She sways again and would have toppled over if I hadn’t snagged her arm, pulling her inside. I lead her to the couch. “What’s wrong, Mom?” Panic rings in the back of my head. My voice sounds tinny to my ears. She settles in, her head lolling against the cushion.
It takes a moment for my question to process. She blinks, looks around the living room. It’s probably been close to six months since she was last here. That incident—it was bad. My teammates and I were throwing a goodbye party for my former roommate, Mitchell Burns, before he left for the US National Team. Mitchell and his girlfriend, Rebecca, played one another at beer pong. My other teammates were either screaming at the television as they played FIFA, or chowing down on pizza, or hanging around the firepit in the backyard.
A knock sounded. The deafening music drowned out everything, and I only heard it because I was standing near the door, chatting with a friend. I opened the door to my mother, her hair a tangle and her skin covered in bloody scratches. I’ll never forget how quiet it got when she stumbled into the house, going on and on in her drunken state about how her most recent boyfriend, the piece of shit, ordered her out of the car on some backcountry road because he was leaving and she wasn’t coming with him. My mom must have walked close to ten miles. I don’t know how she reached my house without collapsing.
Then she puked all over the living room floor.
It’s a fine line when someone you love has alcoholism. You want to blame them, yet it’s a sickness too. I’ve let go of a lot of resentment over the years, but some still lingers. I think of the instability Lydia and I had growing up, the days when we went hungry. But that’s in the past, and you can’t change the past.
I look down at my mom. She can’t stay here. At least not with me gone. I don’t want Casey waking up and discovering my mother sleeping off her most recent binge on our living room couch. In the grand scheme of things, Casey probably wouldn’t mind, but it’s awkward and a sore spot for me. I’m going to have to drop her off at Lydia’s place.
Except then she begins sobbing, and I stiffen all over again.
Slowly, I sink to my knees in front of her. She wears jeans, tattered boots that are a size too big, multiple sweatshirts. My mother is a small woman. She always has been. But drink has made her face bloated, her breath sour, her green eyes watery. Her blond curls are a tangle. “Mom, what happened? Are you hurt? Is someone after you?” Those are the things I address first.
“They kicked me out,” she whispers, voice hoarse. Her eyelids flutter, and she leans forward before I gently push her back into the couch cushion. “Evicted.” She says the word slowly, as if she still can’t comprehend what happened.
I drop my head with a sigh. “Did you forget to pay your rent again?” My mother receives aid from the government on a monthly basis, as she’s currently unable to work.
“I didn’t have any money left. Not enough. I was two—no, six—hundred short.”
My guess is that her landlord had been threatening eviction for weeks now. My other guess is that she spent her financial assistance money on booze.
I begin to pace. When I stopped by her apartment last week, she was fine. Or as fine as someone battling alcohol addiction could be. The problem is she’s gotten herself into this cycle she can’t break. Every time Lydia and I put her into rehab, she gets clean. But as soon as she walks out the door, it all goes downhill. I think three weeks is the longest she’s ever attended the AA meetings before caving to her addiction. My mom thinks she has it under control. What she doesn’t realize is that addiction controls you.
This is why I rarely drink. Deep down, I’m afraid of going down that same path.
At this point, I’m at a loss of what to do for her life. Every time she leaves rehab, we make headway, taking steps to build her a fulfilling life without alcohol in the picture. But we never get far. It’s two steps forward, three steps back, and the past few years have been in limbo as I watch my mother waste away before my eyes. I can’t force her to change. She has to want it for herself.
My mother hiccups and turns on the television. I know things weren’t always like this. It was when my father walked out on us that she turned to the bottle. I was angry at him for a long time, that he could just leave a wife and two young children alone. But I made peace with it years ago. I decided he didn’t deserve my anger, didn’t deserve my caring. We’re now left cleaning up the destruction he left in his wake. Only no one told me it would last over a decade. The heart is a fragile thing.
