Fading Out (12 page)

He laughs. “Okay. Agreed. And it will keep my head in the game, too. I really need to buckle down this semester. With the playoff coming up, I’m struggling in a couple of classes. I think we could both benefit from a friendship with a goal in mind.”

Hmm. It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it: “And what’s the benefit for me?”

His expression shutters. He turns, leaning his shoulder against the tree. “Anything you want. Name it.”

The many, conflicting things that suddenly storm my mind almost bowl me over. I struggle to stand still, the wind whipping so harshly I’m in fear of falling over. Equilibrium lost. All the things I can imagine Ryder giving me…

Putting my father in his place by taking me out on a proper date. Just to make him that much more antsy over my future prospects. Another game where he makes the team wear thongs. Or some other lacy undergarment as their uniform. An introduction into the school of Ryder Doesn’t Give a Damn. Showing me how to shrug off the world and its judgments.

The possibilities as to what I could gain from a mutually beneficial friendship with Ryder Nash are endless.

But one clear thought rises to the top.

Gaining my bearings, I roll my shoulders back and look into his face. “A date with Gavin.”

M
y body goes rigid
. Gavin’s thick face appears in my mind…and I see my fist plowing into it.

“What?” The word spits from my mouth harshly. I was going along with the idea that Ari and I would have to settle for friends—at least for now. Anything more would cause her too much trouble with her family. I was a bit sore over that at first. I don’t understand how a woman of probably twenty years of age, in today’s time, would let her family decide
whom
she can date, but it’s not really my place to question.

There are some dynamics there at work that I actually don’t
want
to understand. As long as Ari’s okay with it all, ultimately making the choice for herself, then it’s none of my business. I’ve decided I’ll discover this fact in time—I’ll figure out what to do later if it turns out differently. And besides, rushing headlong toward a girl out of my league is what got me in trouble way back when in the first place. Sometimes, we do learn from our mistakes.

But regardless, and against all better judgment, I’m unwilling to not be around her. I haven’t been able to think clearly for the last two days. My mind felt sticky, lazy, a constant awareness of her running on a loop in the background. I’m man enough to admit when I need to see something to the end—get to know this girl and get her out of my system.

I am not, however, going to set her up with my best friend. Fuck that.

She laughs, and my spine stiffens. “You’re asking me to set you up with Gavin,” I say, each word forced out through gritted teeth.

She shakes her head. “No. Not for me, for Vee.” Her head tilts, and the wind sends her soft brown curls across her cheek.

Realization dawns, and my chest loosens. A heavy breath whooshes from my mouth. “Your friend.” She nods once, affirming. “She’s into Gav?”

“That’s a gross understatement,” Ari says. “She would probably die if she knew I was even telling you.” I see her wince, as if her friend is aware of her actions right now. “Look, you can’t tell him right out. You have to be like, I don’t know, sneaky. Just casually mention to him he should ask her out, or something.”

I laugh. “That’s not exactly how guys work.” If I’m bothering to scope out some chick, enough to mention her, I’m in it for me. I sure as shit wouldn’t hint my interest to another guy, sicking the hard leg right on her. No guy would. We don’t think like women; checking out prospects for our friends.

It’s all about us. We’re selfish beasts that way.

With a sigh, Ari crosses her arms over her chest. “Well, that’s what I want, Ryder. I want Vee to have a chance with the guy she’s been infatuated with since freshman year.”

“Damn. Really? That long?” Why the hell hasn’t Gavin hooked up with her yet? She’s not bad on the eyes at all. Just the opposite.

“Just see what you can make happen,” she says, backing up a step. “And I’ll help you with whatever you need.”

“A story.”

She stops short. “Not novel length, I hope.”

A quick smile spreads across my face. “A short story. My professor is a real hard-ass on themes. Everything I’ve written so far is convoluted, or not testing my characters enough, or something. I’m not really sure what she wants from me.”

“Have you Googled her?”

“What?” I take a step closer to Ari, hating the distance she’s putting between us. I’m not ready for this lunch period to be over. For her to leave.

“Have you looked up your professor? Seen what pieces she has published. What works she favors.” She glances around, noticing the students starting to funnel into the school. “We’ll talk about it later. I’ll give you a list of things—”

“When?” I attempt to start walking beside her, but she holds up her hand.

“Just…text me. I have a class to get to.” Then she’s off. Turning and heading into the school before I can ask her anything more.

