by Lexi Ryan
“I guess I understand that,” he says. “The accident reports weren’t any help?”
“Accident reports?” I ask.
He grins. “Yeah. You can get them online—assuming a report was filed.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll do it for you. I should have some free time in the next few days or so. You have a lot going on with the Woodisons and Brogan and everything.”
“Thanks. That means a lot to me.”
“I do want to help you,” he says. “I like you, Mia.”
I stare at him a long time. “I like you too, Sebastian. But . . .”
He groans. “I knew that but was coming.”
This should be easy, but it’s not. After months of feeling so little, I’m overwhelmed with emotions that seem to contradict each other. One moment, I’m frustrated with Arrow and confused about where I stand with him, and the next I’m so swamped by grief I can hardly breathe. Brogan is dying, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Even if I should give Sebastian a real chance, I don’t have the emotional energy. “No, it’s just that I like you too, but I’m not ready.”
He picks up his fork and nods. “Okay, but for now . . . friends?”
I smile, relieved. “Yeah. Friends would be great. Thank you.”
* * *
I lie in my room in the darkness and listen to the fall of Arrow’s footsteps down the hall.
When I came home from my date with Sebastian, Arrow was out at the pool with Mason, Chris, and a few others I don’t know very well. I heard everyone leave half an hour ago, and I’ve been lying here trying to convince myself not to go to Arrow. I don’t care what Gwen thinks. My reluctance to go to him isn’t about her. But every time I think about Brogan dying—about putting him in the ground in the same cemetery where my brother is buried—I feel numb all over. I’m scared. I’m the tightrope walker standing on her platform and knowing her net is gone, knowing the only way forward is to take a step.
Arrow keeps telling me I didn’t die that night, and I want that to be true, but I’m not sure it is. I’m not sure I’m brave enough to keep going.
With a deep breath and shaking hands, I go to his room and open the door without knocking. He stands by the window, illuminated by the bedside lamp. He’s in a pair of gym shorts, his chest bare.
“Did I wake you?” he asks.
Closing the door behind me, I shake my head. “I wasn’t sleeping.”
“How are you holding up?”
I walk to him. I don’t want to talk. And I know I shouldn’t, but I take his hand and slide it up my shirt, pressing it between my breasts and against my beating heart.
He draws in a ragged breath and squeezes his eyes shut. “Mia.”
I guide his hand down again, lead his fingertips to sweep across my belly and under the waistband of my shorts. Through every inch I guide his hand, his eyes lock on mine, dark, intense, as if he’s searching for truth.
“Touch me again,” I whisper. I’m reaching out, trying to take that first step. Every inch of me trembles.
He grips my hip tightly and his eyes scan my face, study my lips, then he releases me and steps back. “I can’t, Mia.” He turns back to the window and buries his hands in his hair. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I just can’t.”
Arrow
This is my fault. I touched her. I lied to myself and touched her when I had no right.
I want to touch her so badly, I can practically feel the slick heat between her legs, but I can’t. Not tonight.
Last semester, I tried everything to erase the memory of her from my mind. Pot, meth, alcohol binges, lines of coke—nothing worked, and I was lucky because even though the judge made me go to rehab, I wasn’t an addict. Even when I was chasing my next high, there was nothing I wanted as much as I wanted Mia Mendez.
“You . . .” she whispers. “I thought . . .”
It’s still true. I can’t think of a single thing I want more than her. Especially at this moment when these secrets are too much and my guilt is too heavy. I could lose myself in her. Touching her would chase away the ugliest parts of this world, let me hide from the ugliest parts of myself.
And that’s exactly why I can’t do it.
“Mrs. Barrett called before I came up.” I swallow hard as I watch her moment of mortification melt away. “I’m sorry, Mia.”
“He’s gone.” She wraps her arms around her waist and squeezes her eyes shut. “Shit. I’m sorry I came in here. I’m sorry I . . .” She shakes her head and rushes from the room.
“Mia.” I go after her, but she closes her door before I can get there. I lean my head against it and spread my fingertips over the wood. “Don’t shut me out.” I’m not being fair. I pushed her away, and now I’m asking her to let me in.
“Go away, Arrow. I need to be alone.”
Turning my back to the door, I lean against it and spot Gwen just outside the baby’s door.
She studies Mia’s closed door and then looks at me. “Would you tell Mia that Uriah and I are taking an impromptu trip to Louisville? Mom’s keeping the baby, but we’ll be gone a few days.”
I grimace. “Brogan just died. The funeral will be this weekend.”
She sighs heavily. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Dad should be there. It’s not a bad drive. He could come back and—”
“It’s not always about you, Arrow.”
I clench my fists and bite my tongue. “Fine. Have fun.”
She nods and starts toward the stairs, then stops and turns back to me. “Piece of advice, Arrow?” She tilts her head to study my face. “About Mia?”
I don’t want any advice from her—especially not now and especially not about Mia—and I can only set my jaw and stare at her, hoping she’ll go away.
