He hasn’t touched the food. He hasn’t moved except to pour a steady trickle of bourbon from the bottle into the same cup, over and over.
He looks wrecked, worse than at the vigil or the funeral. His left eye is swollen, a raw purple fade up his cheekbone.
The cut above his eyebrow is still fresh. Nobody talks to him. Nobody even stands close, like he’s radioactive.
I feel a compulsion to cross the room, say something, do something.
My body leans forward, ready to rise, but I catch myself and settle back in the seat.
I watch the way he holds his drink, two hands, as if letting go would break him in half.
O’Doul notices where I’m looking and mutters, “Never seen a guy take a hit like that and keep playing.”
I grunt, “He’s got a hard head.”
But it’s not the injury that’s got him, anyone can see that. It’s the look in his eyes, the mile-long stare of someone whose brain is still trying to process the last week as anything but a nightmare.
I remember what Dr. Sharma said, about compartmentalizing. About cracks in the seal.
I wonder if Rosen is waiting for someone to say it’s okay to be fucked up. I wonder if he’d even hear it if I did.
I stay put, because that’s what I’m supposed to do. Because I don’t know how to help anyone, not even myself.
The night drags on, the stories get quieter, the crowd thins. Eventually, Coach stands and says, “He’d want us to get some rest,” and the team rises as one, automatic.
I make my way to the door, trading handshakes and back pats, hollow congratulations for surviving what nobody should have had to.
On my way out, I pass Rosen. He doesn’t look up, just swirls the dregs of his cup and keeps his gaze on the table.
I want to say something, but I don’t.
Instead, I walk out into the cold, wondering how many more shifts we’ve got before we finally break.
———
The apartment is so quiet when I get back I half-expect to find the power cut.
The hum of the fridge, the whisper of air through the vent, background noise, but now it’s the only soundtrack.
After two days of people everywhere, the emptiness presses in on me, dense as a body check.
I close the door soft, shed my shoes at the mat, and head straight for the bedroom.
The suit comes off in increments, tie first, then jacket, then the shirt with its starchy cuffs. I hang everything up, even the pants, not because I care but because leaving them on the floor would feel like surrender.
In the bathroom, I turn on the light and squint against the assault of fluorescence.
I grip the edge of the sink and study my reflection, bloodshot eyes, jawline sharp from two days of not eating, a ghost of stubble at the corners.
There’s a patch on my neck where the collar chafed the skin raw.
I try to hold my own gaze, but the face looking back at me is someone I don’t recognize. Someone cracked open, seams showing.
For just a second, everything buckles. My face crumples, eyes wet. I feel the beginning of a sob crawl up the back of my throat.
A single tear slides down my cheek.
I watch it go, a bright line, and then I wipe it away with the heel of my hand, hard enough to leave a mark. I shake out my arms, roll my shoulders, reassemble the armor.
