by Natalie Lund
At some point in the night, Nate disappeared. Shane was too drunk to care. Monica pulled him by the hand upstairs and into a bedroom. The room was spinning, but he managed to count four twin beds and four desks in the room.
“Is this your room?” he asked, his voice coming out louder than he’d expected after shouting over the music in the living room. He’d learned a little bit about her that way: she liked pineapple pizza; she was majoring in communications; she’d grown up in El Paso.
“Of course it’s not my room,” she said before dragging him down onto a bed and kissing him. His teeth clacked against hers. Her body felt small under him, hard and tightly wound where Cass’s had been languid and easy. He broke the kiss and leaned over the side of this stranger’s bed, thinking he was going to throw up. Perhaps he had? Monica’s lip was curled in disgust when he turned back to her, and when he went in for another kiss, she offered him her neck instead. He kissed it obligingly, tasting something chemical. Her perfume?
She unzipped his pants and grabbed him. With Cass, he’d have been hard, but his dick sort of flopped into Monica’s hand.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Let’s just talk,” he mumbled, barely able to keep his eyes open.
* * *
• • •
Someone shoved him awake, a red-faced guy with a septum ring. “Get off my bed.”
“Monica?” Shane croaked.
“Do I look like a Monica?”
Shane stumbled out of the room, down the stairs, and outside. He pulled a map up on his phone to find Aaron’s dorm, but the lines on the map undulated and blurred. He tried to use a bush to steady himself but fell into it instead, scratching his arms up to his elbows.
A group of college girls walked by, tightening into a knot when he staggered toward them.
“I’m lost,” he said, but they changed direction all at once like a school of fish.
How could he do college if he couldn’t even handle a party or kiss a cute girl or find his way back to a dorm? Let alone the reading and papers and tests. He saw himself through a college student’s eyes—the tall, gangly kid floundering at the front of the classroom with a picture book when everyone else was studying differential equations or consumer price indexes or whatever.
Izzy was right; Cass deserved better.
He was a loser.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
NATE
Twenty-four days before
THE PULSING MUSIC and press of people’s body heat exacerbated the nausea Nate was feeling because of his knee. As soon as Shane started to kiss Monica, Nate fled the house on his crutches. Outside, it was in the eighties but it felt so cool in comparison to the party that his skin prickled with goose bumps.
He hopped down the block toward the football stadium, which hulked like an oversized dinner bowl at the edge of campus. There were plenty of people out this late, crossing the campus in small groups or walking hurriedly alone, as though trying to escape someone who was tailing them. Their voices occasionally rang out, echoing against the stone and brick buildings in a way that made it seem like they were right next to him. Unseen toads called back with their gravelly trills.
Nate heard a whistle as he neared the stadium, and his heart leapt at the familiar signal to drive his foot into the ball or to sprint toward the opponent. Right across from the stadium parking lots was a soccer field, bathed in white from overhead lights.
There were several men playing shirts versus skins. From the looks of it, they were locals borrowing the field for a late-night game. Those without shirts glistened with sweat. They were short a few players, but they still moved easily down the field, calling out in Spanish and elegantly weaving as they passed to one another.
He would never play like he once had. The ball would never be a natural extension of his feet again. His muscles wouldn’t surge with electricity as he chased an opponent. He wouldn’t feel the thrill of a goal scored. Of being hugged and smacked and encircled by cheering teammates.
If he went to college, he would spend every day reminded of what he lost. Not that colleges would be jumping to accept him. What did he have to offer them without soccer? He was worthless.
As though in agreement, Nate’s knee buckled beneath him and his armpit slammed into the crutch. He yelped.
I deserve the pain, Nate thought. After all, he’d been cocky about soccer—pretending that his talent was all genetic, that the sport was something that belonged to him, that he didn’t need anything else. Was this injury some cosmic punishment?
I deserve the pain, he thought again.
Nate’s surgery was scheduled eleven days from now, and he knew he’d feel far worse after. For now, though, he shifted his weight onto his injured knee, until the pain sparked hot behind his eyes. The sharpness took his breath away, but filled him too, like a satisfying meal. This was how he paid the debt.
“Nate?” It was Aaron. Nate turned to see his brother lit yellow by a streetlight. “You okay?” Aaron asked.
“Yeah, I just wanted some air,” Nate said.
Aaron raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. “I gotta get some sleep,” he said. “Last final tomorrow and all.”
Nate nodded. “I’ll head back with you.”
“Where’s Shane?”
“Hell if I know. Probably still with that Monica girl.”
Aaron walked slowly so Nate didn’t have to struggle to keep up. An awkward silence hung between them. For so long, they’d been at each other’s throats about everything and, after sixth grade, they’d barely been acquaintances. Honestly, Nate couldn’t say a single thing he knew about this newly square-jawed, adult Aaron. What was he majoring in? Was he dating anyone? What did he want to do with his life? It was embarrassing how little he knew about his own brother.
“It’s kind of nice you came,” Aaron said.
