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“Nobody hates you,” I said.

The sound of clinking metal by the free weights outside the locker room stretched the silence.

“I don’t know why she’s with me,” he whispered.

I blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

“Larissa. I’m not smart like you,” he said, going on. “I don’t read books. I don’t have a good job like you guys. I don’t know what the fuck to get her for her birthday—”

“So? You care enough to ask for help with it.”

He blew out a breath.

“She loves you,” I said. “Everyone loves you. I mean, come on, you’re Mike.”

“Nah.” He stared out toward the showers. “I’m the goofy guy at the party with a lampshade on his head.”

I didn’t know what to say to this. “Where is this coming from?”

He went silent. “I’ve never felt like this about someone,” he said, almost more to himself than to me. “Never. Not even with Sylvia. When I’m with her, I just… I feel like I’m getting something I’m not supposed to have. Does that make sense? Like she’s gonna realize she fucked up and she’s gonna bail. Like it’s only a matter of time.”

“She’s not gonna bail…”

He huffed and looked away from me. “She thinks I’m gonna take over for Tony. That I’m gonna have this big business and make all this money.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No, man, I’m not.” He looked back at me. “I don’t want it. I’ve never wanted it. And she’s got all this drive, she’s always doing something. And I’m just…” His jaw flexed. “You know what I was doing? When they cut my hours last month? I was telling her I was working. I’d leave and just hang out at the gym all day doing nothing. Piece of shit, right? I have to borrow money from my mom just to take her out to eat.”

I stared at him. “Mike. You’re a skilled tradesman—”

“Man, you don’t get it,” he said.

“Yeah, I do. Sometimes you have to do things you hate to get yourself to a better place. You think I liked half the crap I had to do to get the job I have? I hate Bergmans, but it’s a means to an end.”

“It’s not that,” he said, looking at me. “This wasn’t supposed to be my life, Chris.”

The last part hovered between us. No, it wasn’t supposed to be his life. I just didn’t realize he was still dealing with how things had changed.

Growing up, I’d had no idea what I wanted to be—but Mike did. When I met him at six years old, he knew he wanted to be a professional athlete. It was all he’d ever wanted, and he took it hard when it fell through.

“Are you still taking the Prozac?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I hate that stuff. It makes me feel flat. I’ve been off it for years.”

“You might just need to have your prescription adjusted. Go talk to your doctor.”

“I don’t like that I have to be on that shit.”

“Yeah, well, depression’s not great either.” I dipped my head to look him in the eye. “Are you still seeing that therapist?”

Another long silence. “No.”

“Mike. You have to take care of yourself. It’s harder to pull yourself out of it than it is to keep yourself from going down. You don’t want twelfth grade all over again.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, a little sharper than usual. “It’s just the Prozac fucks me up, makes me tired. I can’t work out like I want to on it, and I want to look good for her.”

“I don’t think she cares about that.”