Page 107 of These Secret Years

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

The song, when it comes through via a text, is “Titanium.”

I don’t laugh. I just do what he asked and listen to it. Over and over again, until I’m slumped against the closet wall, asleep.

It’s not until morning that I realize what he did by sending me that song and making me promise to call him back.

He kept me alive another day.

Chapter Twenty-Three

KNIGHT

I’m alone in my parents’ kitchen. It’s just me and the coffee maker as I watch it drip. At the house I share with the guys, we have one of those pod coffee machines, so using this big multi-cup one is a whole event, making me wait forever after I barely slept all night. The call from Sullivan was so fucking upsetting, I slept in twenty minute increments until I finally gave up at dawn and came down here to caffeinate.

My dad’s hand on my back makes me cringe.

I shut my eyes, not sure I can handle him without coffee. Maybe he’ll be quiet. Maybe he’ll see I’m not in the mood to talk—not about anything, including the weather.

“You’re up early. Big plans today?”

“Didn’t sleep well.”

He leans against the counter, near the coffee maker and me. I have a choice now to look at him or the drip drip drip. He’s got his arms folded and looks casual enough in sweats and a long-sleeved t-shirt.

I’m an inch taller than my dad and about fifty pounds of muscle bigger these days, but he still manages to make me feel small. “Did I tell you I’m writing a book?” he asks.

I look at him for that because no. He didn’t. I shake my head. “What’s it about?”

“The only thing I know anything about. Football.”

“Is it like—an autobiography or something?”

“Something like that, but also, you know, lessons learned.”

I’m not sure I like where this is going, but I play along. “Does it have a title?”

“Not yet. But if you think of something catchy, let me know.”

“Are you just thinking about writing it, or are you actually writing it?”

“Ten chapters in.”

“Huh. Good for you.”

“It’s got me thinking…”

I sigh heavily, pointedly. Turning away from him, I check in with the coffee maker. Four cups down, four to go. The drip at this point is a steadier stream, which I find reassuring.

“The chapter I just wrote was about the draft.”

“Do you even know how to write? Are you doing this all by yourself?”

“There will be editors involved, but I’m not a bad writer, I don’t think. Your mom doesn’t think so.”

Being a picky reader myself, I could offer to take a look at it, but I think I’d rather have a cavity filled.