In Her Wake

After a few long seconds, when she does nothing but giggle, I release it and let my body melt back into the bench. Maybe this is all I need. A few pints, a night out with a friend, some laughs. Maybe this will be the night that kick-starts my new life without my best friends.

■ ■ ■

What the f**k have I done?

I was drunk, but I remember every step that led to having this blond lying in my bed, tangled up in my sheets, leaving me buck naked and stretched out next to her. It wasn’t because I thought she was particularly attractive. I just didn’t want to be alone and she was convenient.

And more than willing.

I don’t think I was even nice to her. What the hell is her name?

I stare out the window at the overcast sky, trying to dull the pounding ache between my eyes with thoughts of a red-haired girl. Wondering how she is.

Wondering if she feels like I do right now, like she’ll never be free of that night. She must feel it. She’s the only one who possibly could.

Maybe it’s time I found out.

Chapter 7

As big as Grand Rapids is—almost twice the size of Lansing—I’ve never had any reason to visit the city before. As I face her door, a bunch of flowers gripped within my sweaty, shaking hands, I acknowledge that I still have no valid reason.

It wasn’t that hard to find Kacey Cleary. It took visits to two hospitals and several inquiries, but finally I got a room number. I’m not sure what that says about our privacy laws, but right now I’m thankful for the nurse who doesn’t seem to respect them.

With cautious steps, I close the distance, the taste of bile sitting in the back of my throat. I never used to hate hospitals. Now, that sterile smell overwhelms me, and each gurney that rolls by causes my back to tense.

I’m ready to turn around and run. What am I going to see behind that glass? Three months later, she’s still here. Can she even get up? Is her body trapped in casting and a Frankenstein metal contraption?

Whatever athletic figure she had pre-accident must have wasted away by now. Is she a pile of skin and bones? Enough muscle to simply function and nothing more?

And that pretty face of hers . . . is she disfigured now?

I’m ten feet away and I can’t will myself closer to the deeper, harsher stage of reality that I have yet to face. What will I even say?

Hi, I’m Cole. I was the guy who couldn’t just not drink for a night, who didn’t uphold his end of the deal to drive his friends home.

Hi, I’m the dumb ass who handed the driver his keys, enabling him to kill your loved ones.

Hi. You’re here because of me.

More than likely, I’ll just step into her room and stand there, staring at her like an idiot, because there is nothing that I can say to make this better. In fact, I’ll probably only make today even worse for her than it already is. I certainly won’t get what I was coming here for. Why did I come again? Did I think this would somehow alleviate my guilt?

I still can’t will myself forward.

When the door suddenly opens, my stomach drops. A girl with raven black hair steps out. I recognize her immediately. Kacey’s little sister, Olivia, who goes by “Livie.”

She’s crying.

All she has to do is look up and she’ll see me. Will she know who I am?

She doesn’t look up though. She simply rubs the tears away with the palm of her hand and then walks past, leaving me now dreading what’s behind that door even more.

“Excuse me, can I help you?”

I jump at the voice, and turn to find a brown-haired nurse standing next to me. “Yeah, can you please put these in Kacey Cleary’s room for me?” I shove the bouquet into her face, forcing her to accept them.

And then I get the hell out of there, heading in the opposite direction of Livie and anything to do with facing this nightmare.

■ ■ ■

A hundred or so beige seats stretch out in front of me. For as big as MSU is, with 47,000 students in attendance, many of my program classes are relegated to the same area. This will be my seventh time taking a class in this lecture hall. It’s my first time sitting in the back row, though.

And it’s definitely my first time consciously avoiding all eye contact.

I can feel them watching me. From glances over their shoulders to full-on stares, countless eyes full of everything from curiosity to judgment burn my skin.

They all know exactly who I am. Our program isn’t that big, and given that I’ve spent three years with most of these people and I played for the Spartans, my name is known. My face is, too, based on the comments I’ve received over the years from the female student population.

But they’re not looking at me for those reasons now, and so I keep my head down.

I smell her perfume a second before she slides into the seat beside me.

“Hi.” It’s a flat word, not genuine at all.

With a sigh, I turn to look at the brunette. “Hey.” I recognize her but I have no idea what her name is.

By the set of her jaw, she looks like she’s not here to introduce herself to me. She looks like she’s on a mission.

“I knew Mr. Cleary. He was one of the nicest, funniest teachers I’ve ever had.”

She pauses, as if waiting to see how I’ll respond to that well-aimed verbal stab into my stomach. What the hell am I supposed to say? Especially with an audience. Even Professor Giles is now standing at attention by the podium, her attention focused on the back of her room when she should be starting the class.

Gritting my teeth, I manage, “I’m sure he was.”

The girl opens her mouth to speak but then hesitates. She must see that she’s already sufficiently wounded me, that the guilt is pouring from me in a constant stream. “He didn’t deserve what you and your friends did to him. None of them did.” With that, she gets out of the chair and heads toward the front of the lecture hall, her chin held high, having said her piece. I wonder if she’s been planning that confrontation all summer long or if it was a spontaneous outburst.

“Welcome back, everyone!” Professor Giles calls out, pulling everyone’s attention to the front.

Except mine. I quickly tune her out, dropping my gaze to the blur of words in my textbook. Why the f**k am I even here? When I chose Art History and Visual Culture as my area of study, I knew it was purely a stepping-stone. Truthfully, I could have skipped the degree and gone straight to a one-year design school program. I’d already be working full time at my mom’s agency. But I wanted the full college experience—the parties, college ball, the piece of paper that should be coated in gold for what it cost. So did Sasha and Derek. Our parents weren’t the least bit surprised when we applied to the exact same list of colleges and made our decision based on where all three of us had been accepted.

