What You Left Behind (22 page)

I glance at the stands, where Mom is still sitting with Hope and Declan. They look like a perfect little family. My throat suddenly feels swollen. If I left Hope with Mom—if Mom even agreed to it, I mean—they would be fine. But I can't. Whether I wanted it or not, I have a daughter now. And I'm not going to let her grow up with
no
parents.

I shake my head.

“Then I'm sorry,” Walter says. “There's simply no way it could work.” He gives a nod of acknowledgment to Coach and then walks away.

I stare at Coach. He looks uncomfortable, pursing his lips and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “How could you do this?” I shout. “Do you realize you've just ruined everything?”

“I'm sorry, Brooks, but I had to tell him. Especially after you showed up late—again—and completely blew the first half of the game. I've kept quiet during my dealings with the UCLA recruitment office all summer because I'm expected to see my players off to good colleges. My job is on the line here too. But I could no longer in good conscience recommend you for his team without him knowing your situation. The truth is, you're distracted and your playing has suffered. That's the long and short of it, Brooks. I know you think things will be different once you get to college, but they won't. You'll be facing the same set of challenges you are now, constantly trying to find the time for everything and coming up short. Mr. Paddock needed to be informed. And since you clearly weren't going to tell him…” He drifts off. I know the rest.

“Don't even think about saying ‘this hurts me more than it hurts you,'” I say, each word dripping with poison. “My life is none of your business. And you had no right to tell him anything about me.”

Coach shakes his head sadly. “Then you shouldn't have put me in a position where I felt I had to.”

“You know what, Coach? I quit.”

I storm toward the locker room. It feels like it should be raining. Thunder, lightning, torrential downpours. Big, fat raindrops saturating every last inch of every last thing in the world with cold, clammy bleakness.

But it's not raining. The weather is perfectly crisp and dry and autumn-y, which means the number of things that make sense in my life is officially zero.

Mom and her boyfriend and Hope intercept my path. Mom gives me a one-armed squeeze. “You were awesome, Ry! What did the recruiter say?”

I just stare at her.

She must get the message that the news isn't good, because she quickly moves on to, “Ryden, this is Declan.”

“Ryden, it's great to meet you.” He holds his hand out to me, but I ignore it. Eventually he drops it. “I've heard a lot about you,” he tries. “You're a hell of a goalkeeper, man.”

I turn back to Mom without acknowledging his existence. Something inside of me is breaking. It's like hundreds of hairline fractures sprouted throughout my body when I read that purple journal—or maybe earlier than that, I don't know—and there's been more and more pressure placed on them throughout the night. I'm about to fall apart.

I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold myself together a little bit longer. “She did it on purpose,” I say to Mom.

Her eyes narrow. “Who?” she asks.

“You know who. I found the second journal today. She got pregnant on purpose. She did this to me on purpose. She—” My voice is dangerously shaky.

Mom hands the baby to Declan and is about to pull me into her arms, but I know if I let her, I'll collapse into a million pieces. I step away. “I have to go.”

“Where are you going?” Mom asks, worry written all over her.

I glance at the emptying stands, at Alan and Aimee and Dave and Shoshanna joining the mass exodus, working their way up toward the school, the locker room, the parking lot. “A party,” I say. “Shoshanna's house.”

I need to get fucked up.

I push past the crowd at Shoshanna's already full house and make my way to the downstairs bathroom. It's where the keg is always kept, in a bathtub full of ice.

“What's up, Number One?” Matt Boyd asks as I enter the room. He's in there with a group of sophomore girls. One of them—a girl with feathers dangling from her earrings—hands me a cup. I help myself to a second and fill them both. “Awesome comeback tonight, dude.”

I chug one beer and hold it out to be refilled as I down the second one.

“When do you hear from UCLA?” Matt asks.

“I heard,” I say halfway through my third beer. “Not gonna happen.”

“Oh, dude, that sucks. Well, you'll get in somewhere, man. I know Coach has other recruiters coming to watch some games later in the season.”

My head is getting cloudy. The girls aren't joining in on the conversation. They stand there, pretending to be interested in everything we're saying.

“Nope. I'm done. I quit the team.” I refill my cup again.

Matt gapes at me. “You
quit
?”

“Yup. Not playing for that asshole O'Toole ever again. I have absolutely no chance of playing D-One or going pro, so there's no point in sticking around. Like everyone keeps reminding me, I have
bigger
responsibilities
now.”

I leave the bathroom, full cups in my hands.

The whole downstairs is packed. You'd think coming to this same house after every single game would get old, but Shoshanna has made it something of a tradition. Her parents don't care, there is always more than enough beer, and her house is on this huge piece of property with no neighbors within hearing distance, so we can be as loud as we want. It's actually the perfect party situation.

I glide in a daze past couples making out and girls dancing in little groups and what appears to be a pretty intense game of flip cup and search for a place to sit down. All the couches are taken. I stop in front of a love seat where a guy from the JV soccer team is sitting with some girl I've never seen before. She's got braces and huge boobs.