“Mom.” I rest a hand on her shoulder. “Is there a friend you can crash with until I talk to the landlord?” And pay off the money she owes. She needs a place to sleep, because it’s not going to be with me and Casey.
She’s not listening. She blinks as she watches a cooking show, as if hypnotized.
That’s when I remember I’m supposed to call a cab. I check my phone.
Shit. I’m running late.
I dial Lydia’s cell, even though she’s asleep. The phone goes to voicemail, and I hang up. I try again. Same thing.
Shoving my phone into my pocket, I pinch the bridge of my nose. Of course, the day when I’m already feeling uneasy is the day my mom decides to show up. Maybe it makes me a terrible son, but I don’t have the time right now to deal with this.
In the end, I decide to ask Casey for help. I know he’ll do what he can without question, but it still makes me feel guilty, putting this problem on him when it’s not his responsibility.
“Stay here,” I tell my mom, before heading to Casey’s bedroom down the hall. Casey sleeps like the dead, so I don’t bother knocking.
The room is dark when I enter, save a slice of moonlight peeking through the curtains. “Case.” He sleeps on his stomach, facing away from me. I shake his shoulder. “Casey.”
He groans and rolls over, blinking groggily. “Austin? What time is it?” His voice is a croak.
“Early.” No need to tell him how early. “I’m sorry to bother you, but my mom just showed up at the house.”
He sits up, clarity coming into his eyes. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” Well, maybe. “But I have to leave for the airport and I can’t get in touch with Lydia. Is it okay if my mom crashes on the couch? I’ll leave Lydia a voicemail. She’ll pick my mom up once she wakes up.”
“Lydia?” he mumbles.
I tighten the leash on my mounting frustration. It’s not Casey’s fault he’s slow to comprehend. It’s nearly five in the morning. “She’ll come for my mother in a few hours, all right?”
With a huge yawn, he turns away. “Yeah, sure, man. Whatever you say.”
Good enough for me.
Back in the living room, my mother is passed out on the couch, slumped into the pillows, the vodka bottle having fallen onto the carpeted floor. I touch it like it’s the plague. Which, to me and my sister, it is. Lydia doesn’t drink much either, though she’ll have the occasional glass of wine. I think we’re both afraid that the addiction lives inside us. I’ll go out with my friends, but usually I make myself designated driver. If we’re walking, I might have a beer, I might not. It all depends on my mood.
After setting the vodka on the coffee table, I cover my mom with one of the throw blankets. She stirs, snoring softly. The last thing I do before leaving is dump the alcohol down the drain, watching the clear, toxic liquid disappear.
Somehow, I manage to calm myself enough to sleep on the flight. And when I wake, it turns out we’re landing. That’s when my anxiety hits.
I have no clue what will happen when I see Logan. Worst case scenario is he doesn’t talk to me. Best case scenario—same thing. The Logan I knew was charismatic, easy to get along with, and had so much presence it was hard for me to look anywhere else. He was the guy who knew everyone, who had so many friends in so many different social circles it was impossible to keep track of him on any given day. People gravitated
toward him like the sun.
I wasn’t like that. I was quiet and generally kept to myself. I think that’s why we got along so well though—balance. The strange thing was, out of all the friends he had, he hung out with me the most. I never understood why. Deep down, I never felt good enough for him. I still don’t.
Hopefully he can forgive me. God knows I’ve spent the last four years hating myself for what I did.
It takes another hour for me to exit the plane, grab my luggage, and find where ground transportation is. Thankfully, the signs are also in English. My French only goes as far as “hello,” “goodbye,” “please,” and “thank you.” It then takes another thirty minutes for the taxi driver to weave in and out of traffic as his tiny car hurtles through the hordes of tourists meandering down the backstreets of Paris. The city at night is lit up beautifully, and I catch sight of the Eiffel Tower. Seeing it gives me a little kick to the stomach. It’s hitting me now. I’m in Paris, France. Europe. My first trip across the Atlantic. The thought makes me smile.
