Chapter Text
I wake up gasping, lungs dragging in air like I’ve surfaced too fast from deep water. My pulse slams against my ribs, wild and frantic, the way it does in those dreams where you’re falling — plummeting — and you jolt awake a split second before you hit the ground.
I can’t remember what I was dreaming about, probably for the best.
I push myself upright, a groan scraping out of me as I reach for my neck. It’s been twisted at an angle no man in his late thirties should attempt, unless he’s actively trying to punish himself. My muscles are stiff, knotted, furious. It feels like I’ll never turn my head left again without hearing something snap.
The couch beneath me is a war zone of mismatched throw pillows, lumpy cushions, and upholstery that feels like it was woven from industrial‑grade sandpaper. Jennifer insists it’s “urban chic,” that everyone in SimCity has a couch like this now. But I’m convinced she’s lying, that the couch is a hand‑me‑down she’s too busy, or too broke, to replace.
A thin blade of morning light cuts across the living room, illuminating drifting dust motes like tiny planets suspended in orbit. The house smells like burnt coffee from last night and the faint, sugary trace of Lucy’s strawberry conditioner. My mouth tastes stale, sour, and unmistakably like regret.
Perfect. This is precisely how a man should feel after blowing up his entire life.
I shift, pain shooting down my left shoulder, but it's the ache in my chest — the shock, the betrayal, the way Mary-Sue’s voice cracked-that grips me hardest, making my stomach churn with regret and helplessness.
Footsteps. Soft. Controlled.
Jennifer appears in the doorway, framed by the warm glow spilling from the kitchen. She’s wearing an old Pleasantview High football jersey — red and gold, the colours almost glowing in the dim room. It hangs off her like a dress, sleeves swallowing her arms, hem brushing her thighs. Her dark, wavy hair is a wild, sleep‑tangled halo, but her eyes, her eyes are razor‑sharp, even from across the room.
She’s holding a mug of coffee like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
My sister looks exhausted, anxious, and furious all at once, her eyes searching mine for answers I can't give.
“Is that my football jersey?” I rasp, my voice sounds like somebody dragged it across the gravel outside.
Jennifer snorts, a brittle, humourless sound. “It’s John’s.”
She steps closer, floorboards creaking under her bare feet. The jersey sways with her movement, a ghost of our high school years trailing behind her.
“You frightened Lucy,” she says, voice tight. “She heard you come in last night. She thought someone was hurt.”
I swallow, throat thick. “Someone is hurt.”
Her jaw twitches. “I just got off the phone with Mary‑Sue.”
The air thickens, pressing down on my chest. I stare up at the ceiling — a bland off‑white expanse with a water stain shaped like a crooked heart—anything to avoid Jennifer’s disappointed eyes.
“She said she caught you in bed with Kaylynn Langerak.”
The name hits like a fist to the gut, but beneath the physical pain, I'm bombarded with memories of moments I wish I could undo, each one a reminder of my own failures and the cost of my disloyalty.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” I whisper, voice trembling with guilt, as if saying it aloud might somehow undo the damage I've done.
Jennifer’s expression hardens. “Oh, come on, Daniel.”
I drag both hands over my face. “I know. I know.”
“No, you don’t.” She sits on the coffee table, leaning forward until her knees nearly touch mine—the jersey pools around her like a flag of a team I no longer deserve to claim. “You keep acting like this is something that just… happened to you. Like you’re some bystander in your own damn life.”
Her voice wavers — not with weakness, but with the effort of holding herself together.
“You need to start being honest,” she says. “With Mary‑Sue. With the girls. And with yourself.”
The words land heavily, sinking into the cracks already spiderwebbing through me.
“I am being honest with myself,” I snap. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. None of it was supposed to happen.”
Jennifer recoils slightly, frowning.
She swallows. “How long?”
“I don’t know.”
Her frown deepens. “How long?”
I sigh, defeated. There’s no point lying to my sister. “I don’t know… a few months, maybe? A year?”
“A year?” she gasps.
I lift my hands in defence. “I swear, Jen, it was just flirting for most of it. Yesterday was the only time I slept with her.”
She doesn’t speak. She stares at me, hurt and disbelief carved into every line of her face. She clutches her coffee cup like it’s the only solid thing in the room.
Behind us, floorboards creak.
We turn to see John standing at the bottom of the stairs — shirtless, wearing loose pyjama bottoms, hair sticking up in every direction. His eyes are bleary, confused, trying to piece together a puzzle he didn’t know he’d walked into.
“Uh… everything alright down here?” he asks.
Jennifer exhales sharply. “We’re talking.”
“Oh,” he says. “Right. Talking.”
He glances toward the kitchen. “Should I… go back upstairs?”
Jennifer pinches the bridge of her nose. “No, John. It’s fine.”
“It’s really not,” he mutters, shuffling toward the kitchen anyway, attempting invisibility despite being about as subtle as a spitting llama.
Once he’s gone, Jennifer turns back to me, eyes blazing with that impossible mix of fury and love only a sister can manage.
“Daniel,” she says quietly, “really? A year? You let this go on for a year?”
I shrug helplessly. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Jen. It just happened.”
“You’re a married man. You’ve been faithful to Mary‑Sue for years. This kind of thing doesn’t just happen. You can’t pretend you had no part in it.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why are you still here? Why aren’t you on your doorstep begging Mary‑Sue to forgive you?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I stare at the ceiling again, letting my eyes unfocus. The water stain blurs, reshapes — becomes the high ceiling of the Pleasantview High gym, the one I used to stare at while catching my breath between drills.
Suddenly, I can smell the varnished floors, sharp and chemical. I can hear the echo of sneakers, the slap of a basketball, Coach’s whistle slicing through the air.
Back when everything felt simple. Back when I thought being good at a game meant I was good at life.
The memories surge: the roar of the crowd under Friday night lights, the weight of the helmet in my hands, the adrenaline, the certainty that the world would always open for me.
Jennifer’s voice fades into a distant hum as the past rises, vivid and insistent.
And sitting there on her too‑small couch, my neck aching, my heart pounding, my marriage in ruins, I feel myself slipping backwards — into senior year, into the golden haze of who I used to be.