Reese
Despite summer melting into fall, temperatures still hovered in the eighties as we slogged through the choreography for a new song at Tuesday’s practice. This would be the final song we added to the show—Bon Jovi’s “Who Says You Can’t Go Home”.
It was a pointed reminder I’d only answered my mom’s endless calls with short texts for the last two weeks. Guilt added to the weight of the snare drum hanging heavy on my shoulders.
And maybe it was some lingering dehydration from the stomach virus, or the fact that I’d barely seen or heard from Laird since last Thursday while he wrestled with his video game project, but I was off today. I couldn’t concentrate on the footwork, I struggled with my entrances on the chorus, and I’d quit sweating twenty minutes ago—never a good sign.
By the time practice ended, I wasn’t even sure I’d get to reclaim my spot on the field that I’d been forced to yield to Heath last week. He’d been on point today, and I wouldn’t blame them for picking him over me. I needed to step it up on Thursday.
As we put away our equipment, the room reeking of male sweat and trampled grass from the practice field, I tucked an extra pair of drumsticks in my bag, planning to practice on the drum pad in my dorm later. I didn’t want to lose that damn spot. I’d worked too hard for it.
Glad to be rid of the cumbersome snare harness, I rolled my stiff shoulders and in the process, glanced over and spotted Laird slumped against the wall a few feet away, scrubbing his face with his hands.
“Did you get the bug in the game worked out by midnight?” I knew that’s when he’d needed to turn the next stage of his project in.
Around us, guys packed their bags and traded insults, typical after-practice behavior.
“No.” His voice was curt as he looked at his phone impatiently, checking something on the screen. “But I got the professor to give me an extension until tomorrow night since my game was more ambitious than most.”
“That’s good!” I winced as my words came out weaker than I’d intended, sounding almost sarcastic instead of encouraging. I’d been hoping to grab some dinner with him tomorrow, and I tried to wipe the disappointment from my expression.
“Yeah.” He waited as I drained the last of my water bottle. “You feeling okay? You had a rough practice.”
My ears burned. He was right, but I was hoping it hadn’t been noticeable. I peeked around the room to see if anyone was listening to us, but everyone seemed engrossed in their own conversations.
“I’m good. Just a bad day. I’ll review the music some more before Thursday so there won’t be any problems for this weekend,” I assured him.
“Good.”
My brows pinched. I didn’t like this distracted, short-tempered version of Laird. He was still gorgeous, those tanned forearms crossed over his broad chest and his full lower lip sticking out in a slight pout, but stress radiated from him like steam from the sidewalk after the rain.
I slid a little closer, leaned against the blessedly cool concrete wall next to him, and bumped him softly with my hip. He shot me a questioning glance. Laird was shirtless like half the other guys on the snare line, and while I tried hard not to openly ogle the carved lines of his abs, seeing that inked G on his chest gave me an idea that might cheer him up.
“I can tell by the way you’ve talked about him that you’re close with your brother—have you thought about giving him a call? Seeing if he can make it to the game this weekend?”
“My brother?” His words sounded strangled and unnaturally loud.
The whole room froze as if someone had paused a video while they ran to the kitchen to grab a soda. No one moved or spoke, but a dozen pairs of eyes volleyed between Laird and me.
He’d gone rigid, the blood draining from his face.
Alarm rippled from my spine outward, until my fingers tingled with it, until I could barely breathe from the weight of the stares on me, heavier than a thousand snare drums.
“What?” I whispered.
Marco’s voice lashed out. “Wow, hotshot, I can’t believe you went there. Bringing up his dead brother like that. Good one.” He started a slow clap, staring at me pointedly. No one joined in.
“Wh-what?” My eyes whipped to Laird, but all I caught was his back as he charged out the door, pushing it open so hard it slammed against the wall in his wake. I looked back at Marco, the words not making any sense. “He’s dead?”
My mind spun, trying to put together the broken puzzle pieces of our prior conversations, trying to see the whole picture instead of just the edges.
The inked G on his chest. Does he have an L on his? I’d asked. But Laird hadn’t answered.
The stories from when they were kids. But none from when they were older.
The way Laird seemed so taken with Eli at the hospital.
Dizziness swamped me.
“What happened?” My voice was thick and garbled as I forced the words out. “When? How?”
Marco snorted. “You really don’t know?”
I could only shake my head mutely, silently pleading with him to tell me, to tell me so I could figure out how badly I’d just fucked things up.
“Cancer. Leukemia or something when he was a kid. It messed Laird up real bad for a long time.” Marco’s face softened infinitesimally.
Leukemia.
The word hit me like a sledgehammer, and I slid to the floor, covering my face with shaky hands.
Marco huffed derisively. “Fucking girls. This is why we never had them on the line.” Grunts of agreement came from the corner.
He walked out before I could reply, not that I could find any words.
Leukemia. Like me.
But I’d survived. And his brother, his brother that he’d clearly loved, had died.
What did that mean? How did that affect him? And did that—did that affect us? Was that part of why he was with me? Pity? Or some weird hero complex? Did he want to try to save me where he’d failed his brother?
But I don’t need saving—or pity, dammit. I’m not a fucking victim.
My stomach churned, and acid rose until its bitter taste filled the back of my throat. Had I misread everything? Was this thing between us, this murky, undefined thing that had started to feel so damn real—the most raw, real thing I’d ever felt in my life—was it all built on the memory of a ghost?
I vaguely registered the other guys filing out, until Smith was the only one left. He crouched in front of me, waved his hand in front of my unseeing eyes until I blinked and he came into focus in front of me.
“What have I done?” I stared at him, stared through him, asking my best friend, asking the universe.
My world sublimated with one innocent question, leaving me lost in a cloud of gray vapor with no sense of direction.
Smith just shook his head and moved next to me, wrapping his arm around my shoulder as I sat there, stunned and blinking.
Minutes passed—or maybe hours, time seemed irrelevant—and my confusion morphed to anger.
Why hadn’t Laird told me? The other guys on the line all seemed to know—even Smith. I was the only one who was surprised.
Was it purposeful? Had he been hiding it? It’s not like he never mentioned Garrett. He told me all those stories from when they were kids—about the tire swing and the broken arm.
Did he not think I could handle the truth? That I was too fragile to hear it? Of course, I knew some kids died of leukemia. That had been the biggest danger of making friends during treatment—the day when your friend never showed up again and you were left behind, fighting the invisible enemy alone.
Or had I not been important enough to mention it to, even in passing? Especially after all the times I’d seen him at the hospital volunteering? Or had he thought we wouldn’t be together long enough that I’d need to know some of the most basic facts about his family history?
And if he’d lied about something that major in his life—by omission or otherwise—what else had he lied about?
My heart cracked, a searing heat filling the hollow cavity in my chest, until even breathing hurt.
Everything hurt.
A tear snaked down my cheek and Smith pulled me to his side, not saying a word, just letting me lean against him as I cried silently.
For Garrett, who I’d never get to meet.
For Laird.
For me.
The truth hit as hard as cancer. Out of the blue. When I wasn’t expecting it. When I’d made myself comfortable and my defenses were down.
I wasn’t sure what to think or believe.
Except…
I wasn’t sure I could trust Laird. Not anymore.
Not when it came to my heart.