The taxi driver pulls up to a large building. According to my email, this is the admissions office. “Merci,” I say, passing him a tip.
The air is cool, and I swear it smells of opportunity. Young people stroll down the street, their hands in their coat pockets. They speak French, but also German, Spanish, English, Czech, and Italian. I always viewed travel as something other people did. But now that I’m here, well, I’m going to make the most of it.
Inside, there are multiple tables set up for check-in. People in business casual walk quickly through the large atrium, holding clipboards, chatting as they sip tea or coffee. A few guys carry duffel bags like me. Conversation floats throughout the room, and I take my place in line for check-in.
The guy in front of me half turns. He has dark hair, dark eyes. My heart gives a little jolt, thinking it’s Logan. But it’s not. “Where are you from?” he wonders. I can’t place his accent.
“The US.” I offer my hand. His grip is firm. “I’m Austin. Goalkeeper.” If I’m going to be here for six weeks, I might as well do what I can to make friends.
“Christian from Germany. Center mid-field.” His grin takes up half his face. I smile in response. “I’m honored to be here. I’m going to work extra hard this summer. I’m hoping to be picked up by a team next year.”
“Are you still in school?”
He nods, a flop of his light brown hair falling into his eyes. “One year left. You?”
“Just graduated.” I drop my duffel next to my feet. “So how do you feel about Germany’s loss to Arsenal last Sunday?”
He groans and covers his face, which pulls a laugh out of me. “Don’t remind me.”
“If your goalie wasn’t so timid in the goal, you might have a better chance next time.”
“Trust me, I know.” He makes a sound of disgust. “I hope they trade him for someone else next year. He’s made too many mistakes for them to let him stay.”
We chat for another ten minutes before Christian is called to one of the check-in tables. I’m called to a separate table a minute later. The person gives me an information packet, a schedule, a map of the campus and athletic facilities, emergency contact information, as well as a key to my room.
With thanks, I follow the map to reach the dormitories. It’s a four-story building near a courtyard, lights pouring onto the walkway that meanders a path through the quiet campus. My room is on the second floor. The building is deserted at this hour, but clean. Pale gold walls with watercolors adorn the hallways. Very French, if I do say so.
I slide the key into the door and head inside. Two queen-sized beds, one on each side of the room. It’s similar to a hotel layout. Bathroom, small kitchenette, and what is probably the smallest seating area known to man. One bed is already taken up by a duffel. Turns out my roommate is here. Hopefully he won’t mind if I sleep for a few hours. The jetlag is already hitting me.
As I approach the remaining bed though, movement catches my eye. I turn, and I swear my heart stops beating. The dark hair, darker eyes, golden skin, lanky build. That whiskey-smooth voice as Logan looks at me and says, “Looks like we’re roommates.”
Chapter 4
Logan
Four years. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen Austin Rhodes. It might as well be a lifetime, and yet I still see him as we were all those years ago, floundering about in life, trying to figure out what came next. The nights we played video games into the early hours of the morning. Our afterschool shenanigans.
But even though my heart is telling me one thing, my brain is telling me another. He’s different. Austin wears a black soccer jersey, exercise shorts, and sneakers. A full sleeve of tats that wasn’t there in high school snakes up his right arm. An eyebrow piercing—that’s also new. His curly hair is longer, but it’s still blond and unruly, falling into his eyes. I’d forgotten how green they were, like crystal. Same height, but broader in the shoulders.
No, things definitely aren’t what they were.
We stare at one another in awkward silence. That’s another thing that’s changed—the stiffness, the strain between is. I think we both know the reason for the silence.
On the plane ride over here, I told myself I would let go of the hurt and betrayal that had resurfaced. I don’t want to spend my summer miserable or angry. But standing here, feet away, from the guy who tossed our friendship aside like a piece of trash, I realize I can’t do that. I need to know why he ghosted me. But I also realize now isn’t the time for that discussion. We’re jetlagged as hell, and I don’t want to make this meeting more awkward than it already is. Because it’s pretty damn awkward, let me tell you.
