Holding On

by Allie Everhart

  "Hey," I say as I pass by him on the way to my room. I'm so tired, I just want to collapse into bed.

  "Mom stopped by."

  I stop and look at him. "She actually came back here?"

  After brunch last Sunday, Mom tried calling both Mike and me but we didn't answer and she didn't try calling back. I assumed she'd wait a few months, then call again, acting as if nothing had happened. She does that all the time. She hates conflict and runs whenever we have a fight.

  "She didn't stay long," he says.

  "What did she want?"

  "To give us this." He picks up a piece of paper and holds it out to me.

  I take it and see it's a check for two thousand dollars.

  "Two thousand?" I roll my eyes. "A little late. Could've used this a few years ago. And why only two? That wouldn't even cover a month of tuition for her future stepsons. But I guess this is all we're worth to her."

  He takes the check from me and tosses it on the coffee table. "Maybe we just don't cash it. I don't want her thinking she can pay for our forgiveness. What she did is wrong and she needs to know that."

  "She's done plenty of wrong things in the past and you got over it, so why is this bothering you so much?"

  "Because she let you struggle. She knew you needed money and she didn't even offer to help." He looks at me, his expression pained. "Becca, why didn't you tell me you were living out of your car?"

  When I revealed that at brunch I could tell how upset Mike was, but he hasn't asked me about it until now.

  "It was just for a few weeks. It wasn't a big deal."

  "It's a huge deal! You could've been killed! A pretty girl alone in a car at night? Some guy could've attacked you while you were sleeping." He shakes his head. "Why didn't you ask me for money?"

  "You were already sending money."

  "Obviously not enough." He scrubs his hand through his hair. "I can't believe you did that. What the hell you were thinking?"

  "Okay, I got it. I don't need a lecture. I agree, it probably wasn't the smartest idea, but at the time I didn't know what else to do."

  He sighs, his eyes going to mine. "Next time you need money, you tell your big brother."

  "You don't—" I stop before I bring up the fact that he has no money.

  "I know I don't have much, but whatever I have is yours if you need it. And that'll always be true. You just need to ask, okay?"

  I nod.

  "I'm going to try to get a job."

  I look at him. "A job? You already have a job. Your blog. The podcast."

  "A job that actually pays." He turns to me. "I can't keep doing this, Becca."

  "Doing what?"

  "Making you work to support me. It's wrong. I'm your big brother. If anything, I should be supporting you. You should be in school right now and I should be helping you pay for it."

  "And I know you would if you were able to but you can't, so why are we even talking about this?"

  "Because this needs to end. You can't keep working two jobs. It's too much. And I hate that you're not able to go out and have fun like other people your age because you're always working."

  "Mike, you can't get a job. You're still recovering. The doctor said—"

  "Yeah, the pain limits how much I can do but I could try to work part time."

  "And be in pain all those hours?" I shake my head. "No. Forget it. You're not getting a job until you're better."

  "Becca, if I don't start helping out around here, I'm no different than Mom. She should've helped you and she didn't, and now I'm doing the same thing. I'm just sitting here, letting you pay all the bills."

  "It's not the same. You're injured. Mom wasn't. And it's not like I'll be supporting you forever. It's only temporary. When your paperwork is approved, you'll start getting checks and you'll be able to help out."

  "The paperwork may take another six months to get approved. I don't want to wait that long."

  "Then wait another two or three months and we'll talk about it then. For now, just focus on getting better."

  He picks up Mom's check. "You think we should cash this? I know I said we shouldn't but we could really use the money."

  "Then cash it. It doesn't mean we forgive her."

  "Why don't we put it away for school? Then maybe you won't have to work when you go back."

  "I'll still need a job. That check's not enough to cover tuition and living expenses. I need to save up more money before I go back."

  "You shouldn't have to save up money," he says, his anger rising. "Mom should be paying for it. And you should be going to a better school, getting your four year degree, which you'd be doing if Mom had helped you."

  "Mike, don't worry about it. I got along fine without her."