Her façade seems to crumble with every second she stares back. No more perfect trophy wife, only a vulnerable young woman. “Don’t try to compete with a dead man,” she says. “The dead always win. Take it from someone who knows.”
Mia
The line at the visitation extends out the door of the Blackhawk Valley Catholic Church and all the way around the block. It’s full of college students, football players, coaches, Blackhawk Hills University professors and administration, and residents of Blackhawk Valley who have probably known Brogan from the day he was born. Some of the crowd he grew up with gathers here and there. Some of them make jokes, tell stories, and laugh together while they wait. Others wait in complete silence, stepping forward when they can, pausing when they must. A receiving line of grief.
I keep thinking about what Brogan would think of this line. I think he’d be surprised to see all these people came out for him. I think he’d say, “Don’t you all have something more interesting to do than stare at me? I mean, I’m good-looking, but I’m still a dead guy.”
But in a world full of ugliness, you just have to take the time to say goodbye when you lose one of the good guys. And despite what Brogan thought in those last lucid moments on Deadman’s Curve, despite his mistakes and terrible judgment that night, he was one of the best.
Brogan’s mom and younger brother stand at the foot of the casket, shaking hands and hugging people as they come by. Mr. Barrett stands at the other end, his jaw working like he has to swallow back tears he’s determined not to shed in front of this crowd. Lying in the casket in between is Brogan, half the man he used to be, his cheeks hollowed out, his shoulders narrow, his body a weak imitation of the powerful force it once was.
The funeral is tonight, and I still can’t bring myself to promise I’ll sing. Mrs. Barrett is being unbelievably patient with me and told me the organist will play either way, but she hopes I’ll do the vocals.
Arrow’s there, and I’m so relieved to see his face and have his strength so close. He’s not Brogan’s competition. Not his replacement. Here and now, he’s a reminder of what Brogan once was.
Wordlessly, he takes my hand and threads our fingers. Just a
squeeze, and then he pulls away. The gesture seems to reassure me it’s all right, and at the same time remind me that I have to let Brogan go. This is what he would want.
“She asked me to speak tonight,” he says, his gaze steady on the front of the room and the overgrown line slowly crawling its way past Brogan. “And I just keep thinking the last time I spoke with Brogan, I wanted to punch him. He wanted to punch me. I keep thinking, should I really be the one to speak at this guy’s funeral?”
I hate that I can’t touch him here. I want to curl into him. We should hold each other while we talk about this. “If Brogan could choose, I think he’d say yes.”
He grimaces and swallows hard, as if the idea of Brogan making the request hurts him somewhere deep. “You don’t understand the irony, Mia.”
“I know Brogan,” I say. “He’d tell you that a moment of anger doesn’t change the fact that you spent most of your lives closer than brothers. Because as much as your fight sucked and as angry as we were with each other, it was a moment among thousands and thousands of moments. Any regrets you have from that night are nothing in the scope of your bond.”
Arrow stares at some point beyond my shoulder and lifts his chin. His eyes glisten with tears, and I stare with some sick fascination with seeing them fall. He needs to cry—if not for Brogan then for himself and what he lost last night. Maybe privately he’s shed as many tears as I have, but I doubt it. Crying is a luxury Arrow would deny himself.
“It’s okay to be scared,” I say. “No one wants to give the eulogy for someone they were close to, because it’s an invitation for everyone to see all your vulnerabilities.”
“Brogan would call me a pussy.” He releases a puff of air and his lips curl into a soft smile.
“You gonna do it?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’ve gotta.”
“She wants me to sing,” I say.
He levels his gaze on me with no judgment or expectation. “Will you?”
“I don’t know if I still can. I don’t remember the last time I sang. It was . . .”
“Before?”
I hold his gaze and nod. “Before.”
“I think it’s time, then, Mia. Maybe it’ll help you let him go.” He brushes my hair behind my ear, and the soft touch makes me waver toward him. “You have to forgive yourself. You weren’t driving the car.”
Pulling back, I stand up straighter. “I’m looking for the person who was.”
His face hardens. “What?”
“The police don’t care. They haven’t even looked. I’m doing it myself. I need to find out who was driving the car. Sebastian’s helping me.”
“Arrow!” Mrs. Barrett calls, waving her hand in the air. “Can you come over here a minute? I want you to meet Brogan’s cousin, Eddy.”
He nods and looks to me as he steps away. “Mia, we need to talk. Soon.”
I don’t need another guy telling me that answers won’t bring my brother back, but I’m not going to pick a fight with Arrow. Not here. “Okay. You know where to find me.”
Arrow
This day has been surreal. Sure, there are the assholes who crack jokes about how “lucky” I am for this day of freedom from my house arrest, and there are the guys on my team who seem to be willing to go to any length to make each other laugh. But then there’s Mia telling me she’s looking for the person who hit Brogan and her brother. And now there are all these people filling the church pews in front of me, waiting for me to speak.
“Brogan was . . .” My voice cracks and the mic reverberates through the church speakers. I clench my fist and ignore the fact that there are more than one hundred people staring at me and waiting for me to say something that will help make this horrible moment more bearable.
