I go slow, taking a route that passes Abby’s house because I’m a sucker and the torture reminds me that a part of her wanted me, too. Her car is gone, which maybe means her mom finally caved and took it in for new tires. Things for her are about to get really hard, and as messy as my parents’ relationship is, the one between her mom and dad has years of complications woven into it. She’s only shared the tip of the iceberg with me.
I stayed locked in my room until Hayden left, but I saw him haul out my dad’s guitar, so he’s at least going to try. Even his poor skills on the thing are going to make her swoon. I get in our driveway, parked in the place where our—I mean his—car normally rests, and sit there for a few minutes with my engine off.
Maybe this is all I need to get myself to grow up. I need to take ball more seriously, and I have to send some emails to coaches on my own. My dad was doing the work for us, but it’s probably not on his mind right now. I want to get out of this place, go somewhere warm maybe. Basketball in California sounds nicer and nicer.
I leave my car, renewed about my direction. I’m so wide awake and sober on a Saturday night that I might get started making my plans tonight. I practically skip through the garage, my mom’s van unmoved for the entire day. I find her already asleep upstairs, her TV on low and a box of things she brought up from the garage on the bed in front of her. I recognize my Little League jersey right away, and pull it loose from the pile. Hayden’s is snagged on it, so I bring them both in my hands, noting how they’re both Youth mediums. He’s number one and I was number two, which makes me smile and laugh to myself. I bet he loved being number one just this once. I remember how excited he was when dad threw the jersey at him. I’d asked to be number two, but not to be nice. I wanted to be Derek Jeter.
My mom lets out a light snore, so I set the shirts on the bed and pull her blanket over her arms. She’s still wearing the same clothes she had on earlier. She’s probably been cleaning all day, or reliving better times by going through boxes like this one. The sight makes me both happy and deeply sad.
I back out of her room and pull her door closed, not wanting to disturb her. Hayden’s door is wide open, and I think about closing his door too, but instead pause at the entrance and look at all of the things inside to remind me who he really is. His closet door is open, exposing his perfectly hung shirts and pants. Who hangs their joggers? Hayden does. The space smells clean, like lemon, and not because mom whisked through with her laundry basket, grumbling while she picked up socks and boxers, but because Hayden actually cleans things. We have matching quilts; they’re made of old jerseys that we wore throughout the years. His is tucked in and even, ready for military inspection. Mine has a peanut butter stain on it from a protein bar I ate two weeks ago, and I don’t think I’ve ever folded a thing in my life.
I’m smiling as I back out of his room, somehow a bit of the hostility I’ve been clinging to easing. But the carefree moment is quickly replaced with the tight squeeze of suspicion when I step into my room and find Dad’s old guitar resting on my bed. My light smile drops, the corners of my mouth like arrows pointing to my feet. I stand over the instrument and run my finger along the D-string, making it vibrate with an eerie buzz. I know Hayden took this with him. At some point, though, he brought it back. He left it here for me to find.
Glancing back over my shoulder, I half expect to find him standing in my doorway, waiting to punch my other eye out. The hallway is dark and silent, though. A quick check on social media brings Hayden up blank. He’s turned his location settings off, which usually means he’s out at McCaffey’s place. Nobody shares their location out there, mostly