  "You lived in your freakin' car!"

  "Yeah, well, I won't do it again. Now can I go to bed? I'm wiped out from work."

  "Yeah, go ahead."

  When I get to my room, I decide to skip the shower. I'm too tired and it's too late so I just change into my pajamas. After crawling into bed, I check my phone and see a text from Ethan.

  Sorry I didn't call. I fell asleep. And sorry for how I was acting earlier. I was having a bad day. Call you tomorrow.

  If he was having a bad day, he should talk to me about it, not shut me out, and definitely not take it out on me.

  ***

  The next morning Ethan calls as I'm cleaning the house of Dr. Atwater, a biology professor at Laytham College. He's in his seventies and lives alone in a small house filled with old science journals. He has them stacked everywhere; the floor, the tables, the counters. It's to the point I'd say he has a hoarding problem.

  "Hi, Ethan," I say as I dust around a stack of journals. The professor freaks out if you move his journals. I learned that the first day I cleaned here. He came home for lunch and saw me pick up one of his stacks and just about had a heart attack. "I can't really talk right now. I need to finish this house."

  "You coming over later?"

  "I don't think so. I need to go home and take a quick nap before work. I didn't sleep well last night."

  "Because of me?" When I don't answer he says, "Becca, I'm sorry. I just—"

  "It's not just you. It's my mom and—never mind." I go to the coffee table and dust the sections that aren't covered with journals. "I have to go."

  "Becca, wait. What happened with your mom?"

  "I don't want to get into it now. We'll talk later."

  "Not if you keep avoiding me."

  "I'm not avoiding you. I just—" I sigh. "Okay, maybe I'm avoiding you, but it's only because I can't be around you when you're like you were yesterday and I don't trust you'll be any better today."

  "I am. I promise. Yesterday I just wasn't myself. Something happened and well....it put me in a bad mood."

  "What happened?"

  "I don't want to talk about it."

  "Ethan, if we can't be honest with each other then we don't have much of a relationship."

  "We don't have to tell each other every little thing. That's not how relationships work."

  "Actually it is, at least when it comes to the important stuff. If something put you in that bad of a mood yesterday, you should be able to talk to me about it."

  He doesn't respond.

  "Okay, well, I have to go so..."

  "Will you come over later? Please? I need to see you."

  "Why? To have sex?" I ask harshly. "Because if that's all we are then—"

  "That's not why I want to see you. Just come over, okay? We'll talk."

  "Like actually talk? Like about what's bothering you?"

  He lets out a breath. "Yeah."

  I hesitate, wanting to see him but not sure which Ethan I'll get if I go over there. My desire to see him wins out.

  "Okay, I'll be there a little after four."

  "Great! See you soon."

  He sounds better than yesterday but still seems off. Maybe he got in a fight with his parents, or maybe his coach. Or maybe his leg is
bothering him.

  By the time I finish cleaning for the day, I'm late getting to Ethan's place. It's four-thirty and I have to leave at five for my shift at The Chicken Shack. I long for the day when I only have one job.

  "Hi." Ethan greets me at the door, a solemn look on his face. But he doesn't seem angry like he did yesterday. More like depressed.

  "You okay?" I ask, knowing he's not but wanting to see what he'll say.

  We go inside and he pulls me into his chest. "I missed you."

  "It was only a day."

  "I know." He says it like he's concerned. Like missing me after a day is a problem. I kind of feel the same way. I shouldn't miss him after just a day but I did.

  This is getting too serious too fast. I feel like pulling away but haven't been able to do it. There's something about Ethan that keeps drawing me to him, and him to me.

  We go sit on the couch and I turn to face him. "I have to leave soon so if you'd rather talk later than now, I can call you after work tonight."

  "I'd rather just tell you now."

  "Then go ahead."

  He takes a deep breath. "I was acting that way yesterday because..." He looks down. "Because Kasey's sister called."

  Kasey. The girl who died in the crash, at least I assume that's who he means.

  "What did she say?"

