Once they’re gone, I push all my notes away, and open up the novel. The illustration on the cover is as bleak as the title, a grey and dreary painting of the London skyline, distorted by fog. But inside, even though it might seem dull at first, the story is complex and layered, kind of funny, definitely challenging. This is what they’re talking about when they say you can’t judge a book by its cover. If you only looked at the jacket, you might think you already know this story and leave it on the shelf. Write it off without reading a single page. But when you dig in, dedicate time to understanding it, there’s a lot going on beneath the surface.
It reminds me of something else.
‘Charles Dickens’s longest and famously most complex novel now,’ I tell myself as I open my notebook and uncap my pen. ‘Figuring out the inner workings of a twenty-year-old guy’s mind later.’
It’s always better to get the easy task out of the way first.
38
Ethan
Waking up is a challenge and when I finally come around, I wish I hadn’t. It’s a little after eleven according to my alarm clock. I’ve been out cold for hours after knocking back one of the two Ambiens my mom gave me for the flight over, tucked away in the bottom of my travel wallet.
After making sure she got back to her room safely, I couldn’t sleep for shit knowing Mia was in her bed right on the other side of the wall. The restraint I showed outside was nothing compared to the will power needed to stay in my room instead of banging down her door, begging her forgiveness, and after she realized how I really felt, I’d have taken her right there on the floor, against the wall, everywhere, anywhere, however she wanted it. What a time to choose to be a gentleman. Mia only wants me as a rebound? Fine. Great, even. I was stupid to imagine I could ever be more to someone like her.
‘Give me a break, Ethan.’
As if she’s going to choose me. When Mia Meyers looks my way, all she sees is a dumb jock stereotype. I don’t like how I look through her eyes.
Afternoon practice doesn’t start until twelve which still leaves me with way too much time on my hands. Pacing up and down my room isn’t helping but I can’t face the ref or fake casual conversationwith the baristas at The Snug. What I need is to talk to someone who really knows me, someone who doesn’t think I’m the biggest piece of shit on the face of the earth. When I can’t think of anyone, I almost laugh out loud. Mom hasn’t exactly been my biggest cheerleader since the accident and Dad would’ve been last on the list even before. How can a man work as a lawyer, have the patience to spend weeks, months, years on a case, but fail to find a shred of tolerance when it comes to his own family? Chris was always my go-to guy for everything from pep talks to deep and meaningfuls – he has a gift for finding the balance between what I want to hear and what I need to be told. But I don’t even have his number. I could try one of the guys on the team, Assad or Michael, but they’re probably sleeping off their hangovers and it’s not like I could tell them the whole truth anyhow.
There’s only one other person I can think of.
Along with my mom’s sleeping pills, there was a small square photograph tucked into the leather travel wallet on my desk. Bre’s high school senior portrait. She gave it to me the first week of school at Marshall. Walked right up to me, pressed it against my chest, wrote her phone number on the back, then put it in my hand before walking away. How could I not fall for her right then and there? I dig it out and hold the tiny square at arm’s length. Looking at her now is like looking at a stranger. Long copper hair, pale green eyes, knowing smile. Perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect posture. Perfect everything. At least on the surface. No one was ever allowed to know what was happening on the inside. Not even me.
Sticking the photo in the pocket of my shorts, I pull out the phone card they gave us at enrolment and head for the payphone outside our flat. I can’t call from here. If Mia comes out and sees me, I don’t know what I’ll do. So, I jog downstairs, slip out thefront door and let myself into the neighbouring dorm, taking the stairs two at a time until I’m at the top floor. The phone sits unused, the hallway silent. I dial her number then slump against the wall, sliding down to the floor as I wait for the call to connect.
‘Hello?’
Her voice hits me like cold shower.
‘Hello?’ Bre says again. ‘Who is this?’
‘Hey,’ I reply, pulling my knees up under my chin. ‘It’s Ethan.’
I’m expecting her to hang up but she doesn’t, even though I’m half hoping she will. What am I planning to say to her?
‘What the heck, Ethan? It’s a Sunday and it’s not even seven a.m..’
I gnaw on a hangnail on my thumb. ‘Figured you’d be up for church.’
‘I’m not going.’ There’s a pause. ‘My parents are on vacation.’
Showing up at church every Sunday was a big deal to Mr Kershaw. All part of the happy family performance he puts on to keep the electorate content. Being a politician in the South is a family business, after all. Breanna wasn’t really interested but the payments on her Jeep and her credit card depended on keeping up appearances. What was she driving now? I wonder if she got another Jeep. I don’t know if I could even look at one after everything that went down.
‘I meant it when I asked you not to call me,’ she says, quiet but not tender. ‘What do you want?’
WhatdoI want? It’s a good question.
‘Just wanted to check in, make sure you’re okay.’
‘No, you didn’t. You called me because there’s no one else you can call.’
She’s right, as usual.
‘How are you doing?’ she asks and I can only laugh.
‘Not great,’ I say before shaking my head at the falsehood. ‘Actually, that’s not even true. Classes are good, soccer is good, it’s just …’
