Work Text:
“Going to see Jason again?”
Everyone’s asking questions. Everyone knows there’s blood in the water. You’re reading the Scarlet Letter in English, for goodness’ sake. Mrs. Taylor won’t spill your secret, but she knows it, and somehow—even though her arms were comforting and her voice was kind beneath its firmness—somehow, that’s worse.
“He has a quad rugby game,” you say, holding your dad’s gaze. It’s the only thing to do, with your dad. Any flicker in eye contact and he’ll have you pinned by your doubts.
You almost hate him.
“I don’t know what quad rugby is, sweetie,” Dad says, “But Jason’s not up for anything too difficult, yet. You sure he got the sign-off?”
“Yeah, he did. It’s a whole thing. And I already—” You can hear the tension in your voice, the flutter that will shatter all your calm in a minute. It’s like an earthquake (your mistake) is shaking a glass of water off the edge of a table (your life).
It’s like there is no table.
(Jason fell; everyone fell.)
(Don’t you hurt him more, said Mrs. Taylor, and she only meant Jason, but now you’re also stuck thinking of Tim.)
“I already told you,” you finish. You straighten the hem of your shirt, a nervous fidget. Your dad’s eyes narrow.
White shirt: no red letter. Not yet.
You grab your keys and run.
You drive, and you’re playing the conversations over in your head. Words on Tim’s doorstep, under Tyra’s watchful eye. Words nestled in the crook of Jason’s neck, promising him you’re as good as you’re supposed to be. You feel sick and then angry; angry and then nothing.
Your heart is beating so fast. Tim’s hands on your hips. Jason’s eyes on your face. You’re going to become something they can’t touch unless you let them. You’re going to be so much better than you were, so much more loyal, so much more certain. You’re going to keep your sins under lock and key, until Jason is on his feet again.
The miracle will heal you all.
The rehab center looms, but you keep driving. The gymnasium where the scrimmage will be is only ten minutes farther, but it feels like forever. You drive, playing your future over in your head.
There’s Tim’s truck in the parking lot. Tim said it’s over because you said it’s over.
(Your heart won’t stop, but you can try and forget you have it.)
You don’t look at him until you reach the doors. Then you smile your coldest, brightest smile and say, “For Jason, right?”
Tim says nothing. He doesn’t look at you—he waits to slip into his easy stride and unaffected demeanor until there are other people watching.
You let yourself come slowly back to life. Heartbeat, heartbeat, hallway—
Jason. You smile across the court, warm and faithful, and you take your seat.
She’ll get bored, and she'll move on, your dad said, and you hated him for knowing you so well.