“Oh, baby. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I press my lips to her forehead, and she’s still shaking so much it scares me. I’ve never felt so helpless in my life. I keep squeezing and kissing and touching her, but it’s not enough. Nothing changes.
“I don’t know why,” she hiccups. “I don’t know why I’m so upset. I knew she was dead already, but . . . I can’t. I can’t stop thinking about it. I imagine it, how it must have happened. And I imagine what my life would be like if it hadn’t. And—”
She sobs harder than ever and pulls her arms tight around herself. I want her to put her arms around me, to pull me into her pain. It’s ten times worse having her curling up in this ball with me on the outside.
“I imagine that life, and I’m glad, Silas. I’m glad she died, and I got adopted. How horrible of a person does that make me that I’m glad? I talk about helping people, about being compassionate, but really I’m selfish and awful.”
She says something more, or she tries to, but she’s crying so hard that I can’t understand the words.
“You’re not. You’re not awful.” I say those words again and again, but I’m not sure she hears me.
I don’t know how to make it better, so I just do my best not to make it worse. I hold her. I hold her, and I know now why caring about another person is so damn scary. It’s not that they won’t care about you back, because that either happens or it doesn’t. You live with it or you do everything you can to change it. The really scary thing is the moment you realize that for the rest of your life, you’ll feel twice the pain, twice the joy, twice the fear.
Twice as helpless to control it all, too.
I think about what Coach told me . . . to live the way I play.
I don’t know that it’s the right thing, but I try it anyway. When a teammate is in trouble, when defenders are closing in, the best thing I can do is block for him, take the hits for him. With him.
“I’m glad, too,” I tell her. “I’m glad you were in a home where you were safe and cared for. I’m glad you were able to grow up into exactly the person you are. So, if you’re a horrible person, I am, too. But being glad for the things you have and where you are is not the same as being glad that your mother died. You’re a smart girl, and you know that life isn’t black-and-white like that. You can separate those two things. Same as I’m not glad I was suspended from the team, but I’m glad being suspended gave me a chance to know you. Everything in the world might be connected, but that doesn’t mean the way we feel about them has to be.”
It takes a while, but eventually she stops crying. She lifts her head from where she buried it in my neck and lays it on my shoulder instead. She tells me about the foster homes she remembers, and about the Brenners adopting her.
I thought I’d known who she was . . . my perfect girl who was spending all her energy trying to please and help other people. And that’s in her, sure, but it isn’t just other people she’s trying to impress. She’s been trying to convince herself that she belongs in that world, too.
And damn if I don’t know exactly how that feels.
I think about telling her about my childhood, too, but I don’t know if that will make things better or worse. Maybe it will show her she’s not alone, that the past is chasing all of us, determined to pull us back into memories long gone and pains that should be healed. Or maybe it will make her feel worse right when I’ve finally got her calm.
If there’s a chance she feels the same as me, then it’s possible she’ll take on my hurt the way I took on hers. And I don’t want to do that to her . . . not tonight.
So, instead I scoot forward a few feet and lie down in the truck bed. I keep her balanced on top of me, cradled against my body, and together we stare at the blue-black sky until the world starts to feel big again.
Chapter 24
Dylan
The night before school starts back, I’m supposed to go to this cocktail party for all the deans and regents and important alumni.
Officially, I’m going on my father’s invite. But Dad’s out of town, so I’m using it as one last-ditch effort to drum up support to keep the homeless shelter open.
And because I’m crazy (and he asked), I’m taking Silas with me. I reason with myself that it will be good for him to be in that kind of atmosphere. He’s not so great with the authority figures, and this way he can practice with me there to smooth over the rough edges.
I have no idea why he would want to go to something like this. Maybe he’s worried I might break down again like last night. Or it’s just an excuse to see me in a little black dress.
Probably the latter.
A small part of me (or a big part) was looking forward to ogling him, too. Silas Moore in a suit is probably a recipe for a heart arrhythmia. When he shows up in jeans and a nice button-down, I’m only mildly disappointed. It’s not the suit of my fantasy, but he still looks good. Tall and broad and sinfully handsome.
And to make things even better, he’s easygoing and charming. Right up until the moment we enter the party. It’s in one of the old libraries on campus, and the place is all leather and rare books and glass cases.
And Silas—he’s silent. Like try-to-pretend-you’re-a-piece-of-the-wall silent.
He seems content to just lurk by the food table, and he looks miserable every time I drag him into a conversation. So eventually I let him do his thing, and seek out a few people I know in the crowd, answering questions about school and my parents, before casually dropping mention of the shelter into conversation.
It works for a little while, but eventually I can’t stand the feeling of Silas’s eyes on me as he sulks against the wall across the room.
So I politely excuse myself from my conversation with Mrs. Simon, the little old lady I’ve been chatting with for ten minutes. She’s sweet, and she knows my father, and she could be an asset with the shelter. All reasons I should stay and talk to her, but I can’t.
“Hey, McBroody,” I say. “You know you don’t have to be here if you’re miserable. I can manage this alone.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not leaving.”
“Okaaay. Well, then can you stop glaring at everything.”
His frown deepens. “Sorry.”
I place a hand on his arm and lean closer. “Is that a ploy to try to get me to kiss you?”