Page 156 of These Secret Years

I take a shaky breath, the pure shock of it all pouring through me, lighting all my nerve endings with warm, unpleasant sparks. “I think…I think your dad died of a heart attack today.”

“But how?” he asks softly and so sweetly it makes my heart hurt.

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen to him. It was supposed to be me getting that call. My father was the junkie. My father is the one with the heart condition. When I got the call, I would have nodded along with whoever called saying, yes, yes, I understand. Thank you for letting me know. And I would have believed it, because of course he died. It was never going to happen any other way. I’ve prepared for that call for half my life, but Knight? “I don’t know.”

“It’s just not possible,” he’s saying.

I swallow hard, unsure how to respond.

“I need to talk to my mom. She wouldn’t joke about something like this.”

His phone screen is open again, and when his mother answers with a shaky, baleful, “Knight, baby…” my boyfriend’s face—his life—breaks.

Chapter Thirty-Five

KNIGHT

Sullivan’s got Deandre dealing with this. With me as I swing wildly back and forth between denial and devastation. I. Do. Not. Know. How. To. Cope. With. This.

Those words are on my tongue, on my mind, maybe tattooed on the backs of my hands.

Someone, not me, books a flight that I somehow wind up on, sitting between Dillon and Derek who are being pretty stoic, all things considered. Dillon cries some, but he’s a quiet crier. Silent, even. I’m not understanding it. A flash of reality hits me once we’re in the car on the way from the airport. I’m trying to text Sullivan when a news piece about how the death of Eric Winters has blindsided the sports world flashes on my screen. Derek takes the phone out of my hand before I get a chance to read the article.

I still don’t know what happened. Heart attack. Died. Nothing they could do. But why the fuck not?

Still, I don’t try to get the phone back from Derek. The news is sinking in slowly. Dad is dead. And yet, that part of it makes no sense either.

“Can you let Sullivan know I’m here? Or tell Deandre to?”

Deandre’s voice, deep and obvious, comes from the front seat of the Uber. “I’ll text him. He’ll be here tomorrow, remember?”

No. I didn’t remember that. But good. Good because as unpredictable as he is, Sullivan makes sense to me. He makes sense the way football does. He’s the thing I’m meant to do. What I was born for, no matter what Dad thinks.

Thought?

No. None of this can be right. I’m so fucking confused. If he were dead, I’d be crying, wouldn’t I? I know how to cry. I’ve done it plenty—usually in private, though. Maybe that’s why I’m not crying. Too many people. Or maybe this is all some stupid excuse to get me here a week before I was planning to be here.

Though, that doesn’t explain why Deandre’s here. He’s never come home with me. But maybe I’m misunderstanding something. Maybe Derek was talking. We’ve all got Sullivan’s number. He’s our friend.

“Why didn’t he come with me?” I ask.

“The flight only had four sets left. He wanted me to stay with you.”

Yeah, that’s definitely D. He’s turned to look at me now from the front seat. He’s for sure here. “That sounds like him,” I say, and I’m quiet for a second, and then I add, again in total confusion. “But he’s my boyfriend.”

“Exactly.” Derek speaks up as he sometimes—rarely—does. “And we’re the only ones who know that right now.”

“I don’t care who knows that,” I say. This argument is one I can do. I’ve had this one. I know how it goes.

“One thing at a time,” Derek says.

“Exactly,” Deandre adds.

Dillon sniffs.

No one wants to argue apparently, because how can I argue with that?

“Can I have my phone back please? I want to call him.”