  "She asked about the accident." He pauses. "She wanted to know details, like if Kasey was...in pain." He closes his eyes and squeezes the bridge of his nose.

  Now it makes sense why Ethan was acting that way yesterday. He was sad, but hiding his sadness with anger. Mike does that too sometimes. Must be a guy thing.

  I rub his arm. "Ethan, I'm sorry. I can only imagine how hard that was for you, having to remember that night."

  He opens his eyes but keeps them aimed at the couch. "The memories were one thing. But hearing Emily...that's her sister's name...hearing her crying on the phone." He takes another deep breath. "Fuck."

  I link my hand with his and hold it tight. "What did you tell her?"

  He shakes his head. "I told her it was quick. That Kasey didn't feel anything. But I don't think it's true. The girls—both of them—were screaming." He shuts his eyes like he's seeing that night replayed in his mind, his face contorted with pain.

  "Ethan, stop." I squeeze his hand. "Open your eyes."

  He does, but says, "It doesn't help. I still see it. I see Kasey's body being thrown around as the SUV flips over. And I still hear it. I hear their screams." He looks at me. "She had to have felt pain, at least for a few seconds, right? I mean, she wouldn't have been screaming unless she was in pain."

  "I don't know," I say softly. "She could've been screaming because she was scared."

  A distant look comes over his face. "Why didn't I make her sit next to me? Why didn't I make her wear her seatbelt?"

  "Ethan, look at me." I lift his face to mine and our eyes meet. "It wasn't your fault."

  "I let her sit on my lap. I encouraged it. We were making out and I wasn't even thinking about her safety. What does that say about me?"

  "You were drunk. And it wasn't just your decision. Even if you'd told her to put her seatbelt on, that doesn't mean she would've listened."

  "I'm bigger than her. I could've lifted her off me, set her on the seat, and forced the seatbelt on her."

  I feel like I need to keep reassuring him it wasn't his fault but I don't think my words are helping. He needs to come to that conclusion himself. Until he's ready to give up his guilt, nothing I say will change how he feels.

  "So that's why," he says, sounding like himself again, shutting down the emotion he felt just moments ago. "That's why I was acting like that yesterday. Emily called in the morning and it fucked me up for the rest of the day. But I'm better now."

  "No you're not. You're just pushing your feelings away so you don't have to deal with them."

  "That's not what I'm doing."

  "It is," I say plainly. "You're just not at a place where you can accept that yet."

  I know this because what Ethan is going through, the guilt he feels, is similar to what Mike deals with every day. Through his podcast, he connects with military men and women who blame themselves for the deaths of their friends. Even if their deaths were caused by a bomb going off that they had no control over, they still blame themselves. Even Mike did. He used to blame himself for the bomb that killed his buddies. He says he doesn't anymore but I think a part of him still does.

  Ethan smiles. "You playing psychiatrist now?" His arm goes around my waist and he pulls me onto his lap and kisses me. "I thought you were studying nursing, not psychiatry."

  "I am. I'm just saying I know how tough it can be to relive bad memories."

  I don't explain why. I haven't told Ethan what happened to Mike, not because I don't want to. It just hasn't come up. Ethan knows Mike has a podcast but I didn't tell him what it's about. And I've never told Ethan about Mike's leg. I chose not to because a missing leg doesn't define my brother. It shouldn't matter. It doesn't change who he is.

  Ethan kisses me again, but it's a longer, sexier kiss.

  "Don't start something you can't finish," I say.

  "Why can't I finish?" he says over my lips.

  "Because I have to leave in a few minutes."

  "Plenty of time."

  I sit back. "A few minutes? No way. I deserve better than that."

  He chuckles. "You're right. You do." He pulls my face back to his, his soft lips pressing against mine. "Come back here tonight. Stay with me."

  I smile. "Okay."

  "Really?" He sounds surprised. "I thought you'd say no. Now I've got something to look forward to."

  He can't possibly mean that. He's Ethan Baxter. He should have a lot more than me to look forward to. His last year of college. A football career. Millions of dollars. If he's not looking forward to that stuff, that's a problem.

