"He wasn't perfect. He had a temper. Made rash decisions. Had a selfish streak. More or less, he was the average college guy when it came to his faults. But he didn't expect perfection from anyone else. It made him so easy to love. There were very few things he wasn't willing to give. It was easy to get selfish loving Brogan. He wanted the people he loved to have everything. In seventh grade, I punched him because I found out he kissed Emily Sauer and I had a crush on her. He just smiled at me, lip all bloody, and said, ‘Sorry, man. I didn't know. Go get her.' There were very few things Brogan went after in this world that he wasn't willing to give to someone else."
My eyes go to Mia, and she has her hand pressed hard between her breasts, as if she needs it there to hold her heart together.
"Very few things," I repeat. I turn toward the casket. "Buddy, I'm sorry I didn't get out of the way. I'm sorry I didn't take the punch now and then and tell you to go after it." I release a puff of air that's supposed to be laughter and look at the ceiling as I bite back a curse. "I can hear him. Like he's right here. I can hear him telling me it's okay. That was Brogan. He'd forgive me. Even if I don't deserve to be forgiven."
My gaze lands on Mia. "I know he'd forgive me. He was always faster to forgive me than I was to forgive myself, but I'm going to try. For him. And you guys should, too. Let go of any of the regrets you had concerning Brogan, because he'd tell you that it's okay. That's the kind of guy he was."
Mrs. Barrett steps up to the podium and puts her hand on my arm before drawing me into a hug. "Thank you," she whispers. "I needed to hear that."
I hug her back and my eyes lock with Mia's. I hope my message got through to her. She's not the one who did wrong, but I know she carries the weight of that night on her shoulders. I know Brogan wouldn't want that.
Mia stands and comes to the stage as Mrs. Barrett releases me. The women look at each other, and Mrs. Barrett gives a sad smile and nods before turning to the mic.
"Now, Mia Mendez is going to sing for us. Brogan always loved to hear her sing."
Mia avoids my gaze and stiffly takes her place behind the mic. I take my spot next to Chris as the organs plays the opening chords of "Amazing Grace," and Mia opens her mouth and sings for the first time since New Year's Eve.
The house is milling with guys from the team who wanted to hang out rather than go home after the funeral, but the only one I want to talk to right now is Coach.
I lock eyes with him and nod toward my dad's study. I don't wait for his response before I head down the hall and wait in there.
Less than a minute later, he joins me, closing the door behind him. "You have a houseful of people, and I'm not going to talk about this now."
"We're going to talk about it. I can't keep this secret anymore. I tried. For you. But you cornered me. You put me in a horrible, unthinkable position by covering it up." God, I wish he'd just understand. "It's too heavy," I say. "I can't hold it anymore."
"Is this about Mia?"
"No." I grimace then shrug. "Yes. Kind of. It's about everyone. It's about doing the fucking right thing."
"Arrow, I know you think going forward is the right thing-"
"It is. We can do it together. I'll tell them. We'll explain you were trying to protect me." My voice squeaks. I'm a little boy begging for some attention from his father. "Don't you understand? The only reason I haven't gone forward is to protect you. I didn't ask you to do what you did, and if you hadn't, I wouldn't be carrying around this unbearable . . . Please. The truth is the only way I can get out from under this."
He looks over his shoulder at the closed door of the study, as if someone might be standing there listening in to our conversation. "I know you think it's the right thing," he says when he looks back to me. "But it's not. You have to think of the big picture here. You feel a little guilt off your chest, and then what? Everyone you love will know what you're responsible for."
"Would you stop acting like you're doing this for me?"
"Fine, then. I'm not. This isn't about you, Arrow." For the first time in our long relationship, there's derision in his voice when he says my name. "But if you care about me at all, you'll keep your mouth shut. I am a father. Trish doesn't have anyone else. Maybe I'm selfish for doing what I must for her, but so be it. Make it about me, Arrow. Shut the fuck up about this for me."
The house is quiet. Too quiet. Suddenly, I wish for the clamor of the BHU O-line gathering around the patio, even Trish's drunken screeches of delight when one of the guys throws her into the pool.
I stand in my room for a long time, lost without the nightly tasks of taking care of the baby, doing the laundry, and preparing Uriah's meals.
There's a chill on my skin that feels like New Year's Eve, and I know if I let it, it'll take over, and I'll stand here-shivering my way to numbness.
It's dark outside. It's dark inside.
I want to pull the curtains wide and open the windows and let the humidity of the Indiana summer seep into the room. I want it to wrap me up. I want the sticky air to cling to me. To hold me here so I can't get sucked back there. I need the heat to remind me the chill is only in my head. To prove to me that night has passed.
I go to the window and pull it open, leaning my head against the screen. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
The night had an end, but I've trapped myself inside it and pretended there was no way out. The night of the accident was a cliff, and I let myself believe there was nothing beyond it. Because I was too afraid to jump.
I close my eyes and listen to the sounds of him getting ready for bed. A drawer opening, the rustle of clothes as he changes, the click of a lamp.
A rush of heat climbs up my neck, warms my cheeks. The thought of Arrow climbing into bed in cotton briefs. His strong legs between the sheets. His bare chest. His big hands.
I'm alive.
I press a hand against the wall. Heat swells in my belly and swirls to a tight knot between my legs. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the backs of my lids are painted with the image of him with his hand between my legs, and my mind is full of the sound of his breath against my neck as he slides his finger inside me and tells me I'm beautiful. His fingers slip over me. Heat pools in my belly, and that coil pulls tight between my legs.
I want to go to him, tell him he's the one I want, tell him that today when I sang, I let go.
There's a knock on the door, but I don't turn as it creaks open. The only other person in the house is Arrow, but this house could be full of people and I'd know that it was him standing behind me. When he's close, I feel him like the beat of my heart.
"Are you okay?" he asks. His voice is low, husky.
Slowly, I nod.
"Are you okay?" he asks again.
"I'm alive," I say softly. Maybe it's the first time I've actually believed it. The sticky air on my skin, the heat of summer curling the tendrils of hair at the nape of my neck. "I'm alive."
"Fuck, Mia." He doesn't come closer.
I wait, staring out into the dark night, watching the reflection of the moonlight bounce off Arrow's car and remembering the night at the lake, jumping into the water wearing nothing but starlight. He doesn't come closer.
"Mia?" I turn at my name. He's in nothing but a pair of boxers, and my gaze lingers on his strong, bare chest. "We didn't get a chance to talk after the funeral. I wanted to check on you. Are you doing okay?"
In my stomach, butterflies flurry from side to side. "No."
His face falls and he steps forward. "What can I do? Anything?"
Taking two steps toward him, I draw in a long, slow breath. "What are you offering me, Arrow?"
His breath catches, and his eyes rake down the length of me and back up. "Anything I have."
"I don't want to be alone." It's a simple sentence, and I realize it's what I haven't allowed myself to admit during these months of grieving.
"Then you can sleep with me." He's so matter-of-fact. So sure that he can hold me and never cross the line I so badly need him to cross.
"I don't want to sleep with a man who doesn't want to touch me, Arrow." I release a dry laugh. "But I only want to sleep with you. And there's the rub."
"Mia . . ." He takes a step forward before stopping himself. "If you think I don't want to touch you, you have it all wrong. I've even told you . . . sometimes touching you is all I can think about."