by Lexi Ryan
I flinch at the mention of my mother. How does she even know about them? Uriah? Rumors? I have to clench my teeth to keep myself from talking.
“My husband has plans for his son, and they don’t involve marrying trailer trash. Do you understand?”
Straightening my spine, I lift my chin and fist my hands at my sides. “Yes, ma’am.”
She drops the ring of swatches to the desk and rakes her cold eyes over me. “How convenient for you that your little boyfriend turned into a vegetable that night. And now you’re free to fuck a Woodison, which I’m guessing is what you wanted all along.” She sighs dramatically and gives me a cold smile. “Unfortunately for you, Woodison men have figured out what Mendez women are good for, and it ends in the bedroom.”
“You can say anything you want about me,” I say. My cheeks are hot. My skin burns as if my blood is actually simmering in my veins. “But you say one more thing about my mother, and you won’t have to fire me, Gwen. I’ll leave, and I’ll make sure Uriah knows why he has to scramble to find a new nanny.”
The color drains from her face, confirming my suspicions that her husband wouldn’t approve of this conversation.
“Is that what you want?” I turn around and walk out of the room.
I didn’t think we were friends, but I did think we were allies. And I know she didn’t come from the kind of money Mr. Woodison has, but I didn’t think her life was a model for how I could improve mine. I didn’t respect her enough for that.
Arrow stops me in the hallway. “Is everything okay?”
“Why?” The monitor crackles, and then the sounds of Katie cooing come through. Saved by the baby.
He cocks his head to the side. “Mia, you look upset.”
I shrug. “I’m fine. I have to go get Katie. It’s time for her bottle.” I grab a bottle from the kitchen and head to the nursery. I feel Arrow behind me the whole time, but I assume he’s going to walk away the second I step into the nursery door, because he seems to want nothing to do with his baby sister.
But he surprises me. He follows me in, and when I stop to place the bottle into the electric warmer we keep by the changing table, he skirts around me and stands by the crib before I can.
“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” he says, looking down on her. She’s on her back, eyes open, baby fists extended toward the farm animals on her mobile.
I stand beside him and feel some of the anger and hurt from Gwen’s lecture wash away. “Yes, she is.”
“I always wanted a kid sister,” he says. “Sister, brother. I didn’t care. I just hated being an only child. Mom had to have a hysterectomy after me, though.” He lifts his eyes to mine. “That was her first fight with cancer.”
“I’m sorry.” I draw in a ragged breath because he’s talking to me. He held me last night. He let me cry about Brogan and stayed in my bed when I told him I didn’t want to be alone. But he hasn’t said anything to me all morning, and I assumed we were going back to our old dynamic where we don’t talk about anything.
He shakes his head. “It’s okay. I just always imagined a kid sister who looked like my mom. Katie’s beautiful but she doesn’t— Obviously, she wouldn’t look like my mom.” He reaches into the crib and scoops her up, his big hands holding her from under her arms. Her eyes go big and she gurgles happy baby sounds.
“She likes you.”
He cuddles her up against his chest. “Hmm.”
“You really know how to hold a baby,” I say. “You’re a natural with her.”
“She’s not the first baby I’ve held, Mia.” He shakes his head but keeps smiling as he gazes down at his baby sister. “Man, you play football, and so many of those idiots are having kids too early. They’re a hotshot on the field so they think they’re too good to wear a condom or something. I don’t know. But I’ve gotten to hold a lot of babies.” He lifts his head and aims that smile at me, and I feel something in my chest—as if his smile pulls down this barrier that’s been protecting my heart.
I swallow. “Gwen thinks we’re sleeping together.”
His smile falls away, but he keeps his eyes locked on mine for a long minute. Am I supposed to know what he’s thinking? Because I don’t. I can’t tell if he doesn’t give a shit or if this information makes him angry. He doesn’t speak to me enough yet for me to guess his thoughts.
He walks Katie over to the changing table and begins to change her diaper. “I’ll talk to her.”
“No, don’t, Arrow. There’s no point.”
He nods, and again I wish I knew what he was thinking. He lets me in his bed, even comes to mine, touches me. Holds me.
I haven’t done anything wrong, and I’m not the kind of girl who dreams of marrying her way to financial security. But when I wake up in the middle of the night and Arrow’s arms are wrapped around me, I wish we were sleeping together. When my brain is still half asleep, my body wakes. I want him to roll me over and make me feel the way he did that night in the kitchen. I want his mouth and hands to chase my numbness away. I want him to use me to chase his away.
Then when my brain wakes, I remember Brogan and my guilt, and I’m so glad I didn’t let my body decide. I’m so glad I didn’t give in to that need to feel something, so glad I didn’t give in. Even though there are nights when the fear of never feeling anything again is worse than the guilt and the grief.
“How convenient for you that your little boyfriend turned into a vegetable that night. And now you’re free to fuck a Woodison, which I’m guessing is what you wanted all along.”
I know she’s only giving voice to what others will think. She’s probably not the first to think it, and I hate that. It’s not fair to Brogan or Arrow.
