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I make my way to the extra bathroom to get ready and flip on the light, in major need of a good tooth scrubbing. The pain killers are giving me the worst kind of cotton mouth and—“What the hell?” I stare into the mirror, look down at my shirt, then back in the mirror. “Thatbastard,” I hiss at the gaudy team logo staring back at me.
He put me in his goddamn team T-shirt! Seeing the name of my team’s rival splattered across my chest makes me feel dirty. I pull at the shirt and try to lift it over my head, but I can’t work my fingers around the material. “Get this off me,” I groan, making another attempt. That little weasel. I thought he was doing a nice thing, helping me out. He had an ulterior motive the whole time. “Oh, he's so dead.”
I bet he laughed the entire time he was slipping it over my head. And I said thank you. “Ah! So. Dead!” I finally get it off but snag one of my bandages. “Ow, ow, ow.” Shit, that hurt. I toss the shirt in the trash where it belongs. “Oh, he’s going to pay for that.”
My anger builds as I make a half-assed attempt at brushing my teeth. Holding the toothbrush is almost impossible. Washing out my mouth is even more so. When I finish, I stomp back to my room before the open door down the hall catches my attention. I take a few seconds, debating whether to mind my own business or snoop. Three seconds pass, and I go back down the hall and knock to see if he’s in there.
“Ben?”
When he doesn’t answer, I head in. The first thing I do is scan his room. The bed looks the same. Big. Comfortable. Inviting. “Don’t do it,” I scold myself, remembering how it felt to be sprawled on it. His pillows smell like him. The silky sheets were smooth between my fingers as I dug into them. Dismissing the bed, I move on, running my claws over the top of his dresser. I open the first drawer and peek inside. Boxers. Socks. Boring. I close it and open the second drawer. A row of identical T-shirts, all sporting a fire department logo. “Why couldn’t he put me in one of these?” I decide he won’t know if one is missing and snatch it off the top.
Closing that drawer, I move to the nightstand on the right side of the bed. On top is a framed photo of a man in a firefighter suit and a little boy. His father. Ben looks about ten years old. His smile radiates from ear to ear. His dad looks proud. Even though I never met him, I bet he was a great man just looking at this photo. The photo next to it is Ben in his football gear. I don’t recognize the colors, so it must have been from college. I’m curious why he has it showcased. As a reminder? It breaks my heart to know he sacrificed his future to come home. He could have been someone amazing on the field. He still succeeded, just in a different way.
My curiosity has me opening his nightstand drawer, ready to find porn or something guy related. My eyes widen in surprise. Reaching down, I pick up a Bible, open it to the first page, and read the inscription.
Ben,
May God guide you when you struggle to guide yourself.
Dad
I flip through page after page of highlighted passages. A small card slips from the book, and I bend to pick it up. My heart squeezes when I turn it over and see his father’s face. His memorial card. Guilts punches me in the gut. I slide the card back into the Bible and place it in his drawer. I shouldn’t have snooped through his things. Seeing that message. . . it was private and not meant for me.
Abandoning the search for his sports gear, I close the drawer and head back to my room. My anger subsides as guilt takes the reins. Not enough to give back his firefighter shirt, though. I bring it to my nose and inhale his scent, my eyes catching on a black dress draped over the chair in the corner. There’s a note on top. Walking over, I drop the shirt and fumble with the note until I get it open.
Thought this might be the easiest to get on by yourself. Unless, of course, you choose to stay in the T-shirt all day.
Ben
Ugh. . . I hate him and like him at the same time.
I carefully wrestle into the dress so I don’t snag another bandage. I’m slipping my feet into a pair of sandals when I hear a knock. I make my way to his door, and my eyes widen when I make out Jenny through the peephole.
“Hey,” I say, surprise in my tone as I open the door. “How did you know—?”
“So, youarestaying here.” Her smile doesn’t fully reach her eyes.
“Jenny, it’s not like—”
“You all didn’t have to lie to me. I just wanted to make sure you were taken care of. You’re my friend and—”
“Please stop. This is my fault.” I haul her inside and wrap my arms around her the best I can. “I’m sorry. Iamyour friend.” I pull away. Her eyes are filled with tears. “This is my fault. This shouldn’t have been a secret. It’s just. . . I haven’t been honest with you about who Ben is and our past.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come sit with me.” I lead her to the couch, and we take a seat. I don’t even know where to begin, but telling the truth is a start. “I’ve known Ben since we were kids.” Her eyes widen. “Well, I was thirteen when we met, and he was seventeen. I told you Hannah and I have been friends since we were kids. Well, in junior high, she kind of adopted me. We were inseparable. I was at her house all the time—so were her brother and his friends. That’s how I met Ben.”
“Did you two date or something?”
“Date?” I snicker. “Far from it. We were basically enemies. Did anything and everything to jab at each other any chance we got. We were awful to each other.”
“That’s messed up—for a seventeen-year-old to be so mean to a kid.”
“Yes. And no. My birthday was after the school deadline. Not to mention, I was held back for missing so much school. I was already thirteen when most kids in my class were turning twelve.” She sits there quietly. “Anyway, I moved away just before I turned fourteen, and we kind of reunited when I came back here.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Let me guess. Because you two don’t hate each other anymore?”
“Because you liked him. I didn’t want my past with him to interfere. And it didn’t matter.”
