“That’s him. That’s the guy who broke his neck.”
“Is that Silas Reed?”
“I heard he paralyzed the other guy.”
I kept my head down, letting Scott guide me like a child. Being with them, with my family, felt like going to a haunted house. Every conversation was a minefield. Every silence was an accusation.
But the thought of being here, alone in Orlando? That felt like prison.
We arrived at my apartment in the late afternoon. The air in Florida was thick and humid, a stark contrast to the biting cold of Charlotte. It felt wrong. The sun shouldn’t be shining.
Boxes were filled. I tried my best to help, but of course, Scott wouldn’t let me lift a damn thing.
“Sit down, Si,” Scott said gently, taking a stack of books from my hand. “Please. Just sit.”
I sat on the couch, watching them dismantle my life. Maverick went and got a U Haul. We packed my place up in a day’s time. It was pathetic, really, how little I had to show for my time here. A few pieces of furniture. Some clothes. A career that had exploded in the worst way imaginable.
My bedroom was the last thing left.
“Let me do it,” I told Scott when he came in with tape. “I need to do this myself.”
Hehesitated, looking at my sling. “Silas…”
“Please, Uncle Scott.”
He nodded, closing the door softly behind him.
I needed the isolation. Just for a few minutes. Before I went home. Before I was trapped in my childhood bedroom again, surrounded by the ghosts of the boy who thought he could change the world.
I packed things slowly, relying entirely on my right arm. It was frustrating, clumsy work. I pulled clothes off hangers, folding them messy and one handed into a duffel bag. I packed up books I hadn’t read in months.
I took down photos I had hung on the wall. Pictures of me growing up. My time on the road with guys who knew me better than my own family. A picture of me and Evan in Japan.
Then, I came face to face with it.
The Polaroid camera.
It was sitting on my shelf, gathering a thin layer of dust, taunting me like a fucking ghost.
My mind flashed, the memories hitting me like a physical blow. The day I bought it in that thrift store in Kentucky on our off day. Cal laughing at me for buying “hipster junk.” The way he posed for the first picture, eyes bright and alive.
That camera had taken a front row seat to Cal’s and my love story. It had seen us naked. It had seen us sleeping. It had seen the moments the world never would.
And now, here it sat. Alone. With nothing else to photograph.
I looked away, the pain shooting through me sharper than the tear in my shoulder. Tears built again, blurring my vision. I went to my dresser and pulled out the manila envelope I had tucked in the back of the drawer, under my socks.
I dumped it out. The Polaroids spilled onto the wood floor.
My brain collapsed.
There it was. The photo from Scotland. Cal, laying in bed, that smile. He looked so happy. He looked so… mine.
I picked it up with shaking fingers. I traced the curve of his smile.
I killed that boy,I thought, a sob ripping through my chest.I killed the boy who smiled like that.
I wiped my eyes furiously and sat on the floor, pulling out a shoebox. I couldn’t look at them anymore. It hurt too much. I put the photos in the box, face down. I put the camera in. I put in a few ticket stubs, they key card from Miami. Small items that meant nothing to anyone else, but to me, they were the artifacts of a dead civilization.
