Page 33 of The Groupie

“He never showed. Because that was the day Bill committed suicide.”

She sucks in her breath and goes still. I reach out and touch her because I need to. When she doesn’t back away, I realize I half expected her to.

“I’m sorry.” Her words are an agonized whisper, matching the feeling in my gut. I look away. Swiping an unsteady hand through my hair again, I force a deep breath like, if I don’t, my body will give up breathing.

I nod. “The thing is, I never realized Bill had mental illness…depression. I never knew how my own fucking best friend suffered.” I swipe my hand, rearranging my mop of hair again and clear my throat. “We were close. We played hockey together since we were pee-wees, and he was madly proud of me for getting the scholarship. So stoked.” Facing down, away from her eyes raw with emotion, reflecting how I feel, I shake my head. Still to this day, I’m in disbelief that he would take his life over a fucking girl.

“I knew he was down about his girlfriend, but… his mom told me later that Bill had sunk into a depression after their breakup. According to her, it was the last straw but not the cause. But I don’t know. Bill was obsessed with Nora. Another symptom of the mental illness, I’m told. All I know is that even though he was sad about Nora, he laughed when he was with me, was psyched about me going to Minnesota, and already angling for tickets to every game.”

“You were only a kid. You wouldn’t know,” she says, sounding wistful, like she was never a kid.

“No. But the thing is, I still don’t understand it. Maybe I never will.” I reach up and pull at my hair because I can’t stand thinking about this. She reaches out and touches my face. Some of my tension dissipates. She brings me back to the here and now, where I belong. I hold her and drag her back down into the pillows. My chest relaxes as I breathe in her scent.

Live every day of life to the fullest. Do not look for problems; do not let life get complicated. Do not let a girl own me. Not the way Bill did.

“I’m sorry you lost your friend that way. Mental illness is a bitch.”

“No kidding. I do what I can. Charity functions to benefit research and facilities for the mentally ill, and I donate heavily to group homes.”

“Group homes?” She sounds interested and wary like I hit a nerve.

“Yeah. I didn’t know it at the time, but Bill was supposed to check into the local Newport Institute for treatment. The next day. He never made it.” My chest tightens until my breaths become shallow, and I know if I don’t do something, it’ll get worse. I’ll hyperventilate. It’s happened before. After the nightmare.

“Are you fucking with me?”

Her blurted words startle me, and I suck in a deep breath. “What are you talking about?”

“That’s the group home where I met Suzie. Or one of them. We were put there because DSS had nowhere else to put us until they had a foster home.”

“What the fuck? You’re from a foster home?”

“Long story, and we’ve had enough stories. It’s starting to get light out already.” She waves at the window and the purple horizon. She doesn’t want to talk, but my curiosity is amped.

She moves her leg and grimaces.

“How’s your ankle?” I’d almost forgotten about her injury.

“Sore as hell now that the anesthetic of sex has worn off.”

I check it out, and it’s still as swollen as yesterday.

“Stay put. I’ll get you some ice.” When I get out of bed, I’m reminded of that check into the boards last night, and I stifle a groan as I retrieve another ice pack from my supply, returning the warm one.

“You didn’t have anywhere to go today, did you? It’s Sunday. You should stay right where you are and rest.” I sit on the edge of the bed and re-wrap the ace bandage around the fresh ice pack while she watches, naked and unselfconscious about it. I toss a blanket over her, knowing the ice will make her cold. She takes it and wraps herself in it.

“Stay with me.”

“Of course, I have nowhere to go. I’m a woman of leisure.”

“Seriously, what did the doctor say about the ankle.”

She gives me a blank stare.

“Wait—you haven’t been to a doctor, have you? No ultrasound?”

“I had a med tech look at it. He said it would be fine—”

“Like hell. You need an MRI.”

“Thank you, Doctor Hockey.” She gives me a sassy look that translates as mind your fucking business. Then she adds, “I plan to call.”

“Do you need the name of a specialist?” She probably has no clue about who to see for this kind of injury.

“I have a referral to see a Dr. Oliver Yancey. I’m told he’s a good orthopedic specialist.”

“How the fuck did you get his name? He’s the top orthopedic guy in sports medicine in Boston. His practice is exclusively professional athletes.”

She shrugs.

“What aren’t you telling me?” She’s so fucking secretive it’s extreme. She doesn’t say a word. “You’re an Olympic gold medalist at keeping secrets, aren’t you?”

Her head whips up, and she glares. “Why the fuck would you say that?”

Now, that hit a raw nerve, and I like it. My surge of excitement is perverse as fuck. She’s a complicated beauty, and I should be running the other way right now. But I needed a distraction from contract negotiations, didn’t I? That must be what triggered the nightmare.

Fuck. As rationalizations go, I don’t think a weaker one exists, but I don’t care.

“Tell me, Rylee. What’s your story? The real one.”