Page 130 of These Secret Years

My jaw clenches, but I manage to say in a decently normal voice, “I will. Wish you were here.”

“Wish I was, too.”

I don’t know why, but I’m stunned when he says that. Sure, yeah, as friends, he’s been a lot more open with me. And I guess even before that, last Spring, he started opening up more then, too, but the pure emotion in his words this time, like he really does wish he were here, with me, I don’t know where to put that except exactly where it wants to go, tucked deep in my heart where all my love lives.

How the hell am I supposed to hang up now?

“All right,” he says brokenly after a long few seconds of the two of us breathing into the microphones. “Go eat.”

“Yeah. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Hanging up, I look at myself in the mirror before it steams over completely. My heart is pounding, and there’s a deep worry line between my eyes. My lips are parted as I pant hot breath, and there’s a twisting sensation wringing me out that feels like it’s coming from my bones.

Two seconds later, I’m bent over the toilet, gagging and heaving bile forced from my gut into the water as I choke on all the secrets and lies and the pure, unadulterated misery at the idea of a life where I can’t have him.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

KNIGHT

The flight back to Missouri gets delayed because of snow on the runway. It’s a long delay, so we don’t make it back until Monday morning when the sun is bright, and the temperature is in the forties. I tried to sleep in the airport and on the plane, but after the incredible win we pulled off Saturday night, it was a while before the adrenaline let go of me.

The heart-stopping finish came down to me and D. We wound up four points behind because our defensive line got torn up and fatigued by UCP’s aggressive offense in the first half. By the fourth quarter, they weren’t able to keep up with the other team’s lightning fast wide receiver, and their clever running back was literally running circles around his coverage. Offensively, we were doing our part, marching down the field and scoring with every possession, but not always managing to land it in the end zone, having to rely more heavily on our field goal kicker than I liked.

I don’t know if it was all the cheesesteaks the bigger guys claimed to eat the day before, but the whole team felt sluggish. In the end, we needed forty yards and a touchdown. I remember Dillon and Derek looking at me with wide, earnest eyes like they’d die trying to protect me in the pocket, and Deandre with a fierce determination on his face like no way would he let me down in this game of all the games we’ve played.

Speaking to the rest of them in the huddle, I remember saying something like “Just this play, nothing else matters, keep D open, give us everything you’ve got, focus, and it’s fucking done. This win is ours.”

It came together like magic, one of those perfect moments I live for in a game. D caught my soaring pass, and ran the ball uncovered all the way to the end zone and our victory with three seconds remaining on the clock. So, not quite a Hail Mary, but it sure as hell felt like one. There were definitely prayers involved.

Sullivan’s text after the game read: you gave me an actual heart attack.

I replied: I had one too

With the delay, I’ve only got one night before my flight to Michigan leaves so I can be home for Christmas. I’m hoping Sullivan is still in town because I need to lay eyes on him more than I need to breathe, but there’s a chance I’ve missed him, and he’s already headed home. If that ends up being the case, I’ll find him in Sunrise Point.

I’ve kept myself from calling him because I have a feeling I’ll come off way too overbearing or possibly even desperate. I won’t sound like a friend with a reasonable concern about how he’s doing. I’m going to sound like how I actually feel—I’m scared. The alarm that went off when we were on the phone Friday night is still actively blaring, and no matter how many times I tell myself he’s fine, he’s talking to you, he’s home, it doesn’t change the way his voice sounded. It’s stuck in my head the way the melodies he played that first summer on the violin would get stuck there.

I hate it. I hate the way I’m panicking, and I hate the way I love him. I love him like he’s the only thing that matters, and without him, I’m fucked. Anyone who knew would tell me it’s not healthy. It’s not right to feel this way or make myself sick over someone who probably shouldn’t be in a relationship until he’s had years of therapy, but nothing stops it.

There’s no advice anyone could give me that would solve the problem of him and me, and I have no experience with anything else besides being totally enthralled with him even when I know it can’t be me who winds up with him. I can’t save someone when I haven’t even figured out how to protect myself from me.

Maybe I should be more worried about protecting him from me, but I can’t let go of this idea that he needs to see me as much as I need to see him. The way he was clinging to me in the tunnel at the Front. The fact that he finally told me about Adrian and the money and the fucking grooming. It looked like it took everything out of him, and he was giving it all to me—or he wanted to. I think he wanted to.

It’s on me to figure this out. If he wants to stay friends, whatever. It’s fine. I’ll survive. He’s not getting rid of me. But if he wants more, then I have to find a way to give him that. My dad’s always talking about how smart I am, so what the hell good is that if I can’t put together a plan to make the guy I love happy and keep him safe.

It’s what I’m telling myself as I approach his back door, stomping through snow and slush—you’re smart, you can do this, just read the field, find the openings, and come up with the perfect play.

When the latch turns, I catch my breath. It could be either of his roommates, so I shouldn’t feel so high off adrenaline suddenly, but I do, and then I see him.

For long seconds I can’t form a word or even a thought as I take him in. The bruise on his forehead, the cut on his lower lip, the blackened cheekbone. Worse, the cast around his lower right arm, covering most of his hand.

He shakes his head, slowly, mechanically as he backs away from the door, putting his casted arm behind his back, like the rest of the way he looks isn’t bad or obvious enough.

I take a slow, steadying breath as rage like I’ve never felt before boils directly beneath the surface of my skin. “Who the fuck did that to you?”

He keeps shaking his head.