Holding On

by Allie Everhart

  The guilt was too much and it got even worse when the doctor came in and told me my friends were dead.

  It was then that I shut down. I turned off all emotion and tried to figure out what to do next. I couldn't go home. There was no way I'd survive living with my parents again. I'd had three years of freedom, not even going back for summer breaks, so moving back into their house wasn't an option.

  I'd already leased an apartment here for the summer but it was on the second floor so wouldn't work for the month or two I'd be spending in a wheelchair and the weeks after that that I'd be on crutches.

  While still in the hospital, I went online and found a house for rent. A one level house that's handicap accessible. Having to even search for listings that were handicap accessible blew my mind. I've been an athlete for most of my life, so calling myself 'handicapped' even for a short period of time, seemed surreal. Like I was talking about someone else.

  "How can you live like this?" my mother says as she walks back into the living room. "There's rotting food in your bedroom." She takes out her phone. "I'm calling a cleaning company this instant." She scrolls through her phone.

  "We're not taking the goddamn offer!" my dad yells at whoever he's talking to. "Tell them it'll have to wait until I get back. We're not doing this over the phone." He pauses to listen, glancing at me for the first time since he arrived. "I don't know. Maybe I could be there tomorrow."

  Tomorrow. He's been here less than five minutes and he's already planning to leave? My parents were supposed to stay for the week but I knew it'd never happen. They're type A personalities. If they aren't constantly busy, they go crazy. I've never seen them relax, even on vacation. So spending a week with their son in small town Ohio is enough to give them a mental breakdown.

  My dad finishes his call, then sits across from me in the leather chair, dressed in his custom-made suit, his ten thousand dollar watch peeking through the sleeve of his dress shirt. His hair is slicked back, dyed dark brown but left with just enough streaks of gray to convey a sense of authority and experience to the young men entrusting him with their multimillion dollar careers.

  "So...how are things?" He fakes a smile, the same one he gives to athletes he no longer wants to represent. Either they're not performing the way he wanted, or they're not making enough money, or they're too much work to manage. Whatever the reason, when he's ready to dump them, he gives them that smile.

  And now he's giving it to me.

  "Things are fine," I say, clenching my teeth. His fake smile is pissing me off but I don't want to start an argument. It wouldn't take much. I'm on edge having him here and I'd really just like him to leave. And I know he desperately wants to. He's only here because my mother forced him.

  "Someone will be here on Thursday," she says, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch. "It's the soonest I could get. Your father and I will cover the cost." She sets her phone down on the coffee table. "We'll get you a room at the hotel until then. It's not sanitary to live under these conditions."

  I fight back an eye roll. The house is a mess but it's not unlivable. She should see the apartments of some of the guys on the team. Sometimes you can't even see the floor. By comparison, my place is clean. And if my mom was really that concerned, she could clean up the place herself. But she'd never do it. She doesn't clean. She even put it in the marriage contract she made with my dad. Did I mention she's also a lawyer? But not the same kind as my dad. She does family law, specifically high profile divorces, which are a dime a dozen in L.A.

  "I don't need a hotel," I tell her. "It's not that bad."

  My dad's eyes zero in on my leg. "I spoke with your doctor."

  "You what?" I straighten up on the couch. "Why the hell would you talk to my doctor?"

  He clears his throat. "I'm your father. I was concerned about your treatment. The physicians in this town can't possibly know what they're doing. If they did, they wouldn't live here."

  "My doctor graduated from Columbia," I say, trying to keep my voice calm.

  When I said I don't feel any emotion, that wasn't entirely correct. I do feel one emotion. Anger. And it comes out whenever my dad's around. Like right now? I'm furious, my blood boiling. I'm 21 fucking years old. A fully-functioning adult who has lived on my own for three years. My dad has no right to interfere with my medical care.

  "He's in Ohio because he grew up here," I explain. "Not because he's incompetent."

  "Still," my dad says. "I needed to make sure he was doing all he could to get you walking again."

  "He can't make it heal any faster. It's bone. It heals on its own time."

  "I'm going to consult with some orthopedists in L.A. See if they have a differing opinion. They have access to the top research facilities. They might know of something your small town doctor is unaware of."

  I shake my head. "It's a broken leg. I'm not going to a research hospital for a broken leg."

  "It's more than a broken leg. It determines your future. If you don't get the appropriate treatment and don't heal properly, your chances of playing in the pros are over."

  "You seriously think I'll be able to play professionally? After breaking my leg so bad I needed surgery?" I laugh, a harsh humorless laugh. "I didn't know you were such an optimist."

  The lines in his forehead crease as he leans forward, pointing his finger at me. "You think this is a joke? You think I spent the last fifteen years preparing you for this, hiring the best trainers, only for you to give up?"

  "Andrew," my mother says, trying to calm his temper.

  "Stay out of this, Claire." He keeps his eyes on mine. "This is not the end. I've seen guys bust out a knee and be back on the field the next season. You're younger than them. Stronger. You can be back out there this fall if you put forth the effort."

  I clench my jaw. "I can't train with a broken leg."