But it’s a start. I feel like we’ve been dancing around each other this whole time—not counting the actual time we danced, that is. I don’t want to let her go without confirmation that we’re going to see each other again.

God. I look up at the swaying tree branches, feeling like the biggest loser. This girl has me so wrapped around her finger, ready to do just about anything, and she doesn’t even realize it. It’s that sad. This is the one thing that is exactly like the Alyssa situation.

Even though I do need some help with my class—it’s not the reason why I asked her. I could’ve asked just about anyone to tutor me. And I could get through it okay with a passing grade, a decent story. I do want to excel, try to go for creating a story I’ll be proud of—but by asking her at all, I’m inviting her into a world I block everyone else from.

I had to do something, though. It’s a sorry excuse, one I’m sure she sees right through.

I shake my head and start toward the building. And just as Gavin strolls up to me in the hallway, an idea—one where I get to kill two birds with one stone—hits me square in the head.

“Hey, Gav, what’s the word on that booster party?”

A
cold is sinking
past my skin, into my bones. The wind lashes viciously at the field. I watch a stack of paper cups roll across the 50-yard line. One of the booster girls races after it, cradling a giant Gatorade bottle on her hip like a kid.

After popping on my helmet, I look to the risers, to where there’s always a small group of the boosters based at every practice. Ari is never one of them. Which is good, really, because I’m not sure I could concentrate if she was here. But the clear thought of her feels like a presence.

While Coach is running half the team around the field, the other half circling the Gatorade table, I pull out my phone and scroll through my messages until I find Ari.

Me:
You can thank me now

I adjust the straps of my helmet, not expecting her to text back right away. So when my phone vibrates in my hand, a stupid thrill rushes through me.

Ari:
Usually someone tells you what they should be thanking them for before they expect it—and then a truly confident (read: not cocky) person doesn’t expect thanks in the first place

A laugh barrels out of me. I type quickly. Me:
I would never pretend to be anything but cocky (read: cocky around you). Do you want to know or not?

Ari:
Yes

I smile. Me:
Booster party this Friday, where I’ve arranged a convenient meet for our two favorite people

I don’t tell her I’ve left all the planning up to Gavin—that he’s the one putting the details together. I figure he’ll feel like a god at his own party, and that could work in Ari’s girl’s favor. But I don’t mind taking a little credit here.

Ari:
Nice, Ryder. You work fast

Right.
When there’s something I want…

Oh, the many responses to that pummel my head. I’m tempted, as my thumbs hover over the screen, to let them fly. But I reel it in. We’re not there yet. So I accept her small form of praise and write back:
I aim to please

Then I immediately cringe. Knowing Ari, she’ll take that absolutely the wrong way. It’s like walking across a bed of hot coals with her sometimes, dancing in and out of the fire, trying to get burned as little as possible. She’s so…delicate. Physically as well as emotionally.

Ari:
;)

My eyebrows hike up my forehead. I’m already punching in my reply, asking her if that’s humor I sense in her response, when my name being called breaks through the cloud of bliss. I stop typing.

“Nash!”

I jerk my gaze away from my phone and look up. Coach is waving me over. Glancing once at my phone, I decide it’s probably better to leave it at that with Ari. I’ll end up botching things soon enough. I slip my phone into my pack near the bottom bleacher and then head over to Coach and some other man who’s standing near him.

“What’s up, Coach?” I say, then nod to the other guy. A faculty member, though I can’t recall his name. Not a professor, a counselor, I think.

Coach lays a heavy hand on my shoulder and lowers his head to talk over the wind. “You’ve received a phone call.”

My insides lock up. Tension forms between my shoulder blades. He didn’t call my cell—had to use a landline—so I already know. Glancing between coach and the counselor, I straighten my spine, feeling like I need to deflect the shame suddenly worming its way in. My father’s voice, telling me to man up, drifts to my ears on the next gust of wind, and I shake my head.

“You don’t have to…” Coach starts but trails off. He knows the hard facts, though he’s never pushed the subject too much with me.

“Yeah,” I say, already unsnapping my helmet. “I know I don’t have to take it. But if I don’t, he’ll just call my—”
Shit damn
. I clear my throat. “I’ll take the call,” I say to them.

On my way to his office, I inwardly curse the timing. But of course something like this happens now. It’s like an unseen force decided things were going too good for me—it needed to throw a wrench in; make things interesting.