Now, though, I don’t care about any of it.

Because everything has changed. Being here doesn’t feel right anymore. It’s like I’m trying to step back into the past and the door is firmly shut, with deadbolts barring it, the key thrown into a deep well.

I close my textbook and slip out the door, escaping the judgment.

■ ■ ■

“How’d it go?” Rich asks from the couch, one foot on the coffee table, one beer in hand.

I toss my empty knapsack on the floor. I returned my textbooks. All of them. “I’m out.”

He sits up straight, a frown on his face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m out.” It took one more class of staring at pages and not hearing a single word spoken for me to make my decision. Though no one else decided to bludgeon my conscience, I felt the stares. I have a hard enough time living in my own skin right now. I can’t deal with this.

Falling back into the couch beside him—even sitting on this couch is uncomfortable—I sigh. “Do you think you can find a roommate to take over my half of the rent?”

Rich’s gaze burns into my profile for a long moment but I ignore it, gluing my eyes to the TV, zoning out on nothingness. “Yeah, for sure.” Another long moment of silence. “You wanna beer? The fridge is loaded.”

“Nope.” I’m done with alcohol.

I’m done with this apartment.

With this school.

I’m done with everything.

■ ■ ■

“Hey! Can you get that for us?” The boy points to the bush at the end of my parents’ driveway, where the hockey puck landed.

I retrieve it and toss it back onto the road. He and the other kid resume passing it back and forth between their hockey sticks without even a thanks my way.

Little shits. I smile. They’re good. Not as good as Sasha and I were. The Danielses’ front door opens and a brunette woman steps out. “Boys! Dinner.” Of course they ignore her, too focused on the puck.

Slinging my duffel bag over my shoulder, I walk up the flagstone path to the unlit front porch. Our house is modest. My parents had talked about moving once, to a wealthier neighborhood in Rochester a good twenty minutes away from Sasha. I threw such a fit that they never talked about it ever again.

I find my parents sitting at the kitchen table, a tumbler-full of amber liquid in my dad’s hand, my mom’s face full of resignation. Whatever they were talking about has created a tension in the air so thick that I feel like I’m walking into a fog. Ten bucks says it’s about me.

“Cole?” My dad’s brow tightens in a frown. “What are you doing here?”

I look to my mom when I say, “I needed to come home.”

She nods slowly. I wonder if she expected this.

“You can’t just walk away!” My dad yelling is such a rare sound, I have to wonder if he’s graduated beyond one glass of scotch a night.

“I can’t do it.”

“You have one year left of your degree!”

Yeah, one unbearably long year. I know myself well enough to know that I’m not getting up for class tomorrow, or the next day, or the next day. “And then what? It’s a f**king piece of paper.”

“A piece of paper that we’ve paid for!” My dad slams his fist against the table.

“Carter!” My mom’s yelling now too.

I knew there was a good chance I’d be facing this and yet I can’t deal with it. I stroll out of the kitchen and head for my room, tossing my bag on the ground and flopping into my bed, the feel of my cool pillow a relief.

A few minutes later, the door opens and shuts softly, and I know it’s my mom without looking. “I just need to stay here for a while, until I can get back on my feet.”

“I understand.” A soothing hand lands on the back of my head.

“Can you throw me a few projects? Stuff I can work on from home. Alone.”

“Yes. Okay.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I pause. “What were you and Dad talking about?”

She doesn’t answer right away, and I can feel her choosing her words. “They need him in the Manhattan office. He’s going to look into a place to rent, seeing as he’s going to be there a lot.”

“I thought he said he’d never do that.” His partners have been trying to get him to move for years, but it was too big a risk to my mom’s agency, and it’s always been a rule for Carter Reynolds that he stays with his family.

I guess things have changed.

Chapter 8

Dec 31, 2008

“Hey, buddy! Glad you came.” I throw a hand up in time to catch Fitz’s friendly slap. “Beer?”

“Nah, I’m good. I can’t stay long.” My eyes survey the sea of familiar faces from high school. A lot of them I saw back in April at the funeral. That was eight months ago. They all look the same. With a full beard covering my face and at least twenty pounds less muscle, I’m sure they wouldn’t say the same about me.

I’d still be sitting in my boxer shorts and T-shirt had my mom not run into Fitz’s mom at the supermarket, who told her about the New Year’s party that Fitz was throwing. My mom guilt-tripped me into coming.

I obliged, with the plan to show my face and then bolt.

“So . . . What have you been up to? I hear you’re back in the neighborhood.” I don’t miss the way he shifts on his feet. He’s probably as uncomfortable as I am right now.

“Uh . . . you know. Just work and stuff.” It’s as though I’ve forgotten how to carry on a normal conversation. I just don’t know what to say to anyone anymore. That’s why I rarely leave home. The rec room has become my lair. I’ve even moved my bed down. It’s odd—I was always such an extrovert before, and rarely alone. But I can honestly say that I’ve come to appreciate the peace that solitude can provide. At least I can judge myself in privacy.

“All right, well . . .” Poor Fitz just wants to get away from me. “We’ve got burgers on the grill and the hockey game on in the living room. Help yourself to the stock in the fridge if you change your mind.”

Another hand slap and then Fitz is out, his steps fast and heading in the opposite direction of me.