  "Your doctor said you'd be on crutches soon. After that, the cast will come off and you'll be walking again. By August you could be back in the gym."

  "Just because the cast is off doesn't mean I'll be able to play again."

  "If that's your attitude, then no, you won't." He sits back. "I shouldn't be surprised you're acting this way. You always were a quitter."

  I ball my fists but keep quiet. I refuse to get into this with him. It's not worth arguing about. If you don't do what he says, you're a quitter. It's as simple as that. I can't win. Even when I do what he says, it's still not good enough.

  "Well," my mom says as she picks up her phone, "how about some dinner? I could call and make a reservation somewhere."

  "This town doesn't have restaurants that take reservations," my dad says. "Don't you remember that from last time?"

  "Regardless, we still have to eat so we'll just have to pick a place. What was the name of that restaurant we ate last time?"

  My father texts someone on his phone.

  "Andrew."

  He glances up from his phone. "What?" He bites out the word, angry that she interrupted him.

  She glares at him. "Never mind."

  Even when they bicker, my parents remain civil to each other. They rarely raise their voices. But that doesn't mean they're in love. Their marriage is a business arrangement. They both thought it would benefit their careers to be married. It would make them appear stable. Dependable. And they assumed having a child would make them seem caring and responsible. But in both roles, as spouse and parent, they put forth little effort. Just enough to keep up appearances but nothing more.

  "I don't need to eat," I say. "I'm not hungry."

  "Ethan, don't be that way." She's angry about my mood, but how the hell does she expect me to act? I have a broken leg, an uncertain future, and three dead friends.

  "You guys just go ahead," I say.

  "We're not going without you. You have to eat. What have you been doing all these weeks for food?"

  She asks me this now? I've been out of the hospital, living on my own, for six weeks. Did she even consider this before today? H
as she even wondered how I'm doing?

  My parents haven't been here since the accident. They came right after it happened and spent a couple days, then insisted they had to get back to L.A.

  Weeks later, when I was released from the hospital, they said they'd help me move into the house, but then they never came, saying something came up at work, so I had to call Jackson to come help me. He lives four hours away and has a summer job but still managed to find time to drive down here and move me into this house. He got me some groceries, and when they ran out, he offered to drive back here and get me some more but I couldn't ask him to do that. I told him Coach has been taking me shopping, but that was a lie. I haven't spoken to Coach since he visited me in the hospital. So as for food, I've been ordering takeout from the pizza place down the street or the Chinese restaurant near campus.

  My dad gets up from the chair. "Claire, if he doesn't want to go, we'll just bring him something back."

  "Or you could make something," I say. "There's a grill out back."

  They both stare at me, not sure if I'm kidding or being serious. Neither one of them cooks. They have a chef who comes to the house once a week and prepares meals that my parents can just heat and eat when they get home. But the meals usually don't get eaten because my parents eat out all the time with clients or business associates.

  My mom gives me an unamused smile. "Very funny, Ethan. Now just tell us where you'd like to have dinner."

  "How about The Chicken Shack?" I act totally serious but I'm just joking. There's no way in hell they'd ever go to The Chicken Shack. Personally, I love the place, which makes me wonder if maybe I was adopted. I'm not like either one of them. It wouldn't surprise me if my parents adopted me. I can't imagine my mom ever being pregnant. She's rail thin and has a panic attack if she gains a pound.

  My dad knows I'm messing with them and dismisses me by checking his phone.

  "What do you think, Mom?"

  She shakes her head. "Anything with the name 'shack' in it is not a place I'm willing to eat."

  I shrug. "It's just a name. The place itself isn't bad. And the food is really good. It's hand-breaded chicken."

  "Let's try something else. What else do you like?"

  Actually, now that I brought it up, The Chicken Shack sounds really good. I haven't been there for months and I wasn't kidding when I said they had good chicken.

  "How about this little French restaurant on the other side of town?" My mom shows it to me on her phone. She was searching for restaurants while I was talking. It's rare that I have the full attention of my parents.

  Taking her phone, I check out the restaurant. It must be new. I've never heard of it.

  "It doesn't have a ramp. I can't get in."

  My dad blows out a breath, annoyed with my wheelchair status, as if I'm inconveniencing him. Again, it pisses me off. Does he think I want to be in this chair? I fucking hate it. I'm hoping in a week or two I can convince the doctor to let me use crutches.

  "Then where do you want to go?" Now my mom's annoyed with me. Actually, she's been annoyed with me since she got here. The messy house. My attitude. The fact that I'm stuck in a wheelchair.

  Why these two even bothered coming here is beyond me.

  "There's a steakhouse on the other side of town," I say, finding it on her phone. "I've never been there but I've heard it's good."

  "Do they have more than steak?" my mother asks. She only allows herself red meat once a month so I'm assuming her comment means she's already met her monthly limit.

  "I'm not sure." I hand her the phone. "You'll have to check the menu."

  My dad goes in the kitchen to make a call while my mom reviews the menu.

  "Looks like they have fish and seafood." She scrolls down the page. "And there aren't any stairs leading to the entrance. You should be able to get in."

  "Fine. Let's go there."

