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I breathe in his familiar scent.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Caro,” he mumbles into my hair. “I’m an idiot.”
He holds me for a while, and I just wrap my arms around him and hold him, too. Off in the distance, I hear the waves gently crashing against the shore. The tide is slowly on its way up.
Eventually, Seb pulls back. “Let’s sit.” He leads me to the back of the shack, onto the mattress, and we each lean against a corner of the wall.
I don’t want to even think about what kinds of activities have taken place on this mattress; what I might be sitting on. “Are you feeling better?” I ask, studying him more closely.
He looks tired, still. But way more like himself, and a hundred times better than he did on Saturday. “Yeah, way better.” He grins. “I slept a fucking ton.”
“That’s good.”
There’s a long silence after that, and Seb’s the one who eventually breaks it.
“It wasn’t just about the concussion Friday night,” he says, in a cautious and unsure, totally un-Seb-like voice. “I mean, it was. Sort of. But also, kind of… more than just one concussion.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
And then he explains everything—that the way he felt after the game on Friday wasn’t an isolated incident. That he’s been getting headaches and dizzy spells ever since a concussion he had at his last school in the spring. He tells me about his memory scrambling and how he forgets random little things, like names or where he put stuff. But also, bigger chunks of memories too: fooling around with a girl at a party, a conversation he had, stuff he did, places he’s been. And it isn’t getting any better.
He told Scarr about it a while ago. In the summer, when it wasn’t as bad. And swore her to secrecy. He hasn’t told anyone else about it because he was worried he’d get pulled from the football team before the finals if it got out. It’s why he didn’t tellme; he figured I’d be worried and would tell someone. His parents or the nurse or something.
And he’s right. I would have.
But still…he should have told me.
“I asked you, at least a couple of times, about the way you’re always forgetting stuff… I even asked you about the headaches. And you just shot me down.” I nudge his leg with my knee. “You had the opportunity to tell me. I could have helped you figure this out. And been there for you. But you kept me shut out.”
“It wasn’t about you, Caro,” he says softly. “It was about a stupid football game. Just a stupid trophy.”
And I don’t see even a hint of dishonesty in his eyes. Just pain and regret. Humiliation and exhaustion. And yeah, in a way, it sort of makes me feel better—that this wasn’t about me or our relationship, but about him wanting that championship win so badly. Some deep-rooted need to prove his worth. Still, the more he tells me, the more shocked I am. Horrified, really, that he has hidden this for so long. I’mangry. Because this is serious: it’s his brain. His mental health. And he placed the importance of that as secondary to a freaking football state championship.
“I know,” he says, when I tell him that. “I get that now. I mean, after the game Friday, I got it.” He pulls his ball cap off and runs his fingers through his hair. Tugs the hat back on… sighs. “I had built that game up so much,” he says. “Not just me. Everyone had. The whole school… the town, even. Everyone talks about it like it’s this huge, important thing. And like winning iseverything.” He lets out a tired laugh. “Itwaseverything to me.”
He’s quiet for a moment and I don’t say anything because I can tell he’s thinking. Working through his thoughts before he tries to explain himself, which is something that doesn’t come easily to him.
“Football’s the one thing I’m good at,” he says finally. “And I didn’t want to mess up the chance to deliver for once on people’s expectations of me instead of letting them down or messing up like I usually do.”
He averts his gaze, studying the painted walls instead, which are sectioned off in colored rectangles emblazoned with people’s names or short quotes or song lyrics. He looks so dejected right now.
I take his hand in mine and curl my short fingers around his long ones. His palm is warm, and I bring it up to my mouth and kiss it lightly. This boy who everyone believes is over-brimming with confidence and swagger. It’s what I believed not too long ago. And it’s kind of heart-breaking to realize how little he really thinks of himself.
He drops his head back against the wall. “When we won, I expected… I don’t know. I guess I expected everything to be… better, maybe? To feel on top of the world, at least. And I mean, I did. At first. Even though I felt like shit, with the puking and the dizziness and stuff, I was really happy. And then, about an hour or so into the party, I just… wasn’t anymore. Like, it suddenly seemed crazy that I’d built this championship up to be such a huge deal and really, it was just another football game. Just a stupid trophy. We were all still the same people after. My brain was still messed up. And I knew I’d fucked up with you.”
I kiss his hand again. “You didn’t fuck up with me. You fucked up not realizing you’re worth a zillion times more than your skills on a football field.” I plant a kiss on his wrist. “Honestly, your epic throwing arm is just a cool party trick in my eyes.” A kiss on his forearm. “You’re the most positive, glass-half-full person I’ve ever met.” A kiss on his bicep. “And I love the way your brain works. How you see the good in everyone and in every situation. And you’re ridiculously perceptive…” I squeeze the muscle my lips just touched. “Except when it comes to this stupid football-throwing arm of yours. For some reason, you’re convinced it’s the thing everyone values most about you.” I lift his arm and pretend to scrutinize it. “But it’s just an arm, Seb.” I pause and arch an eyebrow at him. “I mean, it’s a reallysexyarm…” My lips quirk into a smile when he flexes playfully for me. “Especially when you do that.” I slide my hand over to his chest and around to his back and squeeze him tight. “But the way you throw a ball is nowhere near the most impressive thing about you, Sebastian Murdoch.”
He plants a gentle kiss on my head. “Pretty sure the most impressive thing about me is the fact that I managed to score a girl like you,” he mumbles into my hair.
“Don’t sell yourself so short, Jock Boy,” I grin.
We stay cuddled like that as we talk a little more about the stuff that’s been going on with him. The specific symptoms, that all sound like the kind of things you experience with a concussion. And yet they’ve been going on now for months. Which makes me mad that he still hasn’t told his parents. He was planning on telling them yesterday, but he was still feeling too lousy to confront something that heavy. They’re out this evening, but he promises me he’s going to tell them tomorrow night. Dale already has him booked in to see a specialist or something next week, so maybe he’ll be able to switch the appointment to this week instead.
“I’m kind of worried, now,” Seb says softly, “that something’s really messed up with me. That maybe it’s more than something related to a concussion, and they won’t be able to fix it because I left it so long.”
I’m worried about that, too.
“No more hiding stuff from me, okay?” I urge once he’s sworn again that he’ll tell his parents tomorrow night.
