversation going."
"That's good enough for me." I reach over and slip my hand around hers on the table. "Thanks for dinner. I'm really glad you came over."
"I am too." She holds my gaze for just a moment, then glances away.
I feel a rush of adrenaline coursing through my chest. Is it excitement? Hope? I'm not sure how to label it but it's almost like the feeling I get when I'm about to go on the field before a game. Is it because I'm holding her hand? Or because she's staying? Or because she said she'd come over again? I don't know the reason. All I know is that I like this feeling. It's one I haven't had with other girls and it's one I want to feel again.
"So what'd you do today?" She plucks a potato chip from the bowl and pops it in her mouth, her other hand still linked with mine. I thought for sure she'd pull it away by now.
"I slept in, then sat outside for an hour, had lunch, did some laundry."
"Laundry? You're doing my job now?" She smiles.
"I can do my own laundry. It's the dusting and vacuuming I can't do."
She glances at my wheelchair. "So when can you switch to crutches?"
"Hopefully next week. I see the doctor on Wednesday."
"You need a ride? Depending on my schedule, I might be able to take you."
"I'll just take a cab."
"Cab's cost a lot and my van is easier to get in and out of."
"My parents are both lawyers and keep my bank account loaded up so money's not a problem, but thanks for offering."
Why is she being so nice to me? Normally I'd say it's because of who I am, a star athlete headed for a career in professional football. That may not happen now, but even if it did, my gut tells me Becca wouldn't care. I think she's just a nice person, which I'm not used to. In my world, nobody's nice just to be nice. Everyone wants a piece of me and my future wealth.
"Do you care if I get a drink?" she asks.
"Go ahead. I'd get it for you myself but.." I motion to the chair.
"I can get it." She goes to the fridge and takes out a can of soda and brings it back to the table. "The offer still stands if you ever need me to stop at the store for you."
"Sorry I yelled at you about that the other day. I shouldn't have accused you of spying on me. I just didn't want you spreading rumors about me around town."
"I'd never do that." She sounds sincere, and I actually believe her.
I never believe anyone. Having lawyers for parents, I assume everyone's lying. But Becca seems real and genuine, like someone who doesn't have a motive. Maybe I'm reading her wrong or maybe it's just what I want to believe. Or maybe that's just how she is.
"You want another pop?" She points to my soda. I'm still not used to the people here calling it pop.
"No, I'm good." I point to her can. "You could have one of those beers you brought instead of the soda."
"That's okay." She looks down. "It was bad enough I brought them. I'd never drink it in front of you."
"It's not a big deal. I can handle people drinking. When school starts up again I'll be surrounded by alcohol so I have no choice but to be okay with it. It's just..." I trail off, not wanting to say it. Not wanting to relive it. I spend all day trying to avoid thinking about it. It's one of the reasons I sleep all the time. To escape the memories. But then they haunt me in my dreams.
"Just what?" she asks softly. "What were you going to say?"
"The brand. That particular brand is what Jason was drinking that night. He swore he was sober. Said he only had a couple beers. But I knew..." I trail off again, not willing to admit the role I played in the accident. How I should've taken his keys. Or forced him to pull over. If he refused, I could've made up an excuse. Anything to get him to pull over. But I didn't. I knew I should have, but I didn't.
I've never told anyone that. Not my parents. Not my coach. Not the cops when they interviewed me. Everyone assumes I was too drunk to have known what was going on that night. But I wasn't. I was sober enough to know that Jason shouldn't have been driving. And yet I didn't stop him. It's not something I'll ever admit. It's just something I have to live with.
Becca lightly squeezes my han
d. "You want to talk about it?"
I shake my head. "No. I just wanted to explain why I reacted that way when you gave me the beer. It was the brand, that's all."
She takes her hand back and puts it in her lap. "You don't drink, right?"
"I haven't since that night. But that doesn't mean I never will. I'm sure once school starts and I'm hanging out at parties, I'll give in to the pressure."
"If you don't want to drink, then don't."
