Secret Lucidity(16)

I wrap my arms around my legs and drop my head to my knees. Too scared to feel the pain of all this, I take in a controlled breath and fight against the ache building inside me, weighing down on my gut like a ton of bricks. My eyes close, and I will myself to drift to a place that holds no memory of my father. A place that’s safe for me to be. A place that can’t haunt me.

It’s useless.

He’s everywhere but nowhere. There’s no peace in escapism, because he’s imprisoned within my soul. My heart beats, and it’s his DNA that pumps through my veins. It’s keeping me alive, even when I don’t want to be, giving me no say.

Metal slams, and I startle, popping my head up to find Coach Andrews staring at me from across the natatorium.

He sets his bag down on the ground next to mine before walking over to me. I should get up and leave, but I’m cemented where I am. As he closes the distance between us, I turn my head and cast my eyes down to the pool.

I don’t want to connect to anyone when despondency is where I wish to dwell in my sorrows.

He sits next to me and releases a deep breath. Silence draws out for a while as we both stare down into the water, and within the muteness lies a splinter. It punctures ever so slightly, but it’s enough to make me notice. There’s a connection with Coach Andrews.

“It’s hard not having him here, isn’t it?” His voice is low, but in the open air of the building, it sounds bigger than it should, and I know he’s watching me. “How’d you get in here anyway?”

“His keys,” I whisper.

“Have you gotten in yet?”

I shake my head and take a painful swallow.

He props his feet up next to mine and rests his arms on his knees. “Tell me how I can help.”

I don’t respond.

“Do you even want to be helped?”

Glancing over at him, I give him the only piece of honesty I can—a shrug.

“It’s okay if you don’t.” His words wrap around me like a blanket, cloaking me in comfort. Finally, someone who isn’t rushing me to move on.

“Are they talking about me?” I ask even though I already know they are.

“They’re concerned,” he says. “Me included.”

“Are they talking about him?” My voice cracks.

He shifts his body toward me, but I keep myself from looking at him when he answers. “It’s been a hard week for them to come back here without their coach. Some are affected more than others.”

I glance up to the office once more, fighting back against the pricking heat behind my eyes.

Heartache expands within.

My skin tightens.

I can’t do this.

I push off the bleachers and rush over to grab my bag.

“Cam.” His voice bounces off the walls, but I ignore him.

If I stop moving, I’ll lose all my strength and crumble. I’m too close to the cliff’s edge right now.

“Cam, wait!”

And this time, for some reason . . . a reason deep within that I’m reluctant to admit even exists, I stop.

“Why are you running?” he says when he steps in front of me, and without allowing another thought to waver my conscience, I hand over another truth.

“Because I’m scared.”

He reaches his hand out and cups it over my good shoulder, hesitating before slowly taking a step toward me. It isn’t until I drop my head that he slips his hand past my shoulder and pulls me into his arms.

Touch.

I wrap my arms around him and slack into his warm hug.

A hug laced in tainted innocence

A hug I don’t want to hide away from.

His body is firm around me, lending its strength to my frailty, which I hold guarded against others, and I wonder why it’s him that I find myself connecting with.

Because he was there.

The words whisper through my fractured heart, and I close my eyes against their reality. He was the one who held me as I cried harder than I ever had that night in the hospital. He’s the only one who saw the cracks in me before I hid them away, and I admit there is a tiny sliver of comfort in that.

So here I stand, in the arms of my coach (my soon-to-be English teacher) and wonder if he feels the same panging I do.

The panging of wrong over right—or is it right over wrong?





“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?”

“Out for a while,” my mother says after emerging from her room. She’s dressed in something other than pajamas, her hair is washed and pulled back away from her face, and she has makeup on. Makeup.

I’m stunned, and not in a good way. The woman who hasn’t left the house all summer is now primped and going out.

“When will you be back?”

“Don’t know.”

“Mom,” I snap, my voice teetering between annoyance and anger.

She grabs her purse, and her high heels tap-tap-tap as she walks over to me with ease in her step. It’s a relief that she’s not wasted, but that’s not to say she hasn’t been drinking. She offers me a hug, and even though it’s lifeless, I take it anyway.

“Seriously. Where are you going?”

“Since when did you become the mom?”

Since the day you decided to become a drunk.

Tucking her clutch underneath her arm, she sighs. “I’m meeting a girlfriend for a bite to eat.” Her answer reeks of dishonesty.