“It was Shane’s idea.”
“Oh.”
What a shitty thing to say. He was a terrible brother. “Thanks for putting us up,” he said. “I’ll have to come back for a football game or something. Maybe in the fall when my knee is better.”
“Yeah. That’d be good.” Aaron tapped Nate’s crutch. “This is a real shit-stick. I’m sorry it happened to you.”
“Thanks.”
Aaron grasped the back of Nate’s neck and squeezed. It was probably the first time they’d touched voluntarily in years, and Nate’s eyes welled with tears. He swiped them away before his brother could see.
* * *
• • •
At two a.m., Shane woke Nate, staggering into the dorm lounge where they were staying. He bumped into a side table, knocking the lamp onto the carpet. Nate followed Shane into the bathroom, told him to splash water on his face, and pushed him into a stall, where he immediately retched.
“How you feeling, man?” Nate asked when Shane’s heaves gave way to spitting.
Shane moaned in response and leaned against the side wall of the stall, his head dropping to his own shoulder like he was a rag doll. He seemed to be asleep for a moment but he jerked awake and struggled to shove a hand in his pocket for his phone. He squinted at the screen, like he couldn’t quite see it, before stabbing it with his finger. Nate snatched it from him. Cass’s name was on the screen.
Nate immediately ended the call. “You can’t wake her up, man,” he said. “Not like this.”
“Please. I need to talk to her.”
“Why don’t you say what you want to say to me?” Nate suggested. “And, if you still want to in the morning, you can call her then.”
Shane’s pupils were swimming like he couldn’t find a place for them to land. “I’m sorry too,” he said. “That’s what I want to say.”
“For sleeping with that Monica girl?”
“No, I couldn’t.” He gestured at his crotch. “Too drunk.”
“That’s probably for the best.”
“I need to tell Cass I’m sorry for not being enough.” He shrugged like he’d given up. “She’ll be in a place like this and I won’t be.”
“She’ll be in a dorm bathroom trying to throw up?” Nate knew what he meant, but making a joke about it seemed better than lying to his friend, trying to assure him that he’d end up wherever Cass would go.
Shane smiled sadly at Nate’s joke. “This isn’t for me,” he said.
“I don’t know if it’s for me, either,” Nate said, remembering the soccer field lit up like some sort of heavenly gift he couldn’t have.
Shane’s chin bobbed a yes before rolling onto his chest. His breathing slowed.
Nate grabbed a pillow and blanket from the lounge and tucked it around his friend. He returned to the couch where he’d been sleeping and sprawled on his back. He was wide-awake now. He took out his own phone and scrolled through his old texts. Janie’s thread was near the top.
Earlier he’d texted her that Shane was kidnapping him for a trip to visit their siblings so that she wouldn’t stop by after school. Need me to call the authorities? she’d joked. He hadn’t texted anything back. And now that he knew this place wasn’t for him, what else was there to say? Their futures would be so different. What if she didn’t want to see him when she visited from college? He didn’t know if he could handle that on top of everything else.
He navigated to her social media. Her profile photo was a cartoon version of her. She only ever posted reviews of movies she’d seen at work. The tone in her posts was playful and witty, like she was someone who’d never been crushed by her mom or peers at school. He had a feeling the person posting was the Janie she wanted to be when she left their island for college. He thought she could do it—become that person—although he’d be sad to see the Janie she was now go away. No, sad to see her leave him behind.
Was there a word for missing someone before they were gone? He closed his eyes and pictured her on the day he’d been slide-tackled, pulling her shirt off. He hadn’t been able to focus at the time because of the pain, but now, in his imagination, he could admire the tender, never-sun-kissed skin of the tops of her breasts, the outline of her nipples under the fabric of the sports bra. He wanted to roll it up and off her, to gather her large breasts in his palms, to push them into his mouth.
But he didn’t deserve to touch her. He’d been selfish for so many years, building a wall between his two worlds so that no one knew about their friendship when, really, what was the worst that could happen? Someone would laugh at him?
Nate shifted onto his side, bending his knee accidentally. Pain sliced through him and tears sprang to his eyes. It hurt like his skin was ripping, like he was about to burst through himself—blood and bone and muscle and ligament. All torn. How he wanted that bright explosion. He deserved it.
He straightened his knee, took a breath, and then bent it again.
Again.
Again.
CHAPTER THIRTY
ISRAEL
Twenty-four days before
ISRAEL KEPT READING and rereading a question on his econ final about supply and demand and then staring at its accompanying graph without being able to connect the two. His mind felt like a long tunnel that he was too exhausted to walk down.
Shane had texted the night before that he and Nate were going to visit their siblings at college. Israel was hurt they hadn’t asked him to join—not that he would have been able to miss this final, which had been scheduled earlier than most. Either it hadn’t occurred to them that he’d want to see college too—maybe even more so since he didn’t have an older sibling—or Nate was still angry at him.
Peter hadn’t responded to his last email, either, and Israel couldn’t help rewriting the message he’d sent over and over in his mind. He should have come up with another lie to keep the man talking.