Then I berate myself for being so self-centered. Thinking that everything revolves around me, and he somehow wanted to ruin my day. That’s about pathetic. But what I don’t want to happen is for him to upset
her
; that’s why I continue to accept the calls. Make the trips. Pay the money.

By the time we reach his office my hands are clenched so tightly, my knuckles throb. I forcefully flex my fingers, pumping my hands until some of the feeling comes back. Then I take a seat in a chair opposite the counselor’s. He’s new, I think. I’ve never been to his office before. Usually it’s Miss Rinehart’s office where I take the collect calls.

He picks up the black phone and hits a button, then hands it to me. “I’ll be just outside,” he assures.

I nod, placing the receiver to my ear. “This is Ryder Nash.” My voice comes out harsher then I intend, my words clipped.

“Hello,” a woman’s voice says, stern but polite. “Mr. Nash, I’ll need your TelCon account number in order for this collect call to be accepted.” I recite off the numbers I’ve had memorized since the very first time, and she connects me to Newfall Penitentiary.

Not the holding facility, I note. He’s already been transferred.

The line clicks a few times, my heart pulses in my ears, then, “Hey, bro.”

It’s like the air is kicked from my lungs. I’m struggling to breathe, to work my suddenly barren voice up to an audible octave. I force the words past the hard knot in my throat. “Jake.”

“Damn, don’t sound happy to hear from your big brother, or anything.” He laughs.

I can’t tell if he’s been locked up for days or weeks. Or maybe even months. He always sounds the same; as if it’s all some kind of joke. Like it’s all the fault of the “system” and he’s the victim it keeps picking on.

“How long you been in the pen? They transfer you today?” I ask this, because whenever he was first picked up, he didn’t bother calling then. He knew that he was in for a while. Or maybe he called Mom first. That thought has me tightening my grip on the phone, my knuckles aching from the pressure.

“Nah,” he says. I hear him moving around on the other end, probably trying to get privacy from the other inmates. “I’ve been here a little while. I transferred from shit holding a couple weeks ago. I just—” He breaks off. “I didn’t want to bother you with it until I had my first hearing. Thought I might make bond or OR.”

I press the tip of my tongue against the roof of my mouth, biting back my words. I’m about to tell him that I doubt he’ll get out on OR—own recognizance—or even make bond. He most likely used up those wild cards a while ago.

“You didn’t call Mom, did you.” There’s a hint of threat in my voice, and I know he hears it clearly, even though I’ve phrased it carefully.

“No,” he says. “I didn’t call Mom. Shit, Ryder, what the hell?”

“Then you need me to bail you out?” I want this conversation over with quickly. Needing him to get to the point of his call. Because I know he wants something, and I’m fucking sick of the phony calls, like we’re just two brothers shooting the shit.

“Time’s ticking,” I say.

I hear his deep breath over the receiver. “I just fucking said that I didn’t make bond, hell. I was actually just calling to check in.” He never calls just to check in when he’s not in jail. “Make sure you were good.”

“I’m good, Jake. When are they planning to release you?” I’m sure he’ll end this conversation with a request for a ride. Which I’ll agree to. Only because I don’t want our mother bothered. She’s got enough problems; she doesn’t need to deal with this shit anymore.

“Not sure.” The line is silent for a minute, and I refrain from asking the obvious: what he did to get put in there this time. I don’t really want to know. And it’s old hat, anyway. “You still playing ball?”

I nod, like he can see me. “Yeah. Going to the championship this year.”

“Damn.” Another long, silent beat. “You don’t sound too stoked about it. Shit, that could’ve been me.” He chuckles. “You know that you could’ve quit a long time ago. Hell, you never even had to start playing, Ryder.”

My back teeth clamp down hard. I forcefully relax my jaw to speak my next words. “Didn’t I? Look, let’s not go there. Just tell me when I need to be there to pick you up. I have to get back to practice.”

“Right.” I hear the sarcasm. “Well, then. You’re welcome. Glad I could be of service to your dreams, bro. To think, I thought I was bailing you out back then. Helping you so that you didn’t have to play that fucking sport. That was the whole point, remember? And now—” He huffs, and I can envision his gritted teeth. The scowl pulling at his features that are similar to mine. I know just what he looks like right now. I’ve been seeing that guy too often in the mirror lately, and that insight makes me ill. “You don’t owe that man anything,” he says. “You can do whatever you want to do. Dad’s dead.”

And the anger bursts forth, unhinged. “Yeah, I know,” I say. “We killed him.”