Page 68 of Never Your Valentine

Of course she doesn’t. But I want her to. I want her to know how broken I am. Then maybe she’ll understand why I can’t give her what she needs.

I have hot water now so I grab the sponge and get busy. The suds smell like spring, like fresh breezes and open air, like letting go.

“It wasn’t just that Triss was fooling around with Coach Dewitt,” I tell her. “It’s how I found out.”

She reaches past me for freezer containers and starts portioning out leftover soup. She’s giving me space to talk. She’s waiting for me to go on. I rinse a glass, then another. Start on spoons. I finish the silverware before I can continue.

“My best friend Ricky tried to tell me. He was hinting around, trying to get me to see it, and I wouldn’t listen. He finally told me straight out.”

Annabelle snaps a lid on a container. “That must have been difficult.”

“Here’s the part you don’t know.” I stare into the sink. “Nobody knows about it because we never told anyone. When Ricky finally clued me in, I called him a filthy liar, said that he was trying to ruin things with me and Triss. I took a swing at him. He fought back, because he had to. We beat the crap out of each other.”

I handle the sharp knives carefully, shepherding them all the way through the wash and rinse, placing them gently in the drainer. Annabelle has the big soup pot empty now and she hands it over. She puts her arms around me from behind, pressing her cheek to my back. She holds me as I run water and rinse the pot twice before scrubbing it clean.

“It didn’t end until I broke Ricky’s arm. We both had football scholarships to Michigan State. Ricky lost his because of me. I turned my scholarship down, because how could I go if Ricky couldn’t?”

“Oh, shit.”

“I ruined both of our futures,” I say. “And for what?”

I grip the edge of the sink. Annabelle breathes into my back but doesn’t let go. “What happened to him?” she asks.

“He went to Michigan Tech, got into computer programming, and got rich. He lives in Atlanta now.” The drainer is full so I grab a drying towel. “He says things turned out for the best. Says he’s forgotten about it. But I’ll never forget. I learned my lesson.”

“What…lesson?”

“People will be awful to you and they’ll hurt you. Other people will make you hurt them. And it’s always the wrong people who get hurt.”

“So what do you do about it?” Annabelle opens a cupboard and stacks bowls. “You apologize, and you say you screwed up, and they forgive you. That’s how humans get along. That’s how the world works.”

“Not for me.” I hold a glass up to the light to make sure it’s thoroughly dry. “That’s not how the world works for me.”

“Yes, it does. You just don’t accept it. You’ve already decided you’re unfixable.”

“I’m not sure what fixing looks like.”

But maybe I’m starting to. Maybe it looks like a shared pot of soup. Half a box of crackers. Eyes full of understanding. Maybe fixing isn’t all that far away. Maybe it’s right across the hall.

Two days later, I’m in the rage room booth with Felix. He’s wearing his glasses, so I’m dealing with serious Felix right now. He’s got his laptop open, finalizing the catering order for Saturday’s glow and arrow trip, but he’s mostly watching the rage room below us. Blake is setting up empty whiskey bottles and smashing them with a baseball bat one by one. He isn’t using music. He never does.

“You don’t have to be here, you know,” I tell Felix. “I got this.”

“Oh, but I want to,” he says. “The spectacle.”

“Did he say what happened?” I ask as Blake slaughters a row of margarita glasses.

“A woman.”

“It’s always a woman.”

Everyone processes emotions in their own way. Blake uses the rage room to cleanse his system after a breakup. Cole comes in for a once-a-year smash in December, working out his birthday issues. Felix comes in every Thursday, but for him, it’s recreation. He breaks things for the same reason he does anything—because he thinks it’s fun. I’m just glad I can be here for my brothers, in whatever way they need.

Blake still has ten minutes left. I watch for a bit, then get out my phone. I’ve been thinking about Ricky, and how we lost touch when he moved to Atlanta. I wonder if his email is the same. I try it, tapping out a simple message with my thumbs. I keep it very surface-level, the kind of “How are you doing?” email you send after years of silence. I tell him I’m doing well, snap a picture of the rage room, and hit send. I sit back in my chair, feeling lighter.

Felix shuts his computer and regards me over the top of his glasses.

“What?” I ask.