Chapter Twenty-Seven

Ethan

It's been a week since Becca broke up with me. I've spent most of that time either sleeping or on the couch playing video games. Those are the only activities that keep my mind off all the shit I don't want to think about. The accident. My leg. My football career. My dead friends. Losing Becca.

I've shut down. For good this time. I feel nothing. I won't let myself. As soon as I start to feel even the slightest hint of emotion, I grab my video controller and get lost in a game.

I haven't talked to Jackson for days, and I've ignored Coach, who keeps calling and stopping by. My dad keeps calling too, leaving messages threatening to come out here and drag my ass to practice. Let him try. I'm not going.

The doorbell rings. It's probably Coach. Or Jackson. Or one of my other teammates. They're all back in town now and they keep showing up at my door.

The bell rings again but I ignore it.

"Ethan." I hear a loud voice, followed by knocking. "Ethan, it's Mike. Becca's brother."

Becca's brother? What's he doing here? Curious as hell, I grab my crutches and go open the door.

"Hey," Mike says. "I need to talk to you."

He's wearing a t-shirt and shorts and I notice his prosthetic leg.

"You gonna stare at it all day or let me in?"

Startled, I glance up at him and step aside. "Sorry. I didn't mean to stare."

"It's fine. Everyone does." He walks over to the couch and sits down.

"Does it bother you?" I ask, sitting on the chair next to him. "When people stare?"

"Not really. It did at first but now I'm used to it." He shoves his keys in his pocket. "So how's it going?"

"Not great," I say, then wonder why I said it. When people ask me how I'm doing, I always just say 'good' no matter how I'm feeling.

"You miss Becca?" he asks.

"Of course I miss her. I love—" I clear my throat.

Shit. Why did I say that? To her brother of all people?

"She loves you too," he mutters.

"Wait—what?" I ask, moving to the edge of my chair. "She actually said that?"

"No, but as her brother I can tell."

"I think you're reading her wrong." I sit back. "She won't even answer my calls. She acts like she hates me."

"That's just Becca. She has a hard time expressing how she feels, especially when it comes to love. I blame our mom for that. When she left, Becca changed. She no longer trusted anyone, except Dad and me. But even with us, she held back. She didn't hug us as much. She had a hard time saying I love you. I think she thought Dad and I might leave her too. Anyway, my point is, she has a hard time giving her heart away, so if she gives it to you, you better protect it with your life."

From his tone and the look he's giving me, I know he's pissed at me for treating Becca the way I did. So why is he here? To yell at me? Tell me what an ass I am? I already know that. I don't need to be told.

"So, um..." I glance down. "Are you here to tell me I screwed up with Becca? If so, I already—"

"That's not why I'm here."

I look up at him. "Then why are you here?"

"To tell you something. About me. About my leg and the night it happened."

Okay, that's weird. Why is he telling me this?

"Becca said you don't like to talk about it."

"I don't. But I'm going to anyway and I need you to listen."

"Go ahead," I say, nodding for him to continue.

"The day it happened started out like any other. We did our work, and at night, we got back to our camp and were gonna have a party for one of the guys on my squad. It was his birthday. We couldn't do a lot, given that we were in the desert, but we had to do something. The kid was only 20 and missed home. I decided we should surprise him so I told everyone to go wait in the tent while I went and got Jared." He shakes his head, his eyes distant. "That's when the bomb went off. Right in the tent. Blew it into a thousand pieces, one of which hit my leg. Another one hit Jared, right as he was walking toward me. I'll never forget it. One minute he was standing there with that lopsided grin of his, the next he had a piece of metal slicing through his chest."

"Fuck," I mutter, imagining that.

"Yeah. It was a fuckin' nightmare." He rubs his hand over his jaw. "Those guys were like family to me. And I was in charge of them." He looks at me. "I let them die."

"It wasn't your fault. You didn't know about the bomb."

"It was my job to assess our surroundings. Check our camp. Make sure it was safe. I didn't because it had been such a quiet day. I hadn't seen a single car or truck go by and I hadn't heard news of any imminent threats in our area. In fact, we were in what was considered a safe zone. But still, I should've done my job. I should've followed procedure."

