“Jesus,” I whispered. I turned to glance over my shoulder at Becca, who was standing in the hall, staring down at Dad’s bleeding form. “I didn’t know it had gotten this bad.”
“I thought you were going to k-kill each other.” Her voice was tiny. “Should you do something for him?”
I glanced at him, moaning now. “Fuck him. Let him bleed. He’ll live.” Becca stared at me like she didn’t know me. “You know how many times he’s left me on the floor just like that? Let me pack some shit, and we’ll go. I’ll call someone when we leave.”
She just stood there, watching me pack. I stuffed clothes into an empty football gear bag, as much as would fit. I stuffed my laptop, charger cords for that and my phone, my prized leather jacket, and a football into the bag. I tossed a few toiletries into a gallon-size Ziploc bag, then dug my stash of cash out from under my mattress. Everything else I left. Books, trophies, my football card collection from grade school, posters of Jerry Rice and Barry Sanders and OJ Simpson and Emmett Smith, everything. None of it mattered. My camera was in my truck, and Becca was waiting for me. That was all that mattered.
I slung the bag onto my shoulder and stepped over my dad. He stirred and then rolled to his back, groaned, and sat up as I stood at the front door, about to leave. He wiped his face, peering blearily at me.
“I’m leaving,” I said, not looking at him. He just nodded, not answering. “I’m not coming back.”
He spat blood. “Fine.”
“You need an ambulance?”
“No. Fuck you.” He struggled to his feet, clutching the doorframe for balance, wiping at his mouth with his arm.
“Yeah, f**k you, too.” I slammed the door behind me.
Becca was standing on the sidewalk, waiting for me. “Aren’t you going to call an ambulance?”
I spat blood into the grass. “No. He doesn’t want one.”
“But does he need one?”
I shrugged. “Fuck if I care. That’s his problem.”
Becca opened her car door but didn’t get in. “He’s your father. What if he bleeds to death?”
“He won’t. He was on his feet when I left.” I probed my swollen lip and a loose tooth with my tongue.
She closed the door and stood behind me as I tossed my bag into the bed of my truck and bungeed it in place. “I don’t understand how you two can be so blasé about this. You’re hurt. He’s hurt. You both need medial attention.”
I whirled in place. “Two things,” I said, my voice calm, but my eyes blazing. “One, don’t ever lump me in with that f**king bastard piece of shit useless goddamn waste of humanity. I’m not like him. And two, I’ve been hurt far worse than this. I was hurt worse than this when I broke the state record for most receptions in a single game. I don’t need your goddamn concern.”
She cringed. “I’m—I’m sorry, Jason. I just—I—I—” The worry and fear and sadness and exhaustion in her eyes threatened to break me all over again.
I slumped forward, my hands on my knees, doubled over, sick with myself. “Fuck, Becca. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me. I shouldn’t have talked to you like that. You don’t need to know that shit.” I straightened, disgusted with myself. “God, Becca. I’m such an ass**le. You deserve better than this. Better than me.”
I turned away from her, fidgeting with already taut bungee cords, just for something to do other than look at the stricken expression on her face. “Just go home, Beck. Find someone else, someone worthy of being with you.”
“You’re…breaking up with me? Just like that?” She whispered it, her voice broken. “I…don’t want to find someone more worthy. I want you. I want you to love me. I want you to let me worry about you.”
“I’m not—god. I’m not breaking up with you. I’m setting you free of my bullshit. You don’t have to be with me. I don’t—I don’t deserve you. I yelled at you. You could have gotten hurt in there.” I pointed at the house, choking on the hot lump in my throat, terrified of her doing exactly what I was telling her she should do. “I let that happen. What if…what if I turn into him? What if I am like him?” I whispered the last, finally admitting out loud the deepest, darkest fear inside me, the terror that kept me awake at nights, that gave me nightmares. I shook my head, finally looking at her. “Becca, I love you. But you shouldn’t be with someone you’re afraid of.”
She stepped closer to me and I backed away, but she followed me. “No, Jason. Stop. Just…j-just s-sss-stop. I love you. I’m not letting you push me away because you’re hurrr-hurting. You’re afraid. I n-n-know that. But I believe in you, okay? I th-think you’re better than that, s-s-stronger than that.” She took another step, and her heat and softness washed over me, her scent enveloped me, her liquid black eyes wrapped me up in love. I could see her formulating her words before she spoke. “I don’t want to be free of your bullshit. Where is this coming from? How long have you thought this way?”
I shrugged. “Off and on since forever.”
She reached up hesitantly to touch my cheekbone, as if not sure I’d let her touch me. “Well…don’t. You’re not him, Jason. You’re not. I’m choosing to be with you, knowing you come from…that.” She gestured at the house with her other hand. “Now quit trying to be macho and come home with me.”
“I’m fine in my truck.”
She glared at me. “You’re such a stubborn idiot. You’re not sleeping in your truck. I’ll get Father to let you stay on our hide-a-bed in the basement.”
I followed her home, and she followed through on her promise. She even sneaked down the stairs in the middle of the night to cuddle against me for a few hours before creeping back up the stairs before her parents woke up.
I registered for classes at U of M the next day and, while Becca watched, added a photography class to the list.
She drove me out to our tree that afternoon and rode me in the back seat of her Jetta, her hair a loose cloud of black curls around her bare, dark skin.
The following day, we dressed in our best black clothes and went to bury our friend.
TEN: Scratching Arms and Locked Doors
Becca
November
Nell sat across from me, her hands drawn into the sleeves of her coat. She didn’t meet my eyes, just like she hadn’t the last several times I’d seen her since Kyle’s funeral.