Boys of Summer (27 page)

I
wake up late. I can't find my phone anywhere—it must still be in my shorts from last night—so I don't even know what time it is, but judging from how much sunlight is flooding through my window, I know it has to be at least after eleven o'clock.

Groggy and still annoyed about my fight with Harper last night, I drag myself into the kitchen to make coffee. I'm in no mood to deal with anyone, least of all my father. But there he is. Standing by the counter with a scowl on his face that tells me I should have stayed in bed for the rest of the day.

When he sees me, he holds up an opened envelope. I cringe when I notice the familiar Vanderbilt logo in the top left-hand corner.

“What is this?” he asks.

“Um, a federal offense if that envelope has my name on it.”

“Don't be coy with me. Tell me what this is.”

I decide my best course of action is to play dumb. Fake it until you make it.

Right, Dad?

“I have no idea,” I say, opening the fridge and pulling
out a beer. Screw coffee. I'm definitely going to need something stronger. I twist off the cap and start to take a swig, but my dad swipes the bottle angrily from my hand.

“This says you haven't yet registered for the football training camp. It starts in three weeks. Why would you not register? It says they've sent you numerous e-mail reminders.”

I shrug, going back into the fridge. This time I pull out a carton of juice and take a long drink. “They must have gone to spam.”

“What's going on with you, Grayson?”

“Nothing,” I lie. “I just . . . I don't know. It slipped my mind. I'll register today if it'll make you happy.”

“If it makes
me
happy? Since when is this about
me
?”

Since always,
I think but would never dare say aloud.

“Is this about the accident?” he guesses. “Because your physical therapist says you've been cleared to play again.”

“No, Dad. It's nothing. I'll register.”

“You better,” he warns. “Because if you skip training camp, there's no way they'll let you start in the fall. And if you don't start in the fall, there's a chance they'll rescind your acceptance, which, may I remind you, was contingent on you playing football. You don't have the kind of grades to get into Vanderbilt on academics alone.”

“Thanks for reminding me of how stupid I am,” I say bitingly, and immediately wish I hadn't.

My dad's face turns bright red. He sets the beer bottle down on the counter with a
clank.
“Don't give me that attitude, Grayson. We all have strengths in life. We have to learn to win with the hand we're dealt. Whitney got the looks just like your mom, and you got the brawn. Just like me.”

“Isn't that interesting?” I muse sarcastically. “Now, is that DNA, or just selective parenting?”

My dad looks all kinds of confused. It gives me a fleeting sense of victory. “Football is your future, Grayson. Without it you have nothing left. This is not the time to dick around with your future. Ignoring something won't just make it go away.”

I let out a loud, guttural laugh. “Actually, I think that's exactly what ignoring something will do. And if you don't believe me, why don't you just ask Mom?”

Pow!

I feel a throbbing in my cheek, and my skin feels like it's been lit on fire. I'm so stunned by what just happened, it takes me a moment to process it. It's been a long time since my dad hit me. The last time was when I was eleven and I said something nasty to my sister. I don't even remember what it was. I just remember how long that bruise lasted on my cheek.

I wonder how long this one will last.

“Your mother's and my relationship is complicated and private,” my dad says, quietly seething.

The smart move would be to shut the hell up. But we've already established that intelligence is not my strong suit. “So private that you won't even acknowledge that she's gone?” I challenge, and immediately take a step back, afraid he's going to smack me again.

He doesn't. In fact, he doesn't do much of anything. He just stands there, fuming at me in silence.

So I keep going. Because apparently I'm on a real roll now.

“This whole summer I've been lying for you. Telling everyone that she's in Europe. Because God forbid anyone think less of us. God forbid anyone actually know the truth about us.”

“This discussion isn't about me,” Dad snaps. “It's about
you
and your poor choices recently. This is a precarious moment in your life, Grayson. It's not the time to be glib.”

I shake my head. I've had about enough of this. I grab the beer from the counter and take a long gulp, right in front of him. Then I press the ice-cold bottle to my swollen cheek. I turn to my dad, flashing him the fakest smile I can muster. “If you need me, I'll be in my room, dicking around with my future.”

I lock myself in my bedroom for the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon. I consider texting Harper, but I still can't find my phone. It wasn't in the pocket of my shorts. I figure it must be in the living room, but I'm not going back out there.

It's probably better that I don't text Harper anyway. That whole thing is a mess. Whenever I try to think about it or analyze it, I just end up confusing myself. The truth is, I like the way I feel when I'm around her. More than that, I have no idea. And I definitely don't know what she wants.

Am I just a convenient distraction for her?

Are we just convenient distractions for each other?

And if that's the case, then what's wrong with that? What's wrong with having a little distraction from your effed-up life?

I open my laptop and log in to my e-mail. There are eight unread messages in my inbox. Two are junk, five are from the head coach at Vanderbilt, and the most recent one is from my mom.

I freeze when I see her name in the from field.

Why is she e-mailing me? Why is she still trying to get ahold of me? Why can't she just leave me alone?

