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“Why are you here, Kara?” I hear Tate’s voice, but it’s hushed, and my eyes feel too heavy to open. I, too, would like to know why she’s here. Actually, I’d like to know where I am, period. She mumbles something: it’s my mom who speaks up this time.

“If he wanted you to be a part of his life, I’m sure we’d all know about it.” You tell her, mama.

Wait, is she in Tampa? Oh. Sugar Honey Iced Tea. My eyes slam open, “Is she mine?” My throat is so scratchy it startles me for a second. The only thing I care to know is if that baby girl was mine.

“Can we talk for a second, alone?” She sounds timid, almost scared.

“Is she mine?” I feel my nostrils flare, my breathing rough and loud as we wait for her answer in the otherwise silent hospital room. “You lied to me before; don’t do it now. Not about this.”

“She’s not, she’s Brandon’s.” That landed like a sucker punch to the gut; Brandon was my roommate when I first moved here. My best friend. The one whose voice I heard right before I went down. The one who hit me from behind, pinning my shoulder to the boards before my head bounced off the glass. Just when things start looking up, the carpet gets pulled out from under me.

“Get out. I have nothing to say to you. Don’t contact me again.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Get out!” I don’t even recognize myse lf when I grab a cup filled with water and fling it at the door. The monitors I’m hooked up to start beeping frantically; nurses rush in to try and figure out how to get me to calm down, but she doesn’t leave.

She narrows her eyes as she pins me with a look that, at one point, would have stopped me dead in my tracks. “We aren’t done, G. We can talk when the peanut gallery isn’t around.” She turns on her heel and actually stomps out of the room.

Once the machines indicate my blood pressure isn’t about to send me into a stroke, my family walks back into the room. “Wanna tell me what that was about?” I turn toward my mom, who has her arms crossed over her chest and her right eyebrow raised. No, I don’t want to tell you anything right now. I want to be lying on the couch at Hannah’s house with her fingers running through my hair as I listen to her talk about anything and everything.

“Do we have to do this right now, Mom?” It comes out all wrong. Like her very existence annoys me, like I’ve been fighting Goliath for days and finally let the exhaustion take over. I’d love nothing more than to drift into a catatonic state and forget any of this even happened.

The timeline is too close for comfort. There’s a possibility that she was with him while we were still together. My stomach sours, and I feel bile creep up my throat. It seems my sibling telepathy isn’t broken like the rest of me because Tate grabs the trash can and holds it by my face. I throw up everything in my stomach, which, thankfully, at this point, is just water. “Please don’t let her back in here.” I closed my eyes so they understood that was the end of the conversation, and they cleared out of the room.

My phone dings a while later. I look down an d see that it's Hannah. I smile, but I don’t respond. I haven’t figured out what to say to her yet. Pulling up the video of her performance, I watched it four times before locking my phone and putting it down beside the bed. The doctor comes in with my MRI results; there’s a small tear in my rotator cuff. I won’t need surgery, but I’ll be out for six to eight weeks, depending on the intensity of therapy I can endure.

There’s no point arguing because the team doctor and Abby won’t let me see ice until they both clear me. Luckily, the season just started. If I’m cleared by the eight-week mark, I’ll still have around 4 months to play, not including playoffs.

I’m in this weird spot; my brain feels like it’s been given a couple of shots of novocaine. It’s numb, I’m numb. And right now, I think I like it that way. The culmination of betrayal by not only my ex but my best friend too, on top of the fact that she clearly wants something from me. It’s a dangerous cocktail, one that has me willingly sliding into the darkness, anything to not have to deal with the weight of it all. The pain pills they gave me might just be my new best friend at the moment.

Being home is weird; I was so drugged up that I don’t remember how I actually got here. But here I am. When I finally pull myself out of bed, my stomach moves me towards the kitchen. I stop short when I see my mom wiping down the already spotless island. I turn around and go back to my room, close the door, and turn the light off. There’s no point in pretending I ’m in the mood to talk; they know I’m not.

I must have passed out because there was a knock on my door, and my body jerked at the sound. “Yeah?” The door pushes open; Dad comes in with food and the pain medicine the doctor gave me. I stare at it, debating on if I want to be numb or feel the pain today.

“You need to eat, Greyson. You aren’t going to heal without the proper nutrition.” Running my hand down my face, noting the growth in my beard, I motion toward the end of my bed. I know he’s right. I just don’t have the motivation to eat.

He sits down and gives me a look like he can see through me. It’s unnerving. “Do you have something to say, Dad?” It comes out snappier than I intended, and I recoil at its sharpness. This is such a weird sensation. I feel like someone has hijacked my body and stuck me on a shelf like the creepy Christmas elves, and I can’t do anything but watch. I see myself hurting my family in an attempt to keep myself safe, but it doesn’t feel like it’s me doing it. I hate it.

“I love you, Greyson. I just want you to be okay. I know this was a lot.” He doesn’t know half of it. But I get where he’s coming from.

“I’ll be alright, Dad. I just need some time.” Patting my thigh, he stands and walks towards the door. When his hand reaches the doorknob, he turns to me and pulls the imaginary pin that was holding the tidal wave of emotions back.

“Are you coming to the carnival with us tonight, or should we tell everyone you need to rest?” He must see the answer on my face because he gives me a sad smile and walks out.

His words barely register as the door clicks shut behind him. The carnival. I forgot about the carnival. How the hell did I forget about the carnival?

I can already picture the disappointment in her eyes when she realizes I’m not there. The tight smile she uses when she’s trying to hide how she’s really feeling. The little shrug she’d give to try to keep up the image of indifference. But, no. It’s Hannah; she’ll understand why I’m not, right? You don’t even have the balls to tell her you won’t be there.

My breath hitches, growing shallow and uneven. My world starts to tilt, intrusive thoughts winning out as I flip the tray full of food, sending it crashing to the floor. It’s a mess, but it’s nothing compared to the mess in my head. Looking down at the shattered bowl, bits of soup scattered over the floor and part of my walls–it’s like looking in a mirror.

This is who I am—broken and messy. I’m a freaking wreck.

My head finds my hand, and the fingers of my good arm dig into my scalp. My thoughts act as relentless waves, like a rip current pulling me deeper into the depths of the sea, not letting me come up for air. Why can’t I get up? Why can’t I send her a simple text as a heads up? It’s just a carnival, right?

Except it’s not. It’s her. It’s Hannah. She deserves better than this. Better than me.

She’s been texting me to check in, and I’ve been ignoring her. My phone burns a hole in my pocket; I haven’t looked at it today. Honestly, what the hell would I even say to her? “Sorry, I’m a pathetic excuse of a human. Sorry, I can’t pull myself out of bed, let alone face you, or anyone else for that matter.”

Damn it! The exhaustion pulls at me, all-consuming. I flop backward on the bed, wincing as my shoulder jostles a bit too much. I stare at the fan as my mind drifts further into dark ness. The weight of failure sits heavy in my chest. She’s going to the carnival without me, as she should. She should laugh, be happy, and pour into those kids. She should forget about the guy who couldn’t show up when it really mattered. The guy too consumed with his own guilt that he can’t be there for her big night. The pain in my shoulder pales in comparison to the pain in my chest, the one connected to my faulty brain. What a freaking joke I am.

I’m tired. Too tired to fight. The darkness cuddles up like a lover in the night, pulling me closer. I don’t fight it. It’s easier this way, to give in. To let it have me.