“Hey, Ryden!” the guy says. I have no idea what his name is. “Great game tonight!”

“Up,” I say, jerking my thumb over my shoulder.

He looks at the girl and back at me. “Uh. Okay.” The two of them leave.

Nice to know I still have some power.

I collapse into the love seat and work on beers four and five. Or is it five and six? Whatever it is, I'm not anywhere near drunk enough yet.

My phone buzzes with a text from Joni:
How'd the game go???

I put the phone back in my pocket.

Time goes by, and it's like I'm in one of those movies where the guy's at a party but he's really depressed or on drugs and the camera is focused on him sitting, unmoving, staring at nothing, while the rest of the party happens in blurred fast motion around him.

I must ask someone to get me another drink at some point, because one minute my cups are empty, and the next they're full again.

I'm vaguely aware of people talking to me, sitting beside me, but I'm pretty sure whatever they have to say is not worth the energy it takes to engage. Because engaging equals effort and effort equals cognizance and cognizance equals pain.

Then Shoshanna comes over. She stands right in front of me and doesn't move until I make eye contact. Her eyes are glassy, her cheeks flushed with a boozy glow. But her lipstick and ponytail are as perfect as ever.

“This is a party, Ryden,” she says. “The point is to have
fun
. So cheer the fuck up or go home.”

“S-sorry, Sho,” I slur. Hmm. Guess I'm drunker than I thought. Excellent.

She sighs and sits next to me, her thigh against mine. “Here.” She hands me an orange Fanta bottle.

I shake my head. “That shit's gross.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Just try it.”

Whatever. I unscrew the cap and take a sip. The liquid bites my tongue and scorches the back of my throat. I look at Shoshanna. “Is this vodka?”

She smiles. “You know I don't like beer. But don't tell anyone—that's my parents' one rule: beer only. It's like they think there's a limit to how drunk beer can get you or something.”

I laugh. “You know what? They might be right.” I take another long swig of the vodka. It tastes better now that I'm prepared for it.

We sit there, sharing the “Fanta” until it's all gone and I'm wasted out of my mind. My face feels hot and cold at the same time, and my hands feel like they're made of pipe cleaners and putty. I move the empty bottle around in front of my face, trying to make my eyes focus. The conclusion of my very scientific experiment is that four inches away from my nose is the sweet spot. Any closer or farther and the bottle becomes a jumbled blob of orange.

Shoshanna rests her head on my shoulder and drapes a leg across my lap. Her hair smells like hair spray.

I run my putty hand over her leg. She's wearing a skirt, and I'm able to travel all the way to the top of her thigh without touching any fabric. When I get to the bottom of the skirt, I keep going, underneath, and cup her ass. She rolls into me so she's almost on my lap and presses her mouth to mine.

Oh
yes.
This is exactly what I need. The best feelings in the world, without having to feel anything emotional. Shoshanna's a nice person, but, you know, she's not someone I'll ever fall in love with. We make out like crazy people for a while, then Shoshanna grabs my hand and pulls me up off the love seat. “Come on.” She leads me in the direction of her bedroom.

When we get there, she pulls her shirt over her head, pushes me down onto the bed, and crawls on top of me. It may not be very manly, but I'm perfectly okay with her taking the reins on this whole thing. My brain synapses are so delayed that it seems like it takes about a year for my body to respond to anything my brain tells it to do.

Shoshanna presses her body against me and kisses me again. “I've wanted this for so long, Ryden,” she whispers against my lips. “I've missed you so much. I knew we'd get back here eventually.”

She pulls my shirt off and unbuttons my jeans, leaving a trail of kisses down my chest, going farther and farther south. Good feelings. Only good feelings.

Her mouth is just at the top of my boxers when the door to her bedroom opens.

I don't look to see who it is. I don't care at this point. I'm so blasted the house could be on fire and the only thing I'd be able to focus on is the feel of Shoshanna's tongue on my skin.

“I can't freaking believe this,” Dave says. I finally cut my eyes to the doorway. He's silhouetted in the dim light of the hallway so I can't see his face—and let's be honest, I wouldn't be able to focus on his face right now even if this place were lit up like Times Square. But his voice sounds pretty messed up. Like, half heartbroken and half wasted and half pissed as all hell. Wait, I think that's too many halves.

“Dave, shit.” Shoshanna climbs off me and puts her shirt back on. “I…we're really drunk. I'm sorry…I didn't mean…” She starts walking toward him, but he backs away.

“Oh, I'm pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing, Shoshanna,” he says. “I want to speak with Ryden.”

I've managed to sit up, but it's the staying upright part that's giving me a problem. Forget about trying to put my shirt back on. Why are shirts so complicated, anyway? So many holes for your arms and your head.

“Dave, don't…” I hear Shoshanna say, but he pushes past her and marches over to me.

“Stand up,” he commands.

“Uh…”

“Stand
up
, Ryden.”

“Not…sure…I can,” I say.

Dave sighs. “Fine.” And he punches me. Actually
punches
me, right in the fucking face. My cheek explodes, and I fall back on the bed, clutching my face, but my putty hands aren't doing a damn thing to ease the pain.