"Even if you had, you still may not have known about it."

"Doesn't matter. The fact remains that I was in charge of the health and safety of my squad and I failed them. I got them killed. And I have to live with that every day."

I stare down at the cast on my leg. "Why are you telling me this?"

He pauses. "I know about the accident, Ethan. I read the stories in the paper. I know what happened."

I keep quiet, not sure where he's going with this.

"Nightmares," he says. "Waking up in a cold sweat. Images flashing in your head when you're not expecting them. Sounds filling your ears and you can't make them go away. Your mind retracing every detail of that night, telling you what you should have done differently."

That's exactly what it's like. Every goddamn day. Ever since the accident, that's been my life. Just like he described.

"Ethan." He waits until I look at him. "It doesn't have to be this way."

"What way? I don't know what you're talking about."

"You know exactly what I'm talking about."

He's staring at me so intensely I feel like he can see right through me.

"Okay, fine." I look away. "It's sometimes like that. Like you described."

"Is it getting worse?"

I shut my eyes to avoid his stare but then the images start again. Jason at the wheel. Kasey being tossed around like a rag doll. I quickly open my eyes and sharply inhale a breath.

"A flashback," he says, knowingly.

I don't respond.

"They'll just keep coming if you don't deal with this."

"Deal with what?" I ask harshly. "The fact that I killed three people?"

"Is that what you think? That you killed them?"

I look down, shaking my head. "I don't want to talk about this."

"So you'd rather just continue like you've been? Hiding away in this house? Pushing away your friends? Your girlfriend?"

"She's not my girlfriend," I mumble. "She dumped me, remember?"

"Because you pushed her away. What did you expect her to do? Keep running back to you, knowing you'd eventually push her away again?"

"I didn't mean to push her away. I just needed some time."

"Time to what? Sit around feeling sorry for yourself?"

"I'm not feeling sorry for myself!" I yell, my anger rising.

"Then why are you sitting around this house instead of at Laytham, training with your team? You've got the brightest fucking future of anyone I know and you're letting it slip away."

I work my jaw back and forth, tired of this conversation and wanting him to leave.

"Is that really your plan?" he asks. "To just keep yourself locked away in this house? Give up your future?"

"Maybe I don't fuckin' want it," I growl, my teeth clenched.

"Okay," he says casually. "So now we're getting somewhere."

I glare at him. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"You're using your grief as an excuse not to go back to football. The question is why?"

"Maybe I'm tired of it."

"I've seen you on the field. You love the game. You love throwing the ball. You love the competition. You love the energy from the crowd. You're not tired of it. What else you got?"

Damn, this guy doesn't give up.

"Doesn't matter." I point to my leg. "I may not even be able to play again."

"This isn't about your leg. So what's the reason? Why don't you want to play?"

My head is pounding as I try to fight off images of Jason on the field. He loved the game. So damn much. It made him happy. And he was good at it. He definitely would've made the pros.

"Why are you giving it up?" Mike asks.

The images keep replaying in my head. Why didn't I take his keys? Why the fuck didn't I take his keys?

"Ethan, tell me why."

"Because I don't deserve it." I'm breathing hard, my anger building. "I don't fuckin' deserve it."

"Why don't you deserve it?"

"Because I killed them!" I yell, then immediately wish I hadn't. Nobody was supposed to know that. Ever. And yet I've said it twice now. To Becca's brother. A guy I barely know.

Mike's silent, probably thinking I'm crazy. I probably am. Some days I feel like I am.

"I didn't mean that," I mumble.

"Yeah, you did. And I know that because I felt the same way. I thought I'd murdered my friends. Some days, I still feel that way."

My breathing slows and the images begin to fade as I focus on Mike. "So what do you do? When you feel that way, what do you do?"

He shrugs. "Depends on the day. I start by shutting it down. When those thoughts even creep in my head, I shut them down before they take over. Because none of it's true. I didn't kill the guys on my squad. Just like you didn't kill your friends that night."

"I could've prevented it. I could've stopped Jason from driving."

