Page 36

TWENTY-NINE

lorenzo

The air seeping through the open window has all the flavor of summer on the lake—crisp water and sunbaked rocks and memories of sunscreen and beer and campfires.

I look out at Ruby’s house beyond a row of pine trees and wonder what she’s doing back on campus.

Being in Lakeside without her always feels wrong.

My eyes drop to the backyard, where our old pinewood deck sits half torn up, and I feel a tug of disappointment.

Before I knew about the surgery, I’d planned to spend weekends up here with my dad, my uncle, and Anthony, ripping out the deck and building a new one.

That’s obviously off the table, which sucks because I love working with my hands.

And with my dad spending extra time with his mother to ease the transition to assisted living, he hasn’t had time to get the work done.

Hence why I’m waking up alone here on a Saturday morning: My parents are off helping my grandmother get settled, leaving me to meet two contractors and get estimates for the deck project.

I head downstairs to make coffee. At the bottom of the steps, I freeze at the sound of movement in the kitchen.

My parents back early? No, they’d have called.

A chair skids loudly across the floor. Obviously not a cat burglar.

I take a quick inventory of makeshift weapons that lie between me and whoever is in there, then lean around the banister to get a good line of sight into the kitchen.

“Ant?”

My cousin spins around, his dark eyes wide with alarm. “Jesus, man! I didn’t know you were here.”

I approach him, my heartbeat still not back to normal. “Didn’t you see my car?”

“Guess not. The fuck are you doing here?”

“It’s my house, remember? The fuck are you doing here?”

“Where are your parents? I came to ...” He makes a vague gesture. “Drop something off.”

“Leave it with me. They’re helping my grandma this weekend. What are you dropping off?”

He glances out the front window toward his car like he’s considering making a break for it. What the fuck is he doing here? I don’t like the places my imagination goes, thinking about his reasons for letting himself into my parents’ empty house.

“Forget it, I’ll bring it back later. So you hanging out all weekend or what?”

“Might,” I say tightly, then immediately regret it because he stiffens; he knows I don’t trust him.

“You want to kick it?” I turn and open the fridge, trying to seem casual.

I almost reach for two beers, even though the idea of booze right out of bed sickens me, then remember Ant’s sober.

Supposedly. I take a sparkling water for myself, then hold open the fridge for him. “Grab something.”

Ant eyes the fridge warily, then looks away. I try not to notice how bloodshot his eyes are. “I should get going. I work at noon.”

“You can’t hang out for ten minutes?”

“What for?”

I swing the fridge closed. Hard. “Shoot the shit. I’ve barely seen you since Christmas.”

He smiles bitterly. “We don’t need ten minutes, Lorenzo.

Let’s see ... I’m poor, I’m bored, and I don’t have a girl, so not much has changed since Christmas.

The big update is I work at the grocery store instead of slinging dope.

There, we’re all caught up now.” He turns and heads toward the front door.

I follow, determined not to give him the pity he wants. “So you’re not going to ask for my life update?” It’s an obnoxious question, but that’s the point.

“I don’t need to. I get the weekly recaps from my parents and Aunt Gina and Uncle Joe, complete with stats on your tackles.”

“I don’t have any stats. I haven’t played a game since January. See? You don’t know shit. Get back in here and talk to me.” I return to the kitchen, gambling on Ant deciding to be a little less of an asshole and follow me. After a minute, he does.

“All right.” He pulls out a chair from the kitchen table and sits like he expects to be entertained. “So what’s new with you? You look like you’re getting around okay.”

“No guarantees I play this season, but the shoulder’s healing. That’s about all there is to know about my football career.”

“What else? You promised me an exciting update.”

I sit across from him. “Did I say exciting? I never promised exciting. I’m bored, I’m poor, and I haven’t had a girl since Alli and I broke up.”

“That’s your own fault, man. You’ve got the life and you’re wasting it.”

“Yeah?”

“No girl? That’s a choice. You’re pretending not to be swimming in pussy.”

I smile and take a sip of sparkling water.

“What?” Ant eyes me. “Tell me.”

How can I not? “Keep it to yourself?”

“Who the fuck would I tell?”

“All right.” I drum my knuckles on the table. “Ruby and I have ...”

Ant hoots and stomps his foot. “You ain’t fucking serious! How long have I been waiting for this?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Since when?”

“Few weeks. And I don’t know where it’s going, so don’t say anything to my parents.”

He nods. “Good for you. Guess it had to be one of us. You know I had a crush on her in middle school?”

“You had a crush on everyone in middle school.”

“So you lied about not having a girl. What about the other shit? Your jerk-off arm still works, so how bored could you be?”

“Definitely bored. Definitely poor.”

“That last one’s on you.”

“Can’t pull money out of nowhere.”

“You’re the asshole who chose Shafer. Should have picked a college that actually lets their athletes get paid.” He looks at the table. “That’s what I would have done.”

I let my own gaze drift toward the floor. “Yeah. Lot of things we could have done different.”

“We? I don’t know, man. I can count my mistakes on one hand. Not sure about you.”

Outside, an obnoxiously loud motorcycle roars down the street. I reach for something to say to pull us out of what we just stepped into, but there’s nothing to cut through the tension.

Ant finally pushes his chair back. “I should get going.”

“Hold on.”

“What?”

“What the fuck, Ant?” He turns to go, but I stand up, right behind him. “You’re going to say that and just leave?”

“What did I say?”

“You’re a passive-aggressive dick, man.”

“How?”

“Why don’t you just say you blame me for the way your life turned out? I’m sick of things being like this between us.”

“Hey, man, you got the life you wanted, so learn to take the bad with the good. It can’t all be perfect.”

I point to my shoulder. “No shit.”

He levels me with a cold gaze. “I’d take a busted shoulder in a heartbeat.” Then he looks past me.

“Say it, Ant. You think it’s my fault I have the life you wanted.

” Here we are. I’ve finally put it out there.

But Anthony doesn’t even react. He’s staring intently, his focus somewhere beyond me.

I turn around and follow his gaze to the wall where a framed photo of me and him hangs above my mom’s whiteboard.

We’re little kids in the photo, dressed for Christmas Eve dinner in matching deep-green sweaters knitted by our grandma.

We could pass for brothers. I look back at my cousin, who’s finally focused on me.

“You really can’t stand that there’s one person in this world who doesn’t completely worship you. Is that it?”

“You used to.”

“When I was a kid.”

“And now?”

“Okay. Yeah.” He steps up and I’m reminded he’s got a solid inch on my height. “I do blame you. We were on the same track, and you kept going up and I fucking fell down. And I blame you.” He shrugs. “Sorry, Lorenzo, can’t have it all.” He gives me a final look and turns to walk out.

“I never said you shouldn’t. All I said was I’m sorry, over and over. What do you want me to do?”

He stops, his shoulders hunched. “I want you to stop worrying about it,” he says, half turning back to me.

“You think you’re alone? Guess what? I blame my parents too.

And I blame the friends I partied with in high school, and I blame the girl I was dating, and I blame the other driver.

So don’t worry about it, man, it’s what I do. You’re off the fucking hook.”

The door slams behind him. I don’t want him to leave, but I’m all out of things to say to keep him around.

From outside comes the sound of his car engine cranking but not starting, silence, then the engine finally springing to life.

My heart feels like it’s beating through mud.

I knew he blamed me. I wanted to hear him admit it and he did.

I got what I asked for. So why does it feel like he just punched me in the fucking gut?