“You’ve never met my mom, have you?” His laugh is bitter. “I’m incredibly inconvenient to her. And Dan thinks I just need to get back to playing ball.”
The fire crackles as we let the silence stretch.
There are times when I think the universe is conspiring for me, but it’s never in the way I want. I want things to work in the light, to land like a feather perfectly in place. Not like this, with a thud and creak, falling in front of me with a slap. Meeting Sloane felt like the former. Meeting my father was, in hindsight, the latter.
“And you think that’s a…bad idea?” I probe, gently, like I’m a fucking surgeon.
“Go back to Astor where he can pull my strings and control me even more? I’m in this pile of shit to begin with because I trusted him.” He leans back against the arm chair, knocking his head back and I watch him. His jaw works before he takes a breath and sits up. “He encouraged me to move on. Downplayed everything. And I was so desperate not to feel like…”
“Like you feel now?”
He looks at me, grimacing. “Yeah,” he laughs. “My therapist says you can’t outrun the pain. Drinking stops working when you stop doing it. And then it’s just you and all your shit.”
The notion is haunting, but somewhere, in my marrow, I know it’s true. That energy is neither created nor destroyed; that these things we do and say and keep can only be transformed into something new. Outrunning them isn’t an option, as much as we might try.
But Will is running. Staying away from Astorisrunning. It’s a coping mechanism he’s employing out of fear, notstrength, andmaybecoming back could be good for him. The realization is a relief, but then it’s sour milk in my fucking throat because I’m someone who does this. Twists things for my benefit.
“Then come back,” I tell him, beyond the sick sliding down my neck. But really: he either runs or he doesn’t. I either run or I don’t. These are the beds we’ve made, whether he realizes it or not. “Don’t let Dan manipulate you into not doing what you love. Screw Dan Chapman. Screw feeling ashamed?—”
“You don’t get it,” he huffs out. “They all hate me. And they should. I’m self-destructive. I need to…fix myself. Rehabilitate myself, if that’s even possible.”
“And that’s what you’re doing here? In this townhome designed for a geriatric patient?” I eye wheelchair lift. He probably spends his days peacefully dictating his grandfather’s daily diary and going for serene walks, and I’m asking him to watch Grant and Gen go at each other at Vida's.
“The home isaccessible,” Will corrects me, and I can’t help but roll my eyes, feeling grateful for his humor.
“Seriously, man. How much more healing can you do being so isolated?”
He swallows, his hands gripping each other. “You know, I’m not drinking. Or any of that.”
“Oh. Shit.” I blink, taking him in again. The sallowness has all but disappeared. The bags under his eyes are gone. There hasn’t been a single weekend since we met where I didn’t see him with a hangover. But that’s not uncommon in and of itself. Still, I regret not noticing. I should’ve noticed. “Shit that’s…big, Will. I’m sorry?—”
He shakes his head, smiling genuinely. “Stop. I’m not drinking, for now. I feel better. It kind of fucking sucks beingin pain all the time,” he briefly chuckles. “But at Astor…I just, I don’t know.”
“That’s fair. But we can do other things,” I reassure him, just as the heavy front door opens, a bell jingling.
“We?” Will’s brow lifts in doubt, a grin growing on his face as he stands. “Look what the cat dragged in,” he laughs, and I stand to see Ben all bundled up in his winter coat. “Gonna convince me to come back, too?”
“Me?” Ben's voice booms, shocked amusement filling the room. “No way. I don’t want you back. Do you know how much easier my life is without sharing the captain spot?”
Will turns toward me, hope glittering in the back of his gaze. “Sold.” He strides toward his brother, grinning as he knocks shoulders with him. “Don’t tempt me with a good time, Benjamin.”
“Wait—really? Are you sure that’s—” Ben starts to say, caution settling between his brows.
“Smart? No,” he sighs, sending me a genuine smile that I work hard to reciprocate despite the guilt settling in my stomach. “But I can’t live the rest of my life in spite of Dan.”
Something proud and a little smug crosses Ben’s expression as his lips tug up in a smile. “Okay,” he says, rough–housing my shoulder. “Okay.”
35
Sloane
The art institute was bustling when I arrived, but people have begun to trickle out. Amber yellow splays through the window on the farthest end of the hall, a continuous reminder of the impending dusk. This side of town is foreign to me, and my stomach lining feels thin from the meager granola bar I found in the bottom of my bag, and it took forty minutes to get here in the first place, all the way from Astor.
A pang of regret drops through my gut, but I breathe through it. It’s not the competition; it’s not the place; it’s not the hunger. It’s him—and I realize Jean was right when he told me it wasn’tnothing.He’s still pacing the hall, his gaze slicing through the work that’s been left here in preparation for the show in only a few days’ time. Doesn’t seem fair that a judge would get so much lead time before the others arrive, but then, he’s never been concerned with what’s right or fair.
My gaze falls down to where my phone rests, the screen dark. Lifting it isn’t the magic I hope it will be: still no text from Andy. The last thing he’d said was that he’d be working tonight, the last shift he’ll be able to get in before the bigconference game next weekend. I scroll back to the message he sent me a couple nights ago, because it’s now my favorite thing. He’d said:
ANDY