"You don't know that. And you'll drive yourself crazy if you keep replaying that night in your head, wishing you'd done something differently. It was an accident. You had no control over it."

"It shouldn't have happened. One stupid mistake and three people are dead."

"And why not you? Right?"

How does he know I think that? Can he read my damn mind?

I don't answer so he continues. "I felt the same way. Why did I survive and they didn't? But over time, I came to realize there's a reason I wasn't taken that day."

"Which is what?"

"I can't say for sure but I'm thinking I was meant to help out other guys like me. Guys who feel responsible for the deaths of their friends. Becca told you about my podcast, right?"

"Yeah, she said it's for veterans."

"Specifically the ones who've been left behind. The survivors who feel guilty for being alive. You ever feel that way? Guilty for being the only one who survived?"

"All the fucking time," I mutter.

"Same here. But I had to learn to get over it. To see it differently. And now, I really do believe I was left here to do what I'm doing. To help people who've been through a similar experience as mine. And in doing that, I've helped myself."

"Well, that's great for you but I don't think doing podcasts is going to help me."

"But playing football might."

"Why? It's just a stupid game."

"Not to the people who love it. Not to the little kids who idolize players like you. You have the opportunity to make change happen. People will listen to you because of who you are, especially if you end up playing in the pros. You want to prevent what happened to you from happening to someone else? Then do it. Use your fame to stop people from drinking and driving. Be open about what happened to you. People respect that. And if they respect you, they'll listen to you. You have no idea how much power you have, Ethan. Maybe that's why you were left behind." He keeps his eyes on me, waiting for me to say something, and when I don't, he stands up. "I need to go. Heather gets off her shift soon and I'm picking her up."

I get my crutches and walk him to the door. "So...about Becca. You think there's any chance she'd take me back?"

He chuckles. "Becca's stubborn. When she makes her mind up about something, it's nearly impossible to change."

"Meaning she'll never forgive me?"

He puts his hand on my shoulder and looks me in the eye. "You need to forgive yourself first. Then go after Becca."

I'm not sure how that's going to help or if it's even possible but I nod, like I agree. "Thanks for stopping over."

"You ever want to talk, you know where to find me."

He leaves and I return to the living room. I want to call Becca but I don't let myself. Mike is right. I need to take some time to figure out myself and my future before I even attempt to get Becca back. And maybe I'll decide it's best to let her go.

On Monday, I show up to practice. Everyone watches me like they're not sure what to say or do around me. It's awkward and uncomfortable and makes me want to forget it all and go home. 

But I've been thinking about what Mike said and maybe he's right. Maybe I survived because I have this talent. A talent that could make me into someone people would listen to. Someone who could make them think twice before drinking and driving. Maybe I could save a life. It's not enough to make up for what happened to my friends but at least it's something.

The next couple weeks I spend all my time training for the upcoming season. I won't be able to play right away but by October, it's possible I'll be back on the field. It's late in the season, not leaving me much time to impress the scouts, but Coach said not to worry about it. He still seems sure I'll go in the first round but my dad's not that confident. He's panicking, thinking I won't go until the third or fourth round. At this point, I don't really care. I just want to play. My love for the game is back. I'm no longer seeing it as a pointless sport but something I'm meant to do. Something I'm good at. Something I love. And a way to get my message across. A way to do good.

My cast came off yesterday, two weeks earlier than planned. The doctor said my workouts probably increased blood flow to the area, speeding up the healing. I don't care what the reason is. I'm just happy to have the damn thing off and have my leg back.

As for Becca, I miss her. So freaking much. I've been calling her every day, even though I know I shouldn't. I'm supposed to be working on myself, and I am, but I still want to talk to her. So I call her once a day and leave a message, just asking her to call me. That's all I say. But she never calls me back.

Maybe she's moved on with someone else. It hurts to even think of her with some other guy. I want her back. I no longer need her to chase the nightmares away. I'm doing that on my own now. But I still need her. Because I love her. I'm trying to make myself better for her, and although I'm not entirely there yet, I'm far enough along that I'm ready to try again.

If she'll let me.