“Don’t say that.” He’s taken aback by the harshness in my tone. “You deserve to be here. Whatever happened to them sucks, life sometimes sucks, but you didn’t do anything wrong.” He lowers his head to look at his knees, but I take his face between my hands, urging him to look at me. “Your death would not bring them back. You leaving will not bring them back.”
He searches my eyes, and I hope he can find what I’m trying to convey: truth and acceptance.
“I killed them,” he mutters. “They died because of me.”
At this park, surrounded by strangers, I feel like my lungs deflate and my heart leaves my chest.
“Explain. I know I can’t demand anything, but I need you to explain now.”
I drop his face but take his hands in mine. Every time I touch him, I feel this bizarre yet addictive connection I can’t explain. If he feels a sliver of that for me, I want him to anchor himself to it.
“My team was playing one of our biggest rivals in Jacksonville, and that year, we finally had a chance. We worked hard to get to where we were, and we felt confident about it. Looking back, I don’t even know why I was so focused on winning that particular game. Was it worth it? To spend the majority of my time training for it? We all want to win, but at what cost?”
I nod, drawing small circles on his wrists, letting him know I’m here.
“Because we were so close to home, Mom and Liz came to watch me play. They drove an hour for it, like they always did. They never missed a game if they could help it, and becausethey always did, it wasn’t anything special that they were coming to this specific game. Except it was. Liz had won a volleyball tournament the week before, and apparently, some scouts came to see her.”
He breathes out and closes his eyes before continuing. “We won. And I was so happy. My team was going to celebrate, and some of my friends were giving me a hard time because I wanted to go out with Mom and Liz instead. I told them I would go out for a bit before heading home to them. We were standing outside the arena when I told them, and Liz was pissed. She was so disappointed, and I couldn’t understand why. Mom eventually convinced her to let me celebrate with my friends, and they left. I promised to make it up to them, turned around, and went back inside. I never saw them again.”
Here’s when the questions invade my mental space, but I don’t want to ask or speculate. I don’t have to, because he continues.
“They were driving home and got hit head-on by a drunk driver. He was unscathed. They were gone. It was instantaneous, they said. Nothing they could’ve done. I didn’t even know until hours later, until after I left my friends and went back to their place. If I would’ve gone with them, they would still be here.”
“Oh, Holden, you don’t know that.”
Holden lifts his glasses while he wipes away a tear. “I do know. They would be here, and I wouldn’t be this broken. I wouldn’t miss them so much. They would be here.”
He traces his hand over the tattoo peeking through his shirt. I dare to raise it, sliding the sleeve up and finally taking a full look at it. A vine with three shoots going up his arm, unfinished. A few leaves are attached to them, six, to be exact. He follows my touch with his eyes, swallowing hard as I touch each one.
“Three lives lost that day.” He traces the shoots with his fingertips. “Theirs, never to be seen again, and mine as I knew it.”
I don’t want to ask about the leaves, because something tells me it has to do with it too. “A leaf for every year they’re not here and I get to continue living my life without them. How selfish of me.”
I hold his face again, this time with more conviction, letting him know I see all of him. “No. You’re not selfish.”
My assertiveness may surprise him, but I don’t let it deter me. “You arenotbroken. It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident. A terrible, shitty accident, but it wasn’t your fault. Do you understand me?”
He doesn't acknowledge my words; instead, he leans his head to my touch and closes his eyes. I wish I could take all his pain away. I wish I could make him feel better, but sometimes, we must feel it all in order to move on. Except for this guilt—he needs to get rid of it.
Guilt is like these vines. It starts small, and it grows and grows, tangling itself in everything it touches. If you leave it unaddressed, it can take over everything and leave you wilting.
“Holden, I need you to repeat it.”
His impossibly brown eyes snap open wide.
“Say it wasn’t your fault.”
He shakes his head, his jaw tense as he bounces his gaze between my eyes.
“You’re allowed to hurt. You’re allowed to miss them. You’re allowed to be angry, and you are most definitely allowed to remember them, but it wasn’t your fault. Your brain is lying to you.”
He sucks in a breath, a tear landing on his mustache.
“Say it.”
“It wasn't my fault.” His broken whispers carry between us.
“Say it again.”
