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You know me and the guys always got your back. We’re gonna take care of this, man.
Admittedly, it is a low point in your low life, taking comfort from the threats and promises of Bradley Cole.
Hell, Tim’s always had more patience for Bradley (though Tim, with his irreverent preference for nicknames, calls him Fire-crotch) than you have. Tim’s even-keeled, so long as you don’t poke at him during his bleary mornings.
So long as nobody messes with his plays.
That’s all Tim cares about—his good times and his game, the former more than the latter.
Heartless bastard, you conclude, almost reveling in how much the thought stabs at you. Heartless bastard, after all we’ve been through. All I’ve been through.
Whatever Bradley and the boys do to him, he has coming. You burn through the anger all day, even though there’s nobody around to see it. They’re all going off to Gatling, and you’re more helpless than ever, alone in a hospital bed.
It’s a relief when Tyra comes.
Do you think you’ll ever forgive her?
Will you ever forgive him?
It’s hard to find your way back to ordinary conversation, to laughter, after that. Tyra drinks straight out of the bottle, tipping her head back so that the column of her throat shines white in the fluorescent light. For a second, you think maybe Tim got it right the first time—maybe she is more beautiful than Lyla.
Maybe you’re still just pissed.
Anyway, Tim is wrong enough now to last a lifetime.
“I want to get away from here,” Tyra says.
You don’t think she just means from Tim.
“Me too,” you say. You’re not as drunk as you’d like to be. “That was the plan, y’know? Get outta Dillon—” OK, maybe your words aren’t as steady as you thought—“G-go Pro and—”
“But you were going to come back.” Tyra’s voice is soft, if a little hazier from the alcohol. Her hair is starting to blur with her face, turning her golden. “Wasn’t that the plan?”
You sigh, loud in your own ears. You wish that the team didn’t know, that the school didn’t know, and not just about Tim and Lyla. You wish that nobody knew about you—
But that’s a stupid thing to dream up, even when you’re drunk. Of course they care about you. You were the greatest Dillon had to offer, the best of everybody’s hopes.
For all their tears and prayers, some sick part of them probably enjoyed watching you fall, because it was interesting.
They like to see the myths unravel, the wooden horse of war gape open, letting destruction out. You were only safe while you were strong. You had to control everything, or they’d give you nothing.
“No forgiveness,” you say, more firmly now. You don’t want the blur in your eyes to be tears. “Gimme—give me the bottle. No forgiveness, and no more plans.”
“Fuck the future?” Tyra says.
You nod. “And the past.”