"You don't have to answer right now. Think about it."
"Okay."
She tilts her head toward the back hallway. "He's in bed. Hospice is coming. We're just trying to make him comfortable now."
Make him comfortable. Those words make it real, and I rush back to the bedroom as if he might disappear before I can traverse the length of the hallway.
Brogan is lying in bed, just like she said he would be. His eyes are closed, and his body doesn't look like his own. It's small and lanky. All bones and weakness. This is no longer the man who begged me to stay with him. He's no longer even the man who whispered my name after the accident. Not even the one who took my shaking hand while I looked for a pulse.
"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
His last words to me were an apology. And now it's my turn. "Brogan." I sweep his hair off his forehead, and just the touch of my fingertips against his skin makes me want to fall apart. "I wanted to be in love with you. I wanted you to be the one for me. Every girl deserves a guy who can make her laugh the way you did, and I thought if I just held on tight enough, you could be enough."
I swallow hard. I've never stopped regretting my decision to end it with him that night. Never stopped hating myself for telling him the truth about what happened with Arrow. He was being so irrational, and I thought that if I could just hurt him, he'd let me out of the car.
Instead, he kept the doors locked, and his last moments were of anger, frustration, and sadness.
"I love you. And I'm so grateful that you loved me." I put my fingers against his soft lips. Those lips that kissed me so many times. The lips that uttered sweet words I came to take for granted. "I never should have ended it like I did. Or tried to end it, or whatever. If I could change the way it all unraveled . . ."
I close my eyes and listen. As if maybe if I don't look at Brogan's empty shell of a body, he'll be able to talk to me-he'll be able to tell me he understands. But all I get is the ceiling fan-Whoomph. Whoomph. Whoomph-and cars spraying water on the sidewalk as they drive down the street in front of the house.
"Of course you would, sweetie." That's not the voice I've been waiting for, and I feel exposed as I turn to see Trish step into the room. How long has she been listening? "We all would," she continues. She's been crying. Her face is red and blotchy, her eyes swollen. She comes to stand beside me, and I'm glad she's there. Something about her falling apart helps me hold it together.
I don't need to feel stronger than her. This isn't about strength. The comfort of shared grief is the antithesis of trying to be the stronger one. This is about understanding that our pain is what makes us human, and allowing ourselves to feel it. I can't feel angry with Trish anymore and can't blame her for Brogan's decisions, not when I see her like this, grief laid out and exposed.
"This sucks," she whispers. "As if it's not hard enough to say goodbye to someone you love-this is all tangled up in the fight you two had." She squeezes her eyes shut. "It's tangled up in our mistakes. I know he betrayed you, but if you feel like you have to blame someone, don't blame him." She takes my hands in hers and squeezes them. Her hands are so cold, as if she's been cuddling with the dead. "I loved him and I decided I'd do whatever it took to get him. I screwed up. I am to blame." Her eyes plead as she lifts them to mine. "Everyone wants someone to blame, and no one will blame me. I knew he was in love with you and I still . . ."
I turn and wrap her in my arms, and she dissolves into silent sobs against my chest.
"I loved him so much."
"I know." I stroke her hair and take a long, deep breath. Damn you, Brogan. He had to have known how she felt, and he should never have messed around with her if he wasn't going to pursue it. He shouldn't have done a lot of things, and the reminder of his flaws gives my grief a jagged edge, makes it hurt more with everything that was left unsaid and undone. No wonder we paint our lost loved ones without flaws. This is harder.
When Trish pulls away, she pastes on a smile I know is for my benefit. "He loved you, you know? He loved you with the kind of intensity that makes teenage girls obsessed with romance. He loved you, and I was just so jealous of that. I wanted to steal it. To make it mine. I'm the one to blame here. And I'd trade my life for his." She holds me by my shoulders for a long time, staring into my eyes. "I want you to know that. I need you to know that I'd give my own life to make it right."
She seems so melodramatic, and I grimace. I've probably said the same to someone along the way. I have to believe her, because if I ever said it, I'm sure I meant it, too. "It doesn't work like that," I tell her softly.
"Right." She releases me and steps around me to study Brogan. She touches his face and runs her fingers along his jaw. "But if it did . . ."
There are too many people at my house. A quick glance out the back windows and onto the patio and I count a dozen guys from the team and nearly as many girls.
Mia went to say goodbye to Brogan today, and there have been people milling around since she got home, so I haven't been able to get her alone and ask how she's doing.
Trish comes in from the patio and props her sunglasses on the top of her head. She's had them on out back all afternoon, so I never noticed how swollen her eyes are. She looks as if she's been crying for days.
"Are you okay?" I ask. It seems like she shows up here as often as she can since I got home, always trying to get me alone. My irritation with her kept me from registering that she's got to be as upset as the rest of us about the end of Brogan's life.
"I'm not." With a glance to the crowd out back, she grabs my wrist and drags me down the hall and away from the kitchen.
"Trish," I say, the warning in my voice. "I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong idea, but I'm seriously-"
"Shut up!" She pushes me into the study and pulls the door closed behind her. "We need to talk, and I'm sick of trying to get you alone."
"I'm sorry about New Year's Eve." It's an apology I should have given her a long time ago. "I didn't mean to lead you on. I didn't-"
"Fuck that, Arrow. I'm in love with Brogan, not you. That night wasn't about you. It was about him."
"Okay," I say cautiously.
She paces the length of the room behind the dark leather couch. "Do you remember?"
My stomach sinks. I really don't want to do this. "Do I remember New Year's Eve?"
She stops and lifts her eyes to mine. "Yeah."
I swallow hard. "Not a lot, Trish. I mean, I remember us . . . you know."
She stares at me hard, and I don't know what else to say. How much does she know? Has her dad told her something? Jesus, I don't want to talk about this. "Arrow," she says, holding my gaze. "I remember it."
"I'm sorry. I think we were both screwed up that night."
She shakes her head. "No. Not the party. After the party."
"After your dad picked you up?" I ask. Because as fragmented as my memory is, that piece is there-Coach showing up at the party to pick up Trish, because her punishment for her latest screw-up was having to ring in the New Year at home.
"I convinced him to let me stay with you, to let you drive me home. He didn't know you'd been drinking, but I thought it'd be okay. You'd stopped drinking and were trying to sober up."
My stomach turns sour. "What are you saying?"
"I was in the car." She folds her arms and squeezes her eyes shut. "I remember it all. The sick thunking sound. The screeching tires. The silence in those seconds after and before we . . . I know my dad covered it up. I wanted you to know that I know."
I just stare at her. I can't speak. There's nothing to be said. She knows about this prison I'm trapped in. And she's been trapped here, too. All this time. "How could you keep this secret? Why didn't you stop me, Trish?"
"I'm sorry."
"I don't remember anything after leaving the party." I don't even remember leaving the party.
"I know you don't. Consider yourself lucky."
I shake my head. "I hit them and I just . . . drove away? I can't fucking remember."
"Stopping wouldn't have changed anything," she whispers.
I squeeze my eyes shut, as if this new piece of information might make the memory appear in my brain, but nothing's there.