the last twenty-four hours. The purple bags hooked under his eyes clearly give that away.
“That’s what makes it a classic. You can’t call a movie a classic if it came out during your lifetime.”
“What about Titanic? That’s a classic and we were around for that one.”
I lift up the Diet Coke can from the bedside tray and take a swig. The fizz tickles my nose and I scrunch it up to bite back the tingling sensation that gathers at the bridge of it. “Okay—I take that back. Anything involving epic, historical disasters can be considered classics.” I take another gulp of the soda and my eyes burn from the carbonation. “So in that case, the footage from your game against Westmoore last week counts, too.”
Mike laughs a deep, pained chuckle. “That hurts, Sis, that hurts.” His hazel eyes stretch open, and then soften slightly. “How’s your leg?” Mike’s voice embodies an uneasy tenor that I’ve never heard out of him before. I don’t like it. And I don’t like that it sends shivers up my spine.
“My leg is fine.” For all I know, the injury could be the size of a splinter. I’ve yet to actually see—or feel—the real damage. They have me so hopped up on drugs and it so carefully wrapped that if it weren’t for the fact that I’m in a hospital wearing this ridiculous, backless frock, I’d think my leg had just temporarily fallen asleep.
“I wanna see it.”
I shake my head. “I have to keep it covered up until they come around to change the bandages later. But I’ll take a pic with my phone for you if you want.”
“You don’t have a phone anymore, Maggie.”
Damn. He’s right. Apparently, during the crash my cell, previously perched delicately on my thigh, was sent through the windshield and crushed into a million pieces under the tread of a passing semi. Better it than me though, I suppose.
“Let me borrow yours. I’ll take a pic and you can use it as your background wallpaper.”
“Gross.” Mikey crinkles his nose in disgust. “Did you not get the memo that you’re supposed to be a girl?”
I roll my eyes at him, deliberately slow so he can get the full effect of my annoyance. “I got the memo. There just were too many instructions so I decided not to follow too closely.”
“At some point you’ll have to turn into a woman, you know. Nineteen sounds like a good age, don’t you think?”
“I am a woman, Mikey. I’m just not a girly-girl. But I’m not a dude, make no mistake of that.”
Mikey shrugs. Seeing him sitting here is so ill fitting. Nothing about him looks remotely sick. He’s a tall, hulking, eighteen-year-old football player. His cheeks hold a healthy pink flush and a golden tan glows across his skin. And his near-shoulder length, sandy blond hair appears freshly washed. He’s the very picture of perfect health. At least on the outside. But apparently we have machines that can see past that outward picture—that can view what’s underneath, what’s growing and festering under the surface without our knowledge of its silent existence.
“Plus,” I continue, “you’ve got girl hair, so there’s no room to talk.”
“Sadie likes my hair,” Mikey defends, sweeping several strands from his face. He really could be the envy of every high school girl with those natural honey highlights and the slight wave that curls through the length of it. “Actually, all the chicks like my hair.”
“Well, the dudes like my quick wit and ability to deal with all things gross.”
“Really, Mags. And what dudes would those be?”
I bite back the sarcastic remark that wants to fly out to verbally slap Mikey in the face. “Brian liked it for three years. That’s gotta say something.”
“Yeah.” Mikey brings a hand up to his square jaw and drags his finger across the blond stubble forming there. “But he dropped you the second he rushed that frat. Your lack of girly-girl sorority status seemed to hurt you a bit in that department, Sis.”
“Whatever.” I stare into the opening of my soda can and rotate it side to side, sloshing the contents around just enough so they creep to the mouth of it, but don’t spill over. “Brian is a tool.”
“A colossal tool.”
A tool that I’d given every single part of myself to for the past three years. A tool that I’d willingly handed over my time, my social life, and my body to, over and over again, like some track stuck on repeat. Yeah, Brian was