“Dave!” Shoshanna screams and tries to pull him away.

“Get off me, Shoshanna. Ryden and I have some stuff to work out.”

“Well, can you at least do it outside?” she asks. “Leave my poor room out of it!”

Gee, thanks for the support, Sho.

“Be out front in three minutes,” Dave tells me.

The one eye that's not radiating in excruciating pain follows him out the door. Oh look, there's a crowd hovering around the door and in the hallway. Fantastic.

“You don't have to go out there, you know,” Shoshanna whispers to me once he's gone. But the way she says it, I'm pretty sure she's all kinds of elated that two guys are fighting over her.

What she doesn't get is that we aren't fighting over her. Well, maybe Dave is, but I'm not.

My face hurts like a bitch, but it's actually kinda
good
.

I thought sex was what I needed—only good feelings—but it turns out pain is way better. It's like whatever's happening to me on the outside finally matches all the shit that's on the inside.

Okay. New plan.

“Pull me up,” I tell Shoshanna.

She helps me to standing, and I stagger out the door, followed by the crowd of people in the hallway. Somehow I make it out to the front lawn. My eye must be swelling because I can't see out of it too well.

It's cold out here with no shirt. Even with a shirt, I guess. It's almost October.

Dave's pacing the lawn, waiting for me. “Wow, look at that,” he says. “Ryden Brooks actually keeping a freaking commitment for once.”

“Just say ‘fucking,' Dave. Be a man.”

“Be a
man
? Okay, how's this?” He punches me again.

I don't know how the hell I manage to stay standing, but I do.

The crowd has grown, and they start chanting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” What a cliché. I wonder if people chant that during fight scenes in movies because that's what people do in real life, or if people do it in real life because that's what they've seen in the movies.

Anyway.

“You think you can do whatever you want,” Dave says, his voice and face—what I can see of it—wild. “You think that because you've had some bad luck that gives you the right to treat everyone else like crap.”

That makes me laugh. Or at least I'm laughing in my head. I'm not sure what my face is doing.
Bad
luck.
It's a bit more than that, buddy.

“You don't show up to things,” he continues, “you're late to practice, you only put in an effort during games when it's convenient for you, you don't call anyone anymore, and you almost have sex with my fucking girlfriend!”

“Good job,” I say, egging him on. “You said a grown-up word.”
Hit
me
again, Dave. Do it.

“You were my best friend once, Ryden.”

“Yeah, well. Shit happens. Not like you ever called me either, you know.”

He ducks and charges at me, ramming his shoulder into my stomach, tackling me to the ground. He backs off pretty quickly when he realizes I'm not fighting back, but his last few blows are enough. I'm shattered in every possible way.

I keel over and puke into a pile of leaves. And then I just stay there, curled in the fetal position, waiting for my breath and my sanity to return. My eyes are closed—one swollen shut and the other just trying to shut out the light—but I can tell by the drifting noise that most people are filtering back into the house. Dave must be gone. Good riddance.

Someone kneels beside me. “Are you okay?” It's Shoshanna.

“Go away,” I mumble into the grass.

After a few more seconds, I feel her leave.

Finally, I'm alone.

So, so alone.

The tears start before I know what's happening. I don't know if it's because of the physical pain or because everything that's happened today—and over the last year—is finally catching up with me, but I'm officially in breakdown mode.

I should hide or leave before I embarrass myself any more, but I'm sobbing and dry heaving and tearing up clumps of the earth with my stupid, useless drunk hands, and I need to get it out. I can't hold on any longer.

I force air into my lungs and scream into the dirt like it's a sponge that will soak up all my misery and carry it far, far away.

I scream until my voice is shot, and then I cry and cry and cry like I never have before. Not even when Meg died.

A few minutes or hours or seconds later, I feel the ground pulsing as someone runs toward me. Unless it's Meg, back from the dead to tell me “Ha! Just kidding!” I don't want them here.

“Ryden!”

“Go away,” I force out, my voice hoarse.

“Ryden, it's me. It's Alan. We just got here—what happened?”

“Everything happened.”

“Did you get into a
fight
? Why aren't you wearing a shirt?”

“Dave. Shoshanna.”

“No, it's
Alan
. Alan and Aimee. Ryden, open your eyes.”

“No. Shoshanna took my shirt. Dave hit me. I wanted him to.”

“Why the hell would you want him to hit you?”

“Because. Hurt is good.” The fragments inside me ache. “She did it on purpose. She blamed me and she wanted to punish me and said she loved me but she really hated me. And I hate her too. I
hate
her. She ruined everything.”

Alan hesitates for a minute. “I'm calling your mom.”

“No.” I force my good eye open. “No. Don't.” I try to sit up, to show him I'm fine, that he doesn't need to call my mother, but the whole world tilts and the ground meets my face with a crash.

“Ryden, it's Aimee,” Aimee says. “Let us help you.”

“Aimee Nam. Did you know Alan here was in
looove
with Meg Reynolds? She made everyone love her.”