  I just want to get this over with. Going out is the last thing I want to do. My parents don't know this, but other than doctor's appointments, which I had to take a cab to go to, I haven't left this house since I moved in. I don't want the town seeing the former star quarterback in a wheelchair and badgering me about when I'll be playing again.

  I'm only agreeing to go out tonight because my dad will be there. If anyone stares at me or asks questions, my dad will deal with it. Unlike me, my dad always knows the right words to use to make people either shut up or buy whatever story he's trying to sell. And in my case, his story will be that I'm recovering well and will playing ball again soon.

  My mom sighs. "We'll have to wait for your father to get off the phone. I hope he doesn't take too long. I need to get back to the hotel early tonight. I have some work to do before bed."

  So they're taking me to dinner, then dropping me off. They won't even stick around to talk or watch TV with me.

  "What about tomorrow? Are we doing anything?"

  "Your father and I have to work for a few hours in the morning. We should be over in the afternoon. We'll plan on having dinner again." She looks back at her phone.

  This is so stupid. Why did they fly out here if they're just going to spend all their time working?

  "Mom."

  "What is it, Ethan?" She types out a text.

  "Why are you guys here?"

  She finishes the text, then looks up. "What do you mean?"

  "Why did you come here?" I didn't used to be this honest with her, but after nearly dying in a car crash, sometimes I feel the need to just say what's on my mind and not hold back.

  Do it today, I tell myself. Don't wait for tomorrow. Because there may not be a tomorrow.

  She lets out a nervous laugh. "What kind of question is that? We're here to see you, of course. And see how your recovery is coming along."

  "Why? So Dad can assess if I'll be able to play football again?"

  "Ethan, that's not fair. You know your father is only concerned for your future. We both want you to be successful."

  Successful. Not happy. Successful. That's always the word they use. Because success equals happiness. The cost to achieve that success doesn't matter. Do whatever it takes. Use whatever means necessary.

  However you get there, the goal is always the same. To be the best. Better than anyone else. That's the mantra I've been given since I was a kid, and even though I don't fully agree with it, that didn't stop me from working my ass off the past three years in the hopes of being the best college quarterback in the country.

  And what do I have to show for it? A broken leg that may end my football career.

  That's the problem when you put all your energy towards a single goal. You've got no options. No backup plan. You're stuck. You can't move forward. You don't even know where to begin.

  That's the place I'm at now. Where do I go from here? If I can't play football, what the hell do I do with my life?

  Chapter Three

  Becca

  "Order up for Becca," Max sings from the kitchen.

  That's right. He sings it. All completed orders are announced with a song, and since the kitchen is open to the dining area, the customers are treated to the sound of Max's voice. It's just one of the many odd and quirky things about The Chicken Shack.

  When I first moved here, I stopped at the bright red shack thinking I'd just get dinner. But then I heard Max belting out orders like he was auditioning for a singing contest and customers ringing bells at their table when they liked their food and realized this place is more than a restaurant. It's an experience. And I liked it.

  In fact, the wacky atmosphere is what kept me coming back. I found the place to be fun, vibrant. A welcome distraction from my otherwise stressful life. A life that seems to have more downs than ups. But despite the downs, I'm doing my best to stay positive, finding those little pockets of happiness that keep me going.

  The Chicken Shack is one of those little pockets. So when I saw the Help Wanted sign a few months ago, I applied right away. I got the job and started the next day and have been work
ing here ever since.

  It's a great job, other than the fact that I leave here smelling like fried chicken. Even if you love fried chicken like I do, that smell gets old fast.

  "Becca, Becca, you light my day," Max sings as I pick up two platters from the counter. "You make my chicken go away."

  He's being dramatic, holding his hands over his heart, and I laugh to the point that I almost drop my platters.

  Max has had a crush on me since I started working here. He's asked me out at least five times, and each time I've politely turned him down. He's not my type. He's short and round with a chubby, boyish face and cheeks that always have a reddish hue that matches his curly, red hair.

  He's 25 and has lived here all his life. He's super nice and is always offering to help with whatever I need, but I can't accept his help. Doing so might lead him on and I don't want him getting the wrong idea. As nice as he is, I'll never be interested in him that way. Even if I was, I'm not looking for a boyfriend. Guys will have to wait until later, when my life isn't so complicated.

  Just as I drop off the food at table six, my phone buzzes in my apron. I hurry back to the kitchen to answer it.

  "What do you need?" I ask, a slight panic in my voice because he usually doesn't call during my shift.

  "Is there any way you could stop at the drugstore after work? The doc called in a new prescription and I forgot to get it earlier."

  "Yeah. Of course. I'm off in an hour. I'll stop by and pick it up. Anything else you need?"

  "No, that was it." He pauses. "Unless you want to bring me some leftover chicken." I hear the smile in his voice.

  I glance at Max and the pile of breaded chicken he has sitting next to the fryer. "I think I could manage that. I'll see you soon."

  "Thanks, sis. Love ya."

  "Love you too."

  That was my brother, Mike. He's the reason I'm here in this town. The reason I quit my nursing program back in Cincinnati. The reason I work two jobs.