Page 48

He sits down on the rocky embankment and sets the bags down between us. “I got a little of everything.”
He takes things out, one by one, ending on a packet of Sour Patch Kids. “Got your favorite,” he says, slapping the bag against my chest.
I look down at the bag of Sour Patch Kids, then over at him. “How did you know?”
He chuckles. “You keep a hidden stash under the counter at work.” Then he pauses a beat, his tone turning somber. “That, and they’ve been your favorite since we were kids.”
I nod, switching my attention to Harlow in the water with her friends. They’re all standing in a circle, clearly talking about something they don’t want us to hear. A second later, Harlow’s head throws back with laughter, and I smile, though I don’t quite understand why. She finds me watching her and waves, and I raise a hand in return. Gaze lowered, I ask Jonah,tryingto be social, “Have you seenGlory Road?”
“Who hasn’t?” he scoffs. “You can’t be a basketball fan in Texas and not have seenGlory Road.”
“Oh.”How out of it am I?“Harlow showed it to me last night.”
“Right.” He looks from me to Harlow and back again. “You know we’ve seen it before, right?”
“We?”
“Yeah, when we were younger! With your dad!” His face falls instantly, and he clears his throat. “Sorry, man.”
“It’s okay,” I say, shaking my head. “I must’ve forgotten.”
Beside me, Jonah turns silent. Awkward. And this is why I don’t talk to people. After a beat, he says, his voice low, “You know,Ihaven’t forgotten anything…” He pauses a breath, as if contemplating if he should continue. If he has something he wants to say, I’m not here to stop him. “I remember everything about your parents. In my mind, I still see them as they were when we were kids. I remember the day your mom picked us up from school saying your dad had a surprise for us, and we got to your house and ran to the backyard so fast, you tripped on your own damn feet.” He chuckles, clearly lost in a memory I no longer have. “Your dad had built that half-court for us… We had to wait two whole days before we could even use it. Man, those two days were like torture for us.”
I try to remember things the way he does, but…nothing.
“What happened to us, man?” he asks, and when I turn to him, he’s already watching me, his eyes holding more emotion than I know what to do with.
“What do you mean?”
“You and me—we were like brothers,” he replies. “It didn’t need to end because of what happened.”
Whenever I look back on that time, I remember the aftermath, but nothing before. I remember spending time with Jonah and his family, and I remember the very first time they dropped me off at home and I entered the house to see my grandpa passed out on the couch with beer cans all around him. And then I remember all the excuses I made after, every time Jonah asked to play outside of school. I didn’t know if my grandpa would be sober enough to drive, and I didn’t want his parents to see the state of my house, and so I came up with stories. With lies. Eventually he stopped asking, and soon enough, we were no longer brothers. We weren’t even friends.
“Listen,” Jonah starts, and I can hear the hesitation in his voice. “I know that there’s this…stigmaaround what happened with them, and people only remember them for that and notwhothey were.” If bypeoplehe means me, then he’s right. He continues, “But I remember them, Jace. I remember your dad teaching us to ball, giving us this love for the game, and I remember your mom, sitting and watching and cheering us on… And I hope that me talking about them doesn’t bring up any trauma on your end, but I just wanted you to know that if you ever want to remember them with me, I’m right here.”
Liquid heat burns in my eyes, blurring my vision, and I keep my gaze distant, blinking them away. Too ashamed of what he might see, Idon’t look at him. Not even when he stands, squeezes my shoulder, then takes off toward the spring.
I watch him remove his shirt, then jump in the water, splashing the girls. They squeal, and Sammy curses him, and I look down at the Sour Patch Kids still in my hands.
I remember him in my old bedroom, now Harlow’s, ripping through the packets of Upper Deck basketball cards his dad had bought us on one of his business trips into Dallas. I remember Reyna walking in as if she owned the place and us trying to hide them from her because she’d ask for all the “pretty ones” and we couldn’t say no to her. I remember her bringing us our favorite snacks from the rink. Sour Patch Kids for me and Skittles for Jonah.
I don’t know how long I sit there, lost in the memories, until I hear Harlow’s voice. “You coming in?” she asks, walking toward me with a towel wrapped around her.
I drop my head between my shoulders. “In a minute.”
She sits down beside me, in the spot Jonah just left, and I don’t know why I feel the sudden urge to take her hand in mine, inspect her open palm as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. I run my finger over the lines…
“Jaaaace,” Mom whispers, and my eyes flutter open just as she kneels down beside my bed. She gently grasps my hand, and it’s so much smaller than hers.So much. She runs a finger across my palm, and I giggle awake.
“Tickles,” I murmur.
And she smiles, her eyes bright against the morning sun. “It’s time for school, sweet boy. Daddy made you a big breakfast.”
I rub the sleep from my eyes. “It’s game day?”
“It’s game day, baby.”
32