“Five minutes left,” his teacher called.
“¡Coño!” Israel swore under his breath. Econ was the one class that was actually relevant to what his dad wanted him to study, but it was too late; he still had ten questions left. His only option was to skim the rest and start bubbling in answers. Israel imagined his father, as disappointed as he’d been that day Israel had told them about his dreams in the car—hard-eyed and shaking his head.
* * *
• • •
After school, Israel went directly to his car, hoping he could get out of the lot before Izzy found him and asked what was wrong. He had to try to repair the situation with Peter.
Israel drove to Lara’s house and crouched in his seat, reading the Remembered Souls forum for two hours until Peter’s small silver pickup finally pulled out of the garage. Again, Israel followed. This time to a taco place nestled in a strip mall, indiscernible, as far as Israel could tell, from every other taco place in the state. A man with clear-framed glasses held the door for an old woman hauling a plastic bag filled with tinfoil-wrapped tacos. A mother and three kids trotted toward the restaurant.
Peter climbed out of the truck, wearing cheap jeans belted tightly at the waist and a checkered button-down that was a size too large. Israel took a deep breath and got out too. If he was going to end his nightmares, if he was going to have a chance at a normal life in college where he didn’t have to explain to roommates why he woke up gasping for air each night, he had to do this now.
Inside, the three kids and mother had piled into a booth. Two had crayons and were scribbling on a paper place mat. Peter stood near a sign that said PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED, scrolling through his phone.
“Excuse me, Peter? I’m Israel Castillo. I emailed you about your dad.”
The man almost dropped his cell, but he caught it and clasped it between his hands like he needed to pray. “How did you know I was here?” he hissed, as though someone in the restaurant would overhear them. “Did you follow me?”
“Please, I just want the chance to talk to you. I don’t mean any harm.”
“A table for two?” a waitress with red lipstick asked, already gathering the menus.
“Yes,” Israel said.
“No,” Peter said at the same time.
The waitress didn’t notice or mind their disagreement. She waved them toward a booth with the menus.
“What can I get you to drink?” she asked.
“We’ll need a few minutes,” Israel said, sliding into the booth. His hands were clammy and left a smear of sweat on the hard plastic.
Peter stood stiffly, arms crossed, his eyes darting from the waitress to the kitchen and then to the door as though he were looking for an escape. “You’re a stalker. I should call the police.”
“I’m not a stalker.” His heart was pounding so loudly he thought Peter must be able to hear it, but he tried to keep his voice calm. “Let me just explain: I have this dream—”
Israel stopped as the waitress plopped a basket of chips and a small stone bowl of salsa on their table. She seemed unbothered by the fact that Peter was still standing. “Just give me a holler,” she said, turning to the table with the three kids.
“What kind of sick joke is this?” Peter whispered.
“Look, I know my email seemed crazy, but it’s not a joke. There’s a lot of us who have memories from another life. I’m in this group online, Remembered Souls, and they’re the ones who helped me find you.” He left out the part about how he was trying to find out what he hadn’t gotten right in the last life—Randolph’s life.
“What do you want, kid? I don’t have any money.”
“Please just tell me about your father.” There must have been something about how Israel said it—he was sure he sounded desperate—because Peter uncrossed his arms and sat.
“Fine. Truth is, I didn’t know him that well.”
“That’s okay,” Israel said, trying to be gentle. “What do y
ou know?”
“He and my mom met at the racetrack,” the man said, his voice warming some. “She took his bet. And she always liked to say he bet on her.”
Israel smiled. It sounded like a well-rehearsed story, like when his mother told the story of his and Izzy’s birth—how he slipped out nice and easy, but Izzy fought the whole way.
“With one stroll through the stables, he could tell when a horse was favoring a leg or missing a glint in its eye. It wasn’t a perfect system, obviously, but he won often enough to make it exciting. He took me, sometimes.” Peter looked wistfully at something behind Israel.
“You said he was a vet, right?” Israel asked as though he hadn’t memorized Peter’s emails to him.
Peter nodded. “He always smelled like cow shit and was tired all the time. He probably drove a hundred and twenty miles a day to visit all the ranches. There were days when he didn’t get home until after Mom had put me to bed. If he was back early enough, he’d come into my room to tuck me in before he headed into his home office to make phone calls and answer emails.” Peter smiled, but the expression surprised Israel with its sharpness. “Sometimes I’d hear him leave in the middle of the night because there were emergencies. My mom was always trying to get him to hire a young vet to help out, but he said it would slow him down.”
“My dad is a workaholic too.” Maybe the similarity was significant?
Peter went on as though he hadn’t heard Israel: “I respected him because he worked hard and I admired how much all the ranchers needed him. But respect and admiration aren’t the same thing as closeness, I suppose.”
This had to be the thing Randolph hadn’t gotten right in his life; he hadn’t prioritized being a father to Peter. But what could Israel possibly do to correct this if Randolph was already gone?
