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“Well yeah, but you can never be too prepared for them, right? I mean, finals are finals, so.”
He studies me for a beat, something like irritation passing through his features, as if he’s annoyed at the thought of finals. “And your parents.”
“My parents what?”
“Are they still giving you a hard time?” he asks bitingly. “About art school.”
Right.
So my parents haven’t talked to me in three weeks.
Ever since that weekend when I finally stood up to them like I should’ve a long time ago, they haven’t made any contact with me. Usually they have their assistants call me at the school to keep me updated of any events that I need to attend during visitation weekends. But I’ve heard nothing in the last three weeks.
I’m not sure how I feel about that.
On the one hand I’m relieved that it’s all out there now, but I’m also sad that finally owning up to my feelings has made them even more distant.
Shrugging, I tell him, “They’re the same. I think. I haven’t spoken to them since… you know.”
The party.
I can’t say it.
Because so many things happened at that party.
So many things ended and so many things began. And I just… I can’t handle it.
I can’t handle him being so close to me, looking at me like this.
Asking questions, showing concern, looking angry and agitated on my behalf like we’re still together. Like there’s still something between us when I know there isn’t.
“Can I…” I clear my throat. “Can I go? I —”
“Ledge is a good guy,” he says abruptly.
“I’m sorry?” I ask, pressing myself into the edge of the sink.
He doesn’t answer right away.
I don’t think he can. He’s suddenly gone extremely rigid. Not only his features, which were already tight and smooth to begin with, but also his body.
I can see his biceps bulging and flexing through the sleeves of his shirt. His chest isn’t faring so well either. It expands and goes all massive as he takes a breath, widening his stance.
As if preparing himself to say his next words, which come out more or less as a thick growl. “He’s my brother. The youngest brother. I’ve watched him grow up. I brought him up basically. And as I said, he’s a good kid. A little impulsive, but that’s to be expected. He’s the baby of the family. Well, after Callie.”
“Ledger is a good kid,” I repeat, unable to say anything else.
A muscle starts ticking on his cheek as he goes on, “Yes. And he’s young. A lot younger than me. He just got drafted, Ledge. And even though he’s just starting his career, I know that he’ll go far. He’s talented. A good player. Needs to think things through sometimes. But I’ll be there, helping him. And he lives in New York.”
“New York,” I parrot his words again.
A short nod. “Yes. Where you’re going. For college. So yeah.”
I’ve gone sort of numb right now, watching him, hearing him, that even when I try to say something of my own, all I can come up with is, “Yeah what?”
My question makes him go even more rigid.
He already was when he started talking.
And through it all, his stillness has only grown. His posture has only grown tighter, more brittle.
Like he’s repelling something.
Repelling his own words.
“Yeah, you should say yes,” he clips, his biceps flexing again. “To him.”
And my heart drops.
It falls right through my chest and goes down on the floor.
Like he reached inside of me, from all the way over there, plucked it right out of my rib cage as if it were a flower and threw it carelessly on the ground.
So this is what it is.
He’s come to tell me that it’s okay to date his brother.
But then…
But then I can’t shake the feeling, this other feeling that I have, right at the center of my belly. That makes me dig my nails into the first aid kit and say, “You mean about the date.”
“Yes.”
“Because he’s young,” I continue, watching him, watching the effect my words have on him. “A lot younger than you.”
He breathes through his nose. “Yes. Twelve years.”
“And because he just got drafted.”
“Correct,” he confirms, something rippling through his features. “He’s going places. He’s going to be one of the best players. He might even go to the European League. So he has a bright future.”
I stare at him for a few beats.
I stare and stare at him.
At his still form. Lifeless form.
At the fact that he can barely get any breaths in or out.
Before I say, “Unlike you.”
I think I’ve slapped him.
That’s what it looks like at least.
He draws back slightly.
Not a lot, but since I’m watching like I always do, with all my heart and soul, I notice it.
I notice a vein appearing on his forehead as I keep going, “I mean, you clearly have no future. You’re not going places. You’re staying here. You won’t even go to New York. Where he lives. And where I’m going to be.” When he doesn’t answer, I prod him, “Right?”