“It’s going to be fine,” I assure Arrow. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Do you think she’s going to tell my dad?”
I draw in a sharp breath. Tell my dad. I imagine that wouldn’t end well for him. “I don’t know, Arrow. If you’re worried about it, maybe you should talk to him. Let him know what she thinks and set the record straight if you need to. But don’t do it for me.”
He only fumbles a little as he changes Katie’s diaper, but mostly I’m impressed that he knows which way to put it on and how to button the onesie. He’s a natural.
He grabs the bottle from the warmer, puts his finger on the nipple, and shakes it as he takes a seat in the rocker.
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him.
He cocks a brow. “Maybe I want to. I mean, she seems to like you, so I figure she can’t be all that bad.”
There it is. That tugging in my chest again. But this time it’s worse.
After the accident, I felt my heart going into hibernation. After I buried my brother. After they told me Brogan would never be himself again. I could feel my heart wrapping itself up and retreating to the cave where it could hide safely. And I was glad when it did, because it meant I didn’t have to breathe around the constant aching anymore. I was glad, but I had no idea how much it would hurt to feel it wake up.
* * *
When I pull up to the Barretts’ home, I have to sit in the car for twenty minutes trying to catch my breath. How many times did I come here and wish I didn’t have to go inside? How many chances did I have to tell him everything I was thinking, and I talked to him about the weather as if he were some stranger passing the time with me in the line at the DMV? I know that with Brogan’s current health, I need to treat each visit as if it’s the last I get. Because it might be. Suddenly, there’s not enough time. I need more time. More quiet minutes to hold his hand. More long afternoons by his side in the sunroom. More opportunities to reiterate the apology that will never be enough.
When Mrs. Barrett sticks her head out the front door and waves to me, I decide my pity party is over, wipe my cheeks, and go inside.
She pulls me into a hug—a little longer and a little tighter than any hug before—and I return it in kind. “Say your goodbyes,” she whispers in my ear. “You say your goodby
es today.”
“I know.” I don’t want her to have to coddle me. She’s going to bury her son soon, and she shouldn’t be responsible for tending to my grief. “I will.”
Pulling away, she shakes her head. “We’re, um, making arrangements. Just trying to get things in order for the funeral. We’ll have it in Blackhawk Valley, of course.” The hope has drained from her eyes. The blue irises she shared with her son are empty. “He always talked about how beautiful your voice was, and I think he’d want to hear it when he says goodbye to us. We were hoping you’d sing.”
I suck in a breath. It’s not her job to comfort you. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to answer right now. Think about it.”
“Okay.”
She tilts her head toward the back hallway. “He’s in bed. Hospice is coming. We’re just trying to make him comfortable now.”
Make him comfortable. Those words make it real, and I rush back to the bedroom as if he might disappear before I can traverse the length of the hallway.
Brogan is lying in bed, just like she said he would be. His eyes are closed, and his body doesn’t look like his own. It’s small and lanky. All bones and weakness. This is no longer the man who begged me to stay with him. He’s no longer even the man who whispered my name after the accident. Not even the one who took my shaking hand while I looked for a pulse.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
His last words to me were an apology. And now it’s my turn. “Brogan.” I sweep his hair off his forehead, and just the touch of my fingertips against his skin makes me want to fall apart. “I wanted to be in love with you. I wanted you to be the one for me. Every girl deserves a guy who can make her laugh the way you did, and I thought if I just held on tight enough, you could be enough.”
I swallow hard. I’ve never stopped regretting my decision to end it with him that night. Never stopped hating myself for telling him the truth about what happened with Arrow. He was being so irrational, and I thought that if I could just hurt him, he’d let me out of the car.
Instead, he kept the doors locked, and his last moments were of anger, frustration, and sadness.
“I love you. And I’m so grateful that you loved me.” I put my fingers against his soft lips. Those lips that kissed me so many times. The lips that uttered sweet words I came to take for granted. “I never should have ended it like I did. Or tried to end it, or whatever. If I could change the way it all unraveled . . .”
I close my eyes and listen. As if maybe if I don’t look at Brogan’s empty shell of a body, he’ll be able to talk to me—he’ll be able to tell me he understands. But all I get is the ceiling fan—Whoomph. Whoomph. Whoomph—and cars spraying water on the sidewalk as they drive down the street in front of the house.
“Of course you would, sweetie.” That’s not the voice I’ve been waiting for, and I feel exposed as I turn to see Trish step into the room. How long has she been listening? “We all would,” she continues. She’s been crying. Her face is red and blotchy, her eyes swollen. She comes to stand beside me, and I’m glad she’s there. Something about her falling apart helps me hold it together.
I don’t need to feel stronger than her. This isn’t about strength. The comfort of shared grief is the antithesis of trying to be the stronger one. This is about understanding that our pain is what makes us human, and allowing ourselves to feel it. I can’t feel angry with Trish anymore and can’t blame her for Brogan’s decisions, not when I see her like this, grief laid out and exposed.
