“All right,” he says, unzipping his jacket to reveal a six-pack of beer. “It’s game time. UCLA going for bowl glory. Kickoff was ten minutes ago.”
A car drives past outside, and he quickly zips his jacket up, craning his neck to peer out the kitchen window.
“She won’t be back until tonight,” I say as he unzips his jacket again. I smirk as he clutches the beer to his chest the entire way to the living room, his eyes darting suspiciously around.
“You scared of my mom, dude?” I ask, elbowing him.
“Who? Mrs. L.?” he says, plopping down on the couch. “Absolutely.”
We laugh, and I flick through the guide, clicking on the game. UCLA is already up by six, going for the extra point.
“How’s Marley?” Sam asks casually, his eyes fixed to the TV screen. I study his face, waiting for the snark. The punch-in-the-gut comment.
But it doesn’t come.
“She’s fine,” I say. This is the first time he’s asking about her freely, but I don’t give him too many details.
Sam nods, popping open his beer and drinking the entire thing down.
Like… the entire thing.
“Dude,” I say as he grabs another beer and pops it open. I lean forward and grab it away from him.
“Look, Sam, if you’re pissed about seeing me and Marley last week, then—”
“I’m not,” he says, cutting me off. “I mean, I wanted to be. I tried to be, but…” His voice trails off as he avoids my gaze, his eyes darting around the room, to the TV, the window, the bookshelf in the corner. Everywhere but me.
“Is that a new lamp?” he finally asks, pointing to a lamp that has been in this room since we thought girls had cooties.
“Come on, Sam,” I say. I thought we weren’t going to be like this anymore. I turn to him, and the light from the TV reflects off the glass bottle in my hand, hitting me square in the eyes and sending my head throbbing.
It’s been weeks now since it’s hurt, but when the pain does come back, it’s as bad as ever. Isn’t this supposed to get better the more time passes? I grit my teeth and fight through the ache for my words. “Whatever it is, just say it.”
He finally looks at me, eyes serious. “I’m leaving.”
“What do you mean?” I ask as he starts to fidget, his leg erratically bouncing up and down. I kick it like I have since we were kids, telling him to knock it off.
He chuckles uncomfortably and forces his leg to be still.
“Is this because… because of what you saw?”
He pins me with a look. “You know, not everything is about you.”
I blink, replaying what I just said. Shit. But if not that, then why…？
“Kim did it,” he says with a small smile. “Her essays helped get me into UCLA. I leave next week.”
Next week?
“That’s… that’s great.” But it doesn’t feel great at all.
I stop, realizing I’ve done it again. I’ve made this about me, when it’s actually about Sam. And if Sam is ready to move on, then I have to let him move the hell on.
Just like he’s let me move on. It’s what I wanted for him. But I somehow didn’t imagine it quite like this.
“I need to do this, man,” he says, sensing my confused thoughts, a skill from more than a decade of friendship. “The last year and a half has been…” He stops, swallowing hard.
Year and a half? What is he talking about?
“Damn it.” He reaches up to run his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “You know I didn’t mean to do it, right?”
“Do what?” I ask, confused. “Didn’t mean to do—”
“The block,” he says, frustrated. “I lost focus for one freaking second and he got past me. When I heard that crack…” His voice trails off, his eyes wide. Haunted. “I thought I’d never get that sound out of my head.” He rubs his face with his hands, shaking his head. “Now everything you lost, everything we’ve lost, goes back to that one moment. The moment I fucked up.”
“Sam, this isn’t on you,” I say, wanting to make him see. “I know you didn’t mean to miss that block.…” I stop. Why does he feel this way? I think of Kim that night in the car. What she said. “But I still made you pay for it, didn’t I? You and Kimberly both. I leaned on you guys for everything.”
Sam gives a harsh, rueful laugh. “And again, it becomes about you.”