"It's not that simple. Because of who I am, people watch everything I do. They analyze what I say. Make up their own conclusions. Even if they've never met me, they assume they know me because of whatever they've read about me, or heard about me. If I show up at a party, I'm supposed to get drunk. Have fun. Be the life of the party. That's who I am, or at least what they expect me to be."
"Stop worrying about them and what they think, and do what's best for you. Didn't we just have this discussion?"
"Easier said than done. I've created this persona and now I feel like I have to live up to it."
"That's too much pressure. I couldn't do it."
I don't respond but she's right. It IS too much pressure. So much so that some days I just can't take it anymore.
I like football, but I no longer love it the way I did when I was younger. Back then, it was just a sport. A thing I did outside of school because I loved the game and was good at it. But college is different. College football is training ground for something bigger. A career that could make you millions upon millions of dollars and make you a star. College becomes less about classes and parties and more about training and pushing yourself to the limit, both mentally and physically. You're constantly trying to get better. Constantly competing, and not just with the other teams you're playing, but with players around the country. I'm competing against every quarterback in every college team in America. We're all hoping for a spot in the pros.
And if that's not enough, you have people analyzing you as a person. Sportscasters who don't even know you and have never met you are telling the world what kind of person you are. Weak or strong? Party boy or a good student? A guy who's monogamous or a guy who sleeps around? The media decides that and more, and soon they've built up a persona for you that you may or may not agree with. But once it's out there, it's hard to change, and if you don't fit the image they've created for you, people question why you're acting differently, and that starts a whole new set of issues to deal with.
So yeah. It's a lot of pressure. And it's the only life I know.
Chapter Eight
Becca
After Ethan finished eating his burger we made s'mores, which took forever because we couldn't figure out the grill. We finally got it to work but then burned the first couple batches of marshmallows. Luckily I bought the jumbo bag so we had plenty.
All of our effort was worth it. The s'mores were really good. So good that Ethan had four.
Now we're sitting on the lounge chairs on his back patio, staring up at the dark sky.
"Do you usually go see fireworks?" I ask.
"No. I think the last time I saw them I was probably five or six. My grandparents took me. My parents wouldn't go. They hate that type of stuff. Too many crowds. When's the last time you saw them?"
"Last year. They were shooting them off at a park near my apartment."
"It's almost ten. Shouldn't you get going? You're going to miss the fireworks."
"I already did. They shot them off a half hour ago." I let out a laugh. "Was your question a hint that you want me to leave?"
"No. Not at all. I just didn't want to keep you if you had plans."
"I don't have any plans."
I feel him looking at me but keep my eyes on the sky.
"I'm really glad you came tonight," he says.
That's the second time he's told me that. He really was lonely. It's a good thing I came over, and I'm glad I stuck around after dinner. This has turned out to be a great night.
A burst of pink and green lights up the sky. "Ethan, look!"
Another firework goes off. This one is red, white, and blue.
"Looks like we get our own personal show."
"I wonder where it's coming from."
"Probably the golf course. There's a private course just down the road. They do a fireworks show every year."
Two more shoot off. Smaller ones. Blue. White. Green. Then a really big one in red and white.
"This is awesome," I say as another one goes off. I love fireworks, and not having to go anywhere to see them is great. And then there's the added bonus of watching them with Ethan.
I'm really starting to like him. When I first met him, I wasn't sure if I did, but tonight I've seen a whole other side of him. Not the moody, anxious, irritable side I saw when I cleaned his house, but the funny, attentive, more relaxed side of him that I'd like to spend more time with. We've talked a lot tonight and I've found that Ethan's a good listener, almost as good as my brother. That's hard to find in a guy. Most guys can't pay attention for more than a few minutes.
"Check it out." Ethan nudges my arm and I look up and see a yellow smiley face in the sky.
"That's cool. I've never seen one like that."