“This sucks,” she whispers. “As if it’s not hard enough to say goodbye to someone you love—this is all tangled up in the fight you two had.” She squeezes her eyes shut. “It’s tangled up in our mistakes. I know he betrayed you, but if you feel like you have to blame someone, don’t blame him.” She takes my hands in hers and squeezes them. Her hands are so cold, as if she’s been cuddling with the dead. “I loved him and I decided I’d do whatever it took to get him. I screwed up. I am to blame.” Her eyes plead as she lifts them to mine. “Everyone wants someone to blame, and no one will blame me. I knew he was in love with you and I still . . .”
I turn and wrap her in my arms, and she dissolves into silent sobs against my chest.
“I loved him so much.”
“I know.” I stroke her hair and take a long, deep breath. Damn you, Brogan. He had to have known how she felt, and he should never have messed around with her if he wasn’t going to pursue it. He shouldn’t have done a lot of things, and the reminder of his flaws gives my grief a jagged edge, makes it hurt more with everything that was left unsaid and undone. No wonder we paint our lost loved ones without flaws. This is harder.
When Trish pulls away, she pastes on a smile I know is for my benefit. “He loved you, you know? He loved you with the kind of intensity that makes teenage girls obsessed with romance. He loved you, and I was just so jealous of that. I wanted to steal it. To make it mine. I’m the one to blame here. And I’d trade my life for his.” She holds me by my shoulders for a long time, staring into my eyes. “I want you to know that. I need you to know that I’d give my own life to make it right.”
She seems so melodramatic, and I grimace. I’ve probably said the same to someone along the way. I have to believe her, because if I ever said it, I’m sure I meant it, too. “It doesn’t work like that,” I tell her softly.
“Right.” She releases me and steps around me to study Brogan. She touches his face and runs her fingers along his jaw. “But if it did . . .”
Arrow
There are too many people at my house. A quick glance out the back windows and onto the patio and I count a dozen guys from the team and nearly as many girls.
Mia went to say goodbye to Brogan today, and there have been people milling around since she got home, so I haven’t been able to get her alone and ask how she’s doing.
Trish comes in from the patio and props her sunglasses on the top of her head. She’s had them on out back all afternoon, so I never noticed how swollen her eyes are. She looks as if she’s been crying for days.
“Are you okay?” I ask. It seems like she shows up here as often as she can since I got home, always trying to get me alone. My irritation with her kept me from registering that she’s got to be as upset as the rest of us about the end of Brogan’s life.
“I’m not.” With a glance to the crowd out back, she grabs my wrist and drags me down the hall and away from the kitchen.
“Trish,” I say, the warning in my voice. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea, but I’m seriously—”
“Shut up!” She pushes me into the study and pulls the door closed behind her. “We need to talk, and I’m sick of trying to get you alone.”
“I’m sorry about New Year’s Eve.” It’s an apology I should have given her a long time ago. “I didn’t mean to lead you on. I didn’t—”
“Fuck that, Arrow. I’m in love with Brogan, not you. That night wasn’t about you. It was about him.”
“Okay,” I say cautiously.
She paces the length of the room behind the dark leather couch. “Do you remember?”
My stomach sinks. I really don’t want to do this. “Do I remember New Year’s Eve?”
She stops and lifts her eyes to mine. “Yeah.”
I swallow hard. “Not a lot, Trish. I mean, I remember us . . . you know.”
She stares at me hard, and I don’t know what else to say. How much does she know? Has her dad told her something? Jesus, I don’t want to talk about this. “Arrow,” she says, holding my gaze. “I remember it.”
“I’m sorry. I think we were both screwed up that night.”
She shakes her head. “No. Not the party. After the party.”
“After your dad picked you up?” I ask. Because as fragmented as my memory is, that piece is there—Coach showing up at the party to pick up Trish, because her punishment for her latest screw-up was having to ring in the New Year at home.
“I convinced hi
m to let me stay with you, to let you drive me home. He didn’t know you’d been drinking, but I thought it’d be okay. You’d stopped drinking and were trying to sober up.”
My stomach turns sour. “What are you saying?”
“I was in the car.” She folds her arms and squeezes her eyes shut. “I remember it all. The sick thunking sound. The screeching tires. The silence in those seconds after and before we . . . I know my dad covered it up. I wanted you to know that I know.”
I just stare at her. I can’t speak. There’s nothing to be said. She knows about this prison I’m trapped in. And she’s been trapped here, too. All this time. “How could you keep this secret? Why didn’t you stop me, Trish?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t remember anything after leaving the party.” I don’t even remember leaving the party.
“I know you don’t. Consider yourself lucky.”
I shake my head. “I hit them and I just . . . drove away? I can’t fucking remember.”
“Stopping wouldn’t have changed anything,” she whispers.
I squeeze my eyes shut, as if this new piece of information might make the memory appear in my brain, but nothing’s there.
“I’m an idiot,” she whispers. “I thought the best way I could get Brogan’s attention was to hurt him. I thought the worst I could do to him was to be with you. I thought he’d see pictures of us together and hear people talking about how we were all over each other. I wanted to hurt him so he’d wake up and realize he wanted me more than he wanted her.”
