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Worse For the Wear

Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee

“Is it cool if I swing by?” Isaiah asks, the strain in his voice apparent even through the phone.

It’s midweek and nearly midnight. I’ve been finishing homework in my room, fighting drowsiness, but now I’m wide awake.

No one calls this late with good news.

I quickly consider my options. Mom and Dad went to bed a while ago, but I’m not sure they’re asleep yet. While they’ve sworn to make things right with Isaiah the next time they have a chance, I doubt they’ll want him visiting at this hour. Major’s sacked out on my bed, but if he hears an unfamiliar voice in the house, he’ll be up and barking.

“I’ll meet you outside in a couple minutes,” I tell Isaiah.

I’m wearing flannel pajama pants and a tank. I push my feet into a pair of slippers, then pull a sweatshirt from the pile on my closet shelf. I’ve worn this Ole Miss crewneck so many times its sleeves are pilly, but it’s warm and sentimental. Whipping a brush through my hair, I check my reflection in the mirror propped on my desk: I’ve looked better.

As I’m straightening, a photo of Beck catches my eye. I took it his senior year. He’s fresh from a track and field meet, cheeks rosy from exertion. He’s grinning, having just thrown a personal record. I feel the blow of sadness I’m accustomed to, but instead of ramping up, it fades, then dissipates.

How many days has it been since he passed?

I’m not sure anymore.

Someday you’ll stop counting the days he’s been gone.

I press a hand to my heart.

It’s there, safe beneath my rib cage, beating rhythmically. But why isn’t it aching?

It won’t always be this hard , Meagan told me back in November.

I tiptoe out of my room and down the stairs. I escape through the back slider, then go around the house to the driveway. From down the block, headlights cut through the dark. Marjorie’s Suburban. My slippers slap the concrete as I hurry down the sidewalk.

When I reach the SUV, Isaiah leans over to push open the passenger door. His team lost by a basket tonight. The game was hosted by a wealthy private school south of Nashville, a game which, if won, would have rocketed ERHS into the district playoffs. I can only guess that his midnight visit has to do with the defeat and the end of the season.

“Your parents are really gonna hate me if they catch you sneaking out because I asked,” he says as I climb into the Suburban, glad for the heat.

There are charcoal smudges beneath his eyes and a shadow of stubble on his jaw. I reach over the console to touch his cheek, sandpaper against my palm. “They’ll never know. I’m sorry about the game.”

Shrugging, he says, “Doesn’t matter.”

“No?”

“I mean, it does, but there’s something else.” He sighs, pitter-pattering his fingertips against the steering wheel. “Marjorie and I had a conversation earlier, after Naya went to bed. Court’s scheduled for Friday, and this is gonna be it. There’s no reason to drag her case out any longer. She’s gonna go home.”

“Oh, Isaiah. God, I’m so sorry.”

From almost every angle, this is good news: a reunion. The best outcome for Naya and her mom. But Isaiah’s been her big brother for more than a year. It’ll crush him, saying goodbye.

“I’m glad for them,” he says, and though his voice falters, I believe him. “I don’t know why this feels like a surprise. The goal’s always been for her to go back to her mom. The caseworker’s totally supportive, and so’s Marjorie—even though watching Naya go is gonna break her heart.”

“This is… I’m not sure what to say.”

He shakes his head, eyes downcast. “I’m really gonna miss her.”

“I know. But what’s to keep you from visiting?”

“Her mom. There’s a stigma that comes with having your kid pulled out of your house, a stranger looking after her while you get your life together. I wouldn’t be surprised if Gloria didn’t want me coming around, reminding her and Naya of everything that went wrong. I wouldn’t blame her for wanting a fresh start.”

I hate this for him. Another loss. I lay my hand on his arm. “This fucking sucks.”

He laughs, a rocks-over-water sound that pings my heart. “Thanks for coming out. Marjorie and I had a good cry earlier, and that was something. But being with you… I’ve never had a person, you know?”

A valve opens in my chest, setting loose warmth that travels to the tips of my ears, fingers, and toes. I know what he means: a person you think of first, when something goes exactly right or horrendously wrong. A person who makes you feel like life might be okay, even when you’re standing in the middle of a shitstorm.

I had a person. When I lost him, I refused to believe that I could find another.

Instead, new people found me.

Paloma, Meagan, and Sophia.

Isaiah.

“I’m happy to be your person,” I whisper.

He smiles forlornly, reaching over to comb his fingers through my hair. “Someday I hope you’ll let me be yours.”