here, pointing at my eyes while the twisting goes on. I’m the one who supports Clint while he screams like they’re doing surgery on him without anesthetic. I’m the one who holds him up. And something in me kicks in—I’m not afraid. At all. No hesitation. No wondering what I’m truly capable of. I know I can handle it—for him.
Funny thing about fear, I guess, is that if you just look away from it, toward something else—like dark eyes in a beautiful face, a lock of black hair hanging over a sweaty forehead—you realize you’ve turned a full hundred-and-eighty degrees away from fear.
You’re staring straight into your own strength.
I am, anyway. As I help Clint, I’m staring into my own strength.
Clint
game-ending injury
The pain in my shoulder is so bad, I actually wish for a chainsaw. I wouldn’t think twice about cutting the whole rotten thing off, pruning myself as if I were an old oak tree.
I’m woozy and lightheaded. My thoughts come in crazy explosions instead of straight lines. Everything’s popping up at me—that ravine and the turned-over Mazda, and how wrong the ice felt afterward when I tried to play. And working all the time, like I could somehow get too busy to feel bad, to be as devastated as I really was.
And the funeral, and how I thought that burying my feelings would be just as easy as shoveling some dirt over a gap in the earth. Didn’t work, though—it hurt anyway. Hurt just as bad as my out-of-place arm.
And here I am, all over again, in the middle of another accident, but this time, a woman’s arms surround me. She’s not the source of the pain, she’s the one who’s holding me up while the pain racks me.
When the bones finally click, the worst of the searing ache subsides. I still hurt, but the relief is enough that I collapse into Chelsea. Even then, when I act like a complete mess, she lets me fall apart for a while.
Chelsea
horse
I’m alone on the patio at Pike’s, watching the lightning bugs dance in the grass. Gene is in the distance somewhere, hunting down the ATV I’ve left stuck in the mud. Clint’s at home with Cecilia, getting an extra helping of mothering. Dad’s inside, manning the cash register for Gene until someone on the waitstaff can shake away the peaceful dust of a day off and drive to the restaurant. Above, the sunset is so deep red, it’s almost purple—but that’s how the sky always acts after forcing you to live through a frightening storm. Offers something extra beautiful to look at.
The beer I’ve stolen is cool, pleasantly bitter on the back of my tongue. Every once in a while I put the bottle against my hot face.
Then the drums start kicking inside the building, life beating on as it always does no matter how much you’d just like the clocks to stop long enough for you to catch your breath.
I drain the bottle, straighten my back, and aim at a metal trash container on the edge of the patio. “Shoots and—” I say, doing a horrible imitation of Fred Richards. Launch the bottle. It soars straight into the container, thuds and crashes against the bottom.
“Scores,” I whisper, just as the back door opens behind me. Dad steps outside, staring down at me.
I glance into the tall grass, where the lightning bugs now look like miniature orange basketballs bouncing up from the green stalks.
Before I even realize exactly what I’m doing, I’m on my feet. I’m hurrying across the patio. I’m fishing that old basketball from the weeds. Dad’s eyes widen when he sees the ball in my hands.
“I’m lucky you decided to eat at that café today,” I say, dribbling.
“You would’ve figured it out,” Dad says. “You don’t need me. Never did.”
I flinch, bristling automatically against his words. He sounds like he’s feeling sorry for himself. I don’t really know what else to do, so I start to dribble angrily against the cracked patio.
“Sure didn’t need somebody pushing you so hard from the sidelines,” Dad adds.
A cold ripple travels the length of my entire body; my anger cools. “You didn’t. You—cheered. That was all.”
“I pushed,” he says, guilt washing over his face.
I squeeze the basketball, shaking my head, shocked. Was Brandon right about me being too hard on Dad? Have I been misinterpreting everything? Is Dad angry at himself?
“I was the one who worked too hard,” I say. “I was the one who pushed. It was my fault.