The energy shifts instantly. Mom’s face lights up. Josh and Lance fist bump like they’re still in high school.
“Lance has been traded to the Ironclads.” Dad’s pride could power the whole state. “They’re announcing it tomorrow. We got the new hometown starting quarterback right here.”
My mouth turns to sand. The Ironclads. The team whose stadium we could see from our backyard. The team whose jerseys we all wore as kids, before I traded mine for hockey gear.
“That’s great.” The words scrape out.
“Great? It’s phenomenal!” Mom practically glows. “A real career achievement. Something to be proud of.”
“Not like some people who can’t even figure out their next move,” Caleb mutters, but loud enough for everyone to hear.
They talk over each other about contracts and signing bonuses and hometown hero status. I become furniture. Background noise. A ghost at my own family’s table.
“You could learn something from your brother,” Dad says, pointing at the screen. “About perseverance. About making the right choices.”
“I need to go help Niall with something.” I mutter, my head suddenly pounding and panic rising.
“Of course you do,” Mom sighs. “Running away again.”
I hang up before they notice I’m gone. Before I can say something I’ll regret. Or worse, before I start believing every word they say.
I stumble to the bedroom—bare walls, unmade bed, nothing that makes it mine. Back to the kitchen. The living room. Pacing like an animal. I suddenly know what I need to do.
My running shoes are by the door. My wrist already aches in anticipation, but I pull on athletic pants and a windbreaker anyway. The familiar pre-run ritual: compression sleeve for the wrist, double-knotted laces, keys in the zippered pocket. My body knows this dance, even if it protests every movement.
The neighborhood is all sledding kids and Christmas quiet. I take a new route, pushing toward the park. My breath comes out in white clouds that disappear instantly. The cold finds every gap in my clothing, and my wrist starts its familiar complaint—a dull ache that spreads from the impact point up through my forearm.
Ridiculous. That’s what this is. Absolute bullshit. They insisted on this call just to twist the knife. Just to make sure I remember my place in the family hierarchy.
I push harder. My muscles burn in protest. The wrist pain sharpens with each arm swing, traveling up like electricity through damaged wires.
They wanted this. Wanted to embarrass me. Wanted to remind me that I’m the one who chose wrong, who is wrong, who will always be wrong in their eyes.
The park gives way to downtown. Every shop closed, wreaths on dark windows like mourning decorations. The pub’s open sign glows lonely on the corner. The familiar downtown stretch where Devin probably walks, maybe to that coffee shop she always loved. I push that thoughtaway.
I should cut them off. Block their numbers. Pretend they don’t exist.
But I can’t. If something happened—if one of them needed me and I wasn’t there?—
Pain shoots through my wrist, sharp enough to steal my breath. It starts at the old fracture site, radiates through the surrounding tissue like shrapnel.
“Ah.” The hiss escapes through clenched teeth.
I’m a mile from home, at least. Stopping won’t help. I focus on breathing, keeping my arm as still as possible while maintaining pace. The pain climbs from four to six, then higher, each footfall sending shockwaves through the damaged bones. My fingers start to tingle, then go numb—never a good sign.
Good. Better to think about this than them. Better to focus on something I can actually control, even if that control is just deciding how much pain I’m willing to endure. The wrist throbs with each heartbeat now, a drumbeat of damage that drowns out my family’s voices.
The stairs to my apartment might as well be Everest. Each step sends fire up my arm. I grip the railing with my good hand, practically hauling myself up while my damaged wrist hangs useless at my side, swollen and angry beneath the compression sleeve. The hot shower helps, somewhat. I let the water run over the wrist until the bathroom fills with steam, until I can flex my fingers again without wanting to scream. Fresh clothes make me feel almost human.
My wrist throbs in time with my heartbeat, drowning out thoughts of Lance’s victory lap and my parents’ disappointment and the way they all looked right through me. The pain is almost welcome now, a focal point that keeps me grounded in the present instead of spiraling into the past or future.
I guess that’s the upside of all this. With this bum wrist, I have something to worry about other than being a black sheep.
Silver linings, right?
Chapter Seven
Devin
