“Mind? Why would I mind?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe because of what happened.”
Callan puts his hand up. “Stop. Coach was a sick man.” His voice wavers between anger and bitterness. “What he did to me was wrong and unforgivable, but he didn’t do it because he was gay or because he was into kinky stuff or anything like that. He did it because he was a sick monster on a power trip. You couldn’t be more different from him if you tried. I know you’d never do anything like that. I know you’d never hurt anyone. I might not understand what you’re into or why you enjoy it, but I’m not going to judge you for it either.” He glares at the gathering darkness, jaw clenched so hard I can see his cheek muscles twitching.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” The fire and pain have gone from his voice, replaced by weariness. He walks the swing back and then lifts his feet off the ground. “Do you remember trying to swing as high as we could?”
I can’t blame him for changing the subject.
“We thought we could touch the stars with our feet,” I say.
“I reckon we still could. Come on.”
“We’re too old.”
“Never!”
Callan uses the motion of his legs to swing higher and higher. For a moment, he looks more like the boy I remember: happy and carefree. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Watch or join in. I wish I could look back on our childhood together and only feel happiness, but every memory is tainted. I can’t begin to imagine how Callan feels about it all. I wasn’t the one who was hurt. I was the one who blew the whistle.
“Callan.”
He stops the swing.
“Will you tell me what happened to you after you left?”
Callan glances at me from the corners of his eyes. “Everything?”
“Everything.”
5
CALLAN
I’m not sure I want to tell Rory everything. But fair’s fair.
“I was angry too.” I hiss the words out like they’re vile things. “I felt like I was being punished for what Coach had done. I was the one who had to leave. I was the one who lost my friends and my home. My parents took me to therapy every week and told me to talk. Talk. Like that was going to change anything. I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to forget. I wanted the pain, shame, and anger to disappear.”
“None of it was your fault,” Rory says stiffly.
“I know that now. But at the time—” I drag a breath into my lungs. It hurts. “That’s why I started drinking. I forgot when I was plastered. I fooled myself into thinking drinking made everything better.” I lean forward on my knees and wipe my hands over my face. “But of course, it didn’t. I couldn’t drink the pain away. At best, I was sticking a plaster over a festering wound while hurting myself in other ways.”
I pause and stare at the sky. Stars are starting to peek out of the darkness. “Do you remember my bedroom?”
Rory follows my stare. “You had a skylight. We’d lie awake for hours looking at the stars when we had sleepovers.”
I don’t dare look at him. His voice holds too much sadness.
“You talked about becoming an astronomer,” he says. “You wanted to move to Dublin when you were older so you could work at the observatory there.”
“You were going to come with me.”
“Aye, I was. I would have. We had plans.”
I force a chuckle. “Grand plans. Did you go to uni?” Why am I asking? Rory would have mentioned it already if he had.
“No.”
