Page 132 of These Secret Years

I frown at the same time he does.

“Lucky was a weird word choice,” he says, and I wonder if the chattering he’s doing is in any way related to the meds he mentioned. “Maybe I meant proud. Proud of all of you guys. School spirit, like you said. You know?”

“Sullivan,” I say in a low voice. “I can’t not talk about this.”

He clears his throat. “Can I make coffee first? I really need some coffee.”

I nod. He nods back and then turns to busy himself by taking two mugs out of a cabinet, finding some creamer in the fridge, and setting out a variety of sweetener packets along with two spoons. The coffee continues to drip, and the furnace clicks on. I take off my coat and put it on one of chairs at the kitchen table behind me. I get out of my boots, too. They’re muddy and wet, and I don’t want to track any more dirt inside.

I’ve only been in this house once before, but it was a memorable enough experience that I know the layout. Still, I’m not about to go chill in the living room while the coffee brews when he’s only got one working hand. His right arm is the one in the cast. That’s his bow arm. It’s also the hand he uses to write music. I do need to sit, but I do it at the table, keeping my eyes on him.

The cut on his lip is dark and shiny like he’s got ointment on it, and the bruises are all yellowing at the edges, meaning this happened days ago. Was this why he wasn’t responding Friday? Did all this happen Wednesday? Thursday? What day did he leave for Detroit?

Monday. Wasn’t he supposed to go on Monday? I need to stop assuming shit. He could have been in a car accident. He could have gotten jumped on the street. None of that makes me feel any better or less homicidal, but there could be some alternate explanation other than what seems incredibly obvious. That his obligation to Adrian may be over, but he had to pay a price for it.

Done with all his busy work, he looks at the other chair at the table, hesitates a moment, but then walks over and sits down in it next to me. “I know I look like shit, but I did shower last night.”

I press my lips together, not trusting myself with any words.

“You look tired,” he says. “Have you not slept much? Did you have to sleep in the airport?”

“Yeah. They didn’t cancel our original flight until midnight, and by then we were pretty stuck.”

“Anticlimactic after a win like that, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

I set my open hand on the table, wondering if he’ll take it, but needing to try.

He rests his left hand inside it, and I wrap my fingers gently around his, giving them a light squeeze. “Let me drive you home tomorrow. We can take your car. I can fly back after Christmas.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

I grin. “That was easy.”

“I think I’m really glad to see you or something. I mean, I was trying to avoid it for obvious reasons, but now that you’re here… Yeah, I’ll let you drive me home.”

“I needed to see you,” I say.

His eyes widen like I’ve said something startling. “Is everything okay?”

Is he serious? I have no idea what’s going on right now. Whether he’s in denial, or he just really wants to be, or if it’s something else entirely. I try my best to think back to why I showed up here in the first place other than that red alarm bell and missing him in general. It was something to do with us.

Then I remember. “So, it’s been a summer and a whole semester. How’s this just being friends thing going for you?”

He lets out a soft huff that’s almost a laugh. “I mean, it’s got its pros and cons, I guess. I like getting to see you more often.”

“But?”

“How’s it going for you?” he asks instead of answering, an echo of the day we met and so many conversations we had that first summer. It makes more sense to me now. He does. He doesn’t want to give too much without knowing what he’ll get back. He’s shy, and somewhere along the way his confidence got shaken, if he ever had any in the first place.

“Good,” I say. “Hard sometimes, but good.”

“Why is it hard? Am I a bad friend?”