Slipping my hands into my pockets, I incline my chin. That’s polite enough. “Hey, man. How are you?” My voice is light, I’m happy to say.
Slowly, he moves to the empty bed and sets his duffle bag on the mattress. There’s wariness in his eyes. I want to laugh. There should be. Austin should be pissing his pants, because at some point, I’m going to rip him a new asshole. Maybe our friendship didn’t mean much to him, but it meant a lot to me, and when it was gone, I had barely any support in my life. But I’m sure as hell not going to tell him that. For all I know, he hates me, though I have no clue as to why.
“Good,” he answers, equally polite. “Yourself?”
His voice is deeper, but he’s still soft-spoken. At least that hasn’t changed. There’s a barrier now that wasn’t there in high school. Like I’m looking through a chain-link fence to an area beyond my reach.
I think that hurts more than anything. Austin was my brother in everything but blood. All the grief I feel over our ruined friendship wraps tightly around my throat, denying me of air. Fuck.
I keep my voice casual, pretending the room isn’t full of memories and resentment. “Good.” I smile at him, though it doesn’t reach my eyes. I wonder if he can tell. “Six weeks in Europe, man. You excited?”
“It should be good,” he says evenly, unzipping his duffle and pulling out boxers and a shirt. Then his gaze flicks to me. “Be right back.”
He goes to the bathroom and shuts the door. To change? Weird. Another difference. Soon I’ll need a list to keep track of them all. There was never any modesty between us before. Shit, half the time we’d moon the other just for fun. I mean, all the guys changed together in the locker rooms. Once you’ve seen one dick, you’ve seen them all.
After a minute, he emerges from the bathroom and takes his duffle from the bed. His gaze lands on me before darting away.
I perch on the edge of my mattress. “How was your flight?” This stilted conversation is almost as bad as the silence. I’m debating whether it’s better to rip off the band-aid now, rather than later. Maybe we should have this conversation now.
He shrugs, pulling back the covers and sliding into bed. “Long.”
“Yeah. Same.” I barely h
old back a cringe. We’re practically strangers.
What I’m dreading more than anything is that the next six weeks will be exactly like this—worse, once I talk to him. Do you remember, I want to say, when we snuck onto school campus after dark? Or the time my car broke down and we had to walk five miles in the pouring rain? But I don’t say any of that.
Austin doesn’t look at me as he murmurs, “Feeling pretty tired. I think I’m going to hit the sack.”
Disappointment stabs me in the chest. I ignore it. “Sure thing.” Guess that conversation will have to wait. “You getting breakfast in the morning?”
He turns out the light on his side of the room. My question goes unanswered.
When I wake, Austin’s gone, his bed made, the bathroom empty, the room silent. A wave of relief sweeps through me.
Yesterday was excruciatingly awkward. It’s never been clearer to me that there’s unfinished business between us. It’s not something that can be swept under the rug, and I think we both know this. I’m dreading the conversation, even as I look forward to it, because there’s a lot that needs to be said, a lot I need to say. I’ve done a decent job burying my hurt over the last four years, but it’s growing restless.
After changing into my jersey, I head downstairs, following the smell of bacon and eggs. It’s early, the sun creeping across the courtyard, the air cool, tasting of early spring.
The cafeteria is a spacious room with a multitude of windows. One side is the seating area, the other houses the buffet. I spot a sign that says “All you can eat.”
That’s what I’m talking about.
I search for Austin as I pile my plate high with sausage, grits, biscuits, eggs, and hash browns. I take a banana for good measure. He doesn’t seem to be in the cafeteria, which is disappointing, but probably for the best. There are probably fifteen or so of the twenty-five players present, all in various states of dress. I only see two who aren’t in pajamas. The rest, I’m assuming, are sleeping off jetlag.
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