  "You should be looking forward to a lot more than that. You have a big future." I wait to see if he'll share his feelings about that but instead he brushes it off.

  "The future is far away. You're right here. Right now. So you're what I'm looking forward to."

  Once again, I couldn't get him to talk. He shuts down whenever a serious topic comes up. But at least I got him to tell me about yesterday. If our relationship is going to go anywhere, at least that's a step in the right direction.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ethan

  Last night with Becca was awesome. Another night of great sex and then I held her in my arms and we slept until she had to leave for work this morning.

  During the night we talked again, not long, but long enough for her to tell me that her mom gave her a check, basically trying to pay for Becca's forgiveness. It pissed me off, but sounded like something my parents would do. They use money to solve every problem. I'm so used to it I don't even question it anymore. So when Becca told me about that check, at first I didn't think it was a big deal, but to her it was. She doesn't want a check. She wants her mom back, but that's never going to happen so I told Becca to just cash the check and don't assign any emotion to it. Just let it be money and nothing more. Use it to pay bills. Save for school. Whatever. I told her to pretend it's just a bonus from work. Treat it as if she earned it. That way it's easier to spend.

  My words seemed to help her, and after our talk, we drifted off to sleep. I woke up a few hours later with Becca wrapped around me, her arm draped over my chest, and all I could think was how much I like this girl. More than like. And then I started coming up with ways we could be together. Like maybe with this money from her mom, she could finish up school this year, then come with me wherever I end up next year. I know that's a ways off but I can't imagine being without her. She's become my closest friend. The person I confide in. The only person in the world who knows that I, Ethan Baxter, star quarterback, may not want to make football my career.

  I still can't believe I told her that. It just shows how much I trust her, which is bad. Never trust anyon
e. That's what I've learned over the years. And yet I trusted Becca with something I never planned to tell anyone.

  Why did I do that? What if she tells someone? And what if that person tells the media? I can't have people thinking I'm not committed to this. Football is all I have, and although I've spent the past couple months re-evaluating my life, imagining a future off the field, the truth is, that's the life I'm meant to have. It's all I know. My dad never even let me explore other options. I've lived and breathed football for as long as I can remember.

  My phone rings. Speak of the devil.

  "Hey," I answer.

  "You need to learn how to answer the phone," my dad scolds. "What if it'd been a reporter calling? You need to sound professional."

  I roll my eyes. "I saw it was you who was calling."

  "It doesn't matter. You need to get in the habit of sounding professional."

  Ignoring his lecture, I say, "What do you need?"

  "I'm coming to see you. I'll be there in a half hour."

  "What?" I sit up straight. "You're in town?"

  "At the airport. I have to make some calls before I head over."

  "Why are you here? And why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

  "It was a last minute decision. There's a kid not far from you that's showing promise on the field. I want to meet him."

  So this isn't about me. It's about whoever this kid is that my dad may want to represent someday. I'm just a quick detour on his way to see someone who actually might make my dad money. Until I'm healed and back on the field, my dad has no interest in me.

  "You don't have to stop by," I tell him. "I'm sure you need to get to wherever this kid lives."

  "Not until six. He's at football camp during the day. I'll see you soon." He hangs up.

  I sigh, and head to the bathroom to shower, then realize it'll take forever to wrap up my cast to keep it dry, so I forget the shower and go wait in the living room.

  An hour later, he shows up. He's always late. It's his way of letting me know his time is more important than mine.

  "How's the leg?" he asks as he comes in the door, walking past me at a brisk pace. He's all business, his mind on this kid he's going to meet later. Before meeting a prospect, he's always on edge, not in a nervous way but in an eager-to-find-a-potential-money-maker way. Instead of one of his designer suits, he's wearing black dress pants with a shirt and tie. It's intentional. He needs to appear casual and down-to-earth, like the family of his potential client, who probably live in a small town, most likely a farming community. That's all that's around here, unless you drive for hours, in which case he would've flown into a different airport.