Page 160 of Hard Pass

He doesn’t say a word when he opens it a few minutes later. He doesn’t even look my way as he pads across the bedroom and out to the stairs.

I flop back on the bed, frustrated at my failed attempt.

Guilt eats at me for asking. I practice my apology in my head as I brush my teeth and do my skin care routine.

The house is deathly quiet when I come downstairs. So quiet that I pause at the bottom step, acknowledging that an apology, practiced or not, might not fix this right away.

But then I see it.

The pink mug he uses for me on the kitchen island, steam curling from the top. My coffee exactly how I like it.

Of course it is. Because even when he shuts down, he still shows kindness.

I pick it up, wrapping my hands around the warmth, and glance toward the back patio where the sliding glass door is open. Cole is out there, sitting on one of the lounge chairs. His knees are bent with his feet on the cushion, his elbows are on those knees, and his head is hanging down.

He doesn’t look angry . . . he just looks worn. Exhausted in a way that’s so much more than just physical.

I need to apologize. I may have played off my question as curiosity, but I was prying and that was shitty of me.

I stand in the doorway.

“Hey,” I say cautiously.

He doesn’t look up right away. “Can you come out here?” he asks quietly.

“Sure.”

He only lifts his head to look at me when I’m close to him. He shifts over in the lounge chair so that I sit down next to his thighs, facing him.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to push.”

He exhales. It’s long and slow and sounds like a decision being made. “You didn’t push. You have every right to ask questions.”

“And you have every right to refuse to answer them. It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

He stares out at nothing for a second and then sighs like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. “My dad.” He stops and clears his throat. I hold my breath afraid to . . . I don’t even know what. “I’ve never talked about him, about . . . what you saw that night. It’s kind of been the undercurrent of my life that no one knows about. My secret.”

He scrubs a hand over his face like he’s trying to figure out how to even start, and I remain silent.

“That wasn’t new,” he finally says. “That night in the rain? That wasn’t some one-off.” He shakes his head and I hate that he won’t look at me. “That’s just . . . how it’s always been.”

It’s what I’d assumed, but I’d hoped I was wrong. Hearing him say it makes my chest ache.

“The sad thing? I didn’t know that wasn’t the norm,” he says.

“Not sad. That’s all you knew.”

He huffs out a quiet breath, gaze still fixed somewhere over the fence. “It was middle school, I think. My friend asked me to come over after the game. I was tired and pissed because I’d played like shit. I really didn’t feel like going but went simply to avoid my dad and the wrath I knew was coming. His dad was at work, so I figured I’d at least buy myself a few hours of peace before the criticism started.” A humorless, ghost of a smile shadows his mouth. “Man, imagine my surprise when we’re in the middle of playing video games—something I would never have been allowed to do at my house after losing a game—and his dad walked in the door, home early from work.”

I stay quiet but link my fingers with his in a silent show of support.

“I thought we were screwed. We lost. We were playing games. And then when his dad came into his room and asked my friend how he thought he did”—Cole sucks in a breath—“I shrunk in the corner, waiting for the fury. But fuck, my friend just shrugged and said he’d missed a couple of reads and could’ve played better. And his dad just . . . nodded. He stood up, ruffled his hair and said, ‘You’ll get it next time. I’m proud of you.’”

The words hang there between us. Words that millions of parents say to their kids every day. Words that were foreign to Cole.

“I remember standing there thinking what the hell was that? Like . . . they were speaking a different language. I even asked my friend, if that was all he’d say. If there was more that was going to happen after I left and he looked at me like I was crazy and asked what I meant.” He shakes his head, his sigh shaky. “Then I went home and got what I expected.”

He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to.