My arm immediately starts to throb. It's almost as though it sees her name and remembers. Like it
knows
that this is how it all started.

That my mom walked out. That I couldn't handle it. That I jumped into my car and drove like someone was chasing me. Drove and drove until I nearly crashed into a minivan, but swerved at the last minute and crashed into a tree instead.

It wasn't until later that I found out there was a one-month-old baby girl in that minivan. That I came this close to taking a life. A precious, newborn life that had barely even had a chance to begin yet.

Instead I took my future.

Three fractures in my right humerus, and a shattered elbow. Chance of being able to play football again: 5 percent. A number I never shared with anyone. A number I tried to ignore myself.

I suppose, in the end, it was a small price to pay.

My future for that little girl's.

I delete the e-mail from my mother without reading it. It doesn't matter what she wrote. I don't care what she has to say. She forfeited the right to share her feelings with me when she walked out that door.

Even though I'm sure it's only my imagination, the pain in my arm subsides ever so slightly as soon as the e-mail disappears from my inbox.

Now the most recent message is the latest one from the Vanderbilt coach.

The subject line reads:

FINAL REMINDER TO REGISTER FOR SUMMER TRAINING

This one I do open. I skim through the text. My eyes pick up words like “extremely important” and “all freshmen required to attend” and “admission status may be affected.”

I run my finger over the track pad until the pointer is hovering over the link at the bottom.

Click here to register.

For what feels like hours the pointer doesn't move. My fingertip stays poised on the button. My hand starts to shake. My arm starts to ache again.

What if it never heals?

What if I can never throw another perfect, game-saving spiral again?

What if my dad's right and this is
my only future?

Whitney got the beauty, and I got the brawn. But what if I don't want the brawn anymore? What if I want to be known for something else besides football? What if I never figure out what that is?

I hear the sound of a house door closing, and a minute later, through the crack in my curtains, I see my dad's car pulling out of the garage. I wait, listening, making sure no one else is home. Then I sneak out of my bedroom.

I find the football my dad has been trying to get me to toss around with him. It's still sitting on the kitchen table, like a bizarre centerpiece. Like a constant reminder of my failure as a son. I grab it and slip out to the backyard.

The sun is high and bright in the sky. Another perfect day on Winlock Harbor.

I stand by the shallow end of the pool and position the ball in my hand, lining my fingers up perfectly with the laces. I admit, it feels good to hold it again. Like a blanket you carried around as a child suddenly rediscovered in a box of old memories.

I tap the ball against my opposite hand a few times, making sure the hold is snug. My arm is already starting to
protest, as if it knows exactly what I'm warming up to do and is preempting with a healthy dose of agony.

I ignore the lightning bolts running up from my elbow, and I set up my stance so that I'm perfectly aligned with my target—the other end of the pool.

I cock my arm back, wincing as my shoulder rotates.

Then I let the ball fly.

The pain is so intense, I nearly drop to the ground. I just manage to hold myself up long enough to see the ball sputter pathetically, like a windup toy that's run out of rotations, and plummet into the center of the pool.

Even the splash it makes is pitiful.

Holding my throbbing arm, I stumble back into the house, fight to get the bottle of Advil open, and pour half the damn thing into my mouth.

I return to my computer, take one last look at the e-mail on the screen, and before I can change my mind, I click delete.

Just then there's a knock on the front door. Cradling my still-screaming arm, I hobble out into the living room and swing open the door.

Mike is standing on our front porch.

“Hey!” I say, surprised to see him here on a Sunday. It's not like we really hang out anymore. “Did I forget to leave you the last check?”

“No,” he says soberly, and there's something in his voice that I can't quite identify. Accusation? Distrust? Defeat?

He holds up his right hand, and suddenly the world starts spinning way too fast. Out of control. I search for something to grab on to. But there's nothing.

Accusation.

It was definitely accusation that I heard.

I stare numbly at the phone clutched between his fingers,
trying to pinpoint the exact moment when my life went so far off track.

Mike narrows his eyes at me and speaks very slowly, enunciating every word so that they echo endlessly inside my brain. “I want to know why you have twenty-two text messages from Harper on your phone.”

MIKE

G
rayson stares at me for a long moment, his right arm cradled awkwardly in his left. It took me all night to work up the nerve to come here. All night I stared at those text messages, reading them over and over again. Analyzing them. Dissecting them. Trying not to assume the worst.

But what else is there to assume? Especially when your ex-girlfriend is texting your best friend things like:

I'm sorry for freaking out earlier.

This is all uncharted territory for me. I can't figure out what to make of it yet.

Can we meet?

That last one was time stamped at 11:02 p.m. Why did Harper want to meet him at eleven o'clock at night? Why was she freaking out? And what was uncharted territory?

These are all of the pressing questions I hoped to convey with a single look when Grayson opened the door, but I don't seem to be conveying any of it, because he just kind of
stares back at me like he doesn't even know why I'm here. Like this isn't the big deal that I think it is, and I shouldn't be as stressed out as I am.