I never cared for public speaking.
When you’re a hotshot football player, it comes with the territory. You talk to your team. To the press. You give a speech at high school graduation when they recognize you as the senior athlete of the year. At the draft, you stand behind the podium and say your thanks to the team that took a chance on you.
In December, I thought a potential draft acceptance speech was the scariest thing I’d have to do in the coming year.
Until this. This is hell. I’m supposed to talk to all these people about a man I loved like he was my own brother. A guy who was closer to family to me than anyone else in my life. I’m supposed to talk about the man whose girl I stole and whose life I took.
Fuck. It’s my very worst crime, my ugliest sin, and I can’t even remember it. I keep waiting for flashes of being in the car, the screeching tires. But I get nothing.
The whole congregation stares at me, waiting for me to speak. I let them wait. I need a goddamn minute.
“Arrow?” Chris asks from the front row. “You okay, man?”
I nod. I need to tell Mia.
How can I speak about Brogan when that’s all I can think on repeat? I need to tell Mia. Mia needs to hear it from me. I have to figure out how I can do that without fucking up Coach’s life, how I can tell her the truth without her going to the authorities. If it were just me, it would already be done. I’d be serving my time, and Mia would be hating me as she should. But Coach doesn’t deserve to be punished when all he was doing was trying to protect me.
I have to tell her.
Women shift in their seats, and men clear their throats, filling in the silence as they wait.
“We’re all here to say goodbye to Brogan,” I say, “but most of us don’t have a clue how to do that. Putting a man like Brogan in the earth before his life had really begun feels like burying a dream. It feels like choosing the nightmare instead. It feels like staying in the cave, cold and shivering, and knowing that all you have to do to feel the sun is walk outside. So many of us have spent the weeks leading up to this moment talking to Brogan and holding his hand and lying to ourselves that the sun was waiting out there for us. That we could wake up from the nightmare at any minute.”
Lifting my eyes, I’m greeted with a sea of my teammates in black suits. These are the men who show no fear on the field, but right now their faces show all the fear I’m feeling. I clear my throat and turn to look at Brogan—maybe the only guy here who doesn’t look half terrified.
Looking at him helps me go on. “Part of saying goodbye, I’m learning, is accepting that there is no choice. We don’t get to choose the sunlight over the cold inside the cave. We don’t get to choose the dream over the nightmare. Part of saying goodbye is accepting there are things in this world that are out of our control.”
A sob rises from the crowd. Trish is curled into Coach’s chest, and he’s stroking her hair. Mia’s sitting between Chris and Mason, her face pale, her cheeks dry. She’s not even holding a tissue.
“Someone told me that faith isn’t about trying to understand why God did what He did. It isn’t about trying to make sense of His plan for us. It’s simply the acceptance that some things are out of our control and that’s okay. Maybe that’s why Brogan gave us time. He took the slow way out of this world, and we had months to say our goodbyes. Or maybe he just didn’t want to let go. This is a guy who was so full of life and so full of love. He and I were like brothers before I even understood what that meant. We liked all the same things. The same teams, the same position in football . . . the same girls.”
That gets a few laughs, and I smile.
“I’m an only child—or was until a couple of months ago. Brogan taught me what family is. Family is letting someone make a mistake, letting them hurt you without it changing how you feel about them.”
In front of me, Chris meets my gaze and nods. Two rows back, Trish pulls out of her father’s arms and wipes her eyes.
“He wasn’t perfect. He had a temper. Made rash decisions. Had a selfish streak. More or less, he was the average college guy when it came to his faults. But he didn’t expect perfection from anyone else. It made him so easy to love. There were very few things he wasn’t willing to give. It was easy to get selfi
sh loving Brogan. He wanted the people he loved to have everything. In seventh grade, I punched him because I found out he kissed Emily Sauer and I had a crush on her. He just smiled at me, lip all bloody, and said, ‘Sorry, man. I didn’t know. Go get her.’ There were very few things Brogan went after in this world that he wasn’t willing to give to someone else.”
My eyes go to Mia, and she has her hand pressed hard between her breasts, as if she needs it there to hold her heart together.
“Very few things,” I repeat. I turn toward the casket. “Buddy, I’m sorry I didn’t get out of the way. I’m sorry I didn’t take the punch now and then and tell you to go after it.” I release a puff of air that’s supposed to be laughter and look at the ceiling as I bite back a curse. “I can hear him. Like he’s right here. I can hear him telling me it’s okay. That was Brogan. He’d forgive me. Even if I don’t deserve to be forgiven.”
My gaze lands on Mia. “I know he’d forgive me. He was always faster to forgive me than I was to forgive myself, but I’m going to try. For him. And you guys should, too. Let go of any of the regrets you had concerning Brogan, because he’d tell you that it’s okay. That’s the kind of guy he was.”
Mrs. Barrett steps up to the podium and puts her hand on my arm before drawing me into a hug. “Thank you,” she whispers. “I needed to hear that.”