As I gaze up at the sky, I feel his hand gently wrap around mine. When I don't yank it away, he holds it a little tighter. I don't know what that means. Is he holding my hand as a friend or does he want more than that? Do I? Would I ever actually date Ethan Baxter? I've never thought about it because I never thought it would happen. Every girl in town wants to date him and I'm sure he's been with a lot of them. He has a reputation for sleeping around, but I don't want to be one of those random girls. I don't have one-night stands. It doesn't feel right to me. But would I date him? Be in a relationship with him? I'm not sure if I'd want that. Or if he would.
Plus, he's technically my boss so how would that work? Would I get fired for dating him? But how would anyone know?
"I should probably head home," I say after the fireworks end.
"Yeah." He lets go of my hand. "I guess it's getting kind of late." He sounds disappointed, and a little sad.
"Or...if you want, we could watch TV for an hour or so. Maybe make a snack?"
He smiles. "I don't have any food."
I smile back. "You seriously need to make a grocery list. I usually go on Wednesdays, so make a list and I'll pick up what you need. Or we can go shopping together if you want."
"No," he blurts out.
"Why not?"
"I don't like people seeing me like...you know, in the chair."
Why is he so sensitive about the wheelchair? Everyone knows he broke his leg and needed surgery. They'd understand why he's still using the chair.
"Okay, well, you can still make a list and then I'll bring the stuff over on Thursday when I come over to clean."
"Is that the next time I'll see you? Next Thursday?" He sounds sad again and it makes me wonder if I'm the only person who comes over here. Could that really be true? But he's Ethan Baxter. The most popular guy on campus. A local celebrity. He must have at least a few friends in town for the summer who visit him. Or maybe not. He said he takes a cab to see his doctor. If he had friends in town, they'd drive him to his appointments.
"Did you want to see me sooner than Thursday?" I ask.
"Maybe. I mean, if you have some time to kill. I could order us dinner. I owe you for the burger."
"I'd like that but I'm not sure if I'll have time. I'll have to check my work schedule."
"If you can't, that's fine. But I would like to see you again, outside of Thursdays."
We leave it at that and watch TV until almost midnight.
"I need to get home," I say, getting up to leave. "It's late."
"Yeah." Ethan grips the couch and lifts himself up and into the wheelchair. His strength is evident in the ease at which he transfers his body to the chair in one smooth effortless motion. "I'll walk you out." He chuckles. "Or wheel you out. Is that right? It can't be. That makes it sound like
you're the one in the chair. What's the right terminology?"
"I don't know but I wouldn't worry about it. I get the point."
At least he's joking about the chair. Before, he was so sensitive about it that just bringing it up made him tense and moody.
When we're standing by my van, I say, "Happy Fourth of July."
"You too." He reaches up and grasps my hand. "Thanks again for stopping by. And tell your brother thanks for the burger."
"I will." I smile and wait for him to release my hand. He doesn't, and for a moment, I think he's going to pull me down to his level and kiss me. But then he lets go of my hand.
"Goodnight," he says.
"Goodnight."
When I get home, Mike is up, watching TV. I was hoping he'd be asleep, but of course, he's waiting up.
"Home kind of late, aren't you?" Mike chuckles as I come into the apartment.
"I didn't even get there until six-thirty."
"And now it's midnight. Thought you weren't going to stay long."
"I wasn't, but then we started talking and made s'mores and watched fireworks. You could see them from his patio."
"And then what?"
I plop down on the couch next to him. "Why are you being so nosy?"
"Because you're my little sister and I worry about you. I don't want Ethan taking advantage of you."
"He's not taking advantage of me. And besides, you were the one who told me to go over there."
"I never told you to go over there."
"Maybe not, but you guilted me into it. You knew what you were doing."
"So going back to my earlier question, what'd you guys do after the fireworks?"
"Went inside and watched TV."
Mike mutes the TV and looks at me. "Do you like him?"
"As a friend."
"That's it?"
"I'm not going to date him, if that's what you're implying. Even if I wanted to, it wouldn't be an option. He's Ethan Baxter. He could have any girl he wants."
"What's that supposed to mean? You're not good enough?"
"No, I'm just saying that I don't think he's looking for someone to date. I don't think he wants to be tied down like that."
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