20
Tucker
The stadium is a sea of black and silver. Thousands of people are in attendance, and a good number of them wear Briar football jerseys beneath their unzipped coats. Those who aren’t wear the school colors.
On the field, a large stage has been raised, where Beau’s teammates and family sit. Alumni flew in from all over the country to honor our fallen quarterback. Kids who didn’t even know Beau are here. Faces are somber and the mood is subdued.
It’s fucking awful.
I’m sitting in the bleachers behind the home bench, with Garrett on my left. Hannah’s beside him, then Logan and Grace, then Allie—who’s alone.
Dean has been a total mess this week. He’s in a destructive spiral, skipping practices and locking himself in his room, drunk out of his mind most of the time. The other night he got so high that he passed out on the living room couch, half his body on the cushions, the other sprawled on the floor. Logan carried him upstairs while Allie trailed after them, near tears.
I keep wanting to reassure Allie that Dean will get through this, but honestly, my mind has been all over the place this week.
The reason for my anguish is sitting on my other side. I don’t think Garrett and the others even realize Sabrina’s here—their gazes are fixed on the field, where a huge projection screen is showing highlights from Beau’s four years at Briar University. Actually, make that five years. Beau redshirted his freshman year, so this is technically his fifth year. Was his fifth year. Lord, it’s hard to remember that he’s actually gone.
It’s cold out, so the sleeve of my bulky coat kind of disguises that I’m clutching Sabrina’s hand. I want to put my arm around her, kiss her cheek, hold her close, but I don’t think Beau’s memorial is the time to be announcing our relationship to the world. It’s surreal to me, though, that the girl next to me is pregnant with my child and nobody has a clue.
We haven’t spoken about the baby at all. I don’t know if Sabrina is planning on scheduling a procedure. Hell, for all I know she’s already gone through with it. I’d like to think that she’d include me if and when the time comes, but she’s been so distant this week. Beau’s death hit her hard. And witnessing what it’s done to Dean makes me even more hesitant to push Sabrina to talk, not when she’s dealing with the loss of a friend.
A quiet sob sounds from a few seats over. It’s Hannah. The choked noise alerts me to the fact that the slideshow of Beau’s life has ended. His older sister Joanna is rising from her seat.
I tense up, because I know things are about to get even more heartbreaking.
Joanna’s a beautiful woman, with a chin-length dark bob and blue eyes like Beau’s. Those eyes are so lifeless right now. Her face is haunted. So are the faces of her parents.
In her simple black dress, she sinks onto the bench of a black grand piano on the other side of the stage. I was wondering about the piano, and now I have my answer. Joanna Maxwell was a music major when she went to Briar, landing a job on Broadway right after graduation. Hannah says she’s an incredible singer.
I wince as microphone feedback screeches through the stadium.
“Sorry,” Joanna murmurs, then adjusts the mic and leans closer. “I don’t think many of you know this, but my brother was actually a pretty good singer. He wouldn’t dare to sing in public, though. He had his bad boy reputation to maintain, after all.”
Laughter ripples through the bleachers. It’s eerie combined with the wave of grief hanging over us.
“Anyway, Beau was a big music buff. When we were little, we would sneak into our dad’s den and mess around with his record player.” She sheepishly glances at her father. “Sorry you’re just finding that out now, Daddy. But I swear we didn’t break into the liquor cabinet.” She pauses. “At least not until we were older.”
Mr. Maxwell shakes his head ruefully. Another wave of laughter washes through the stands.
“We loved listening to the Beatles.” She adjusts the mic again and poises her fingers over the ivory keys. “This was Beau’s favorite song, so—” Her voice cracks. “—I thought I would sing it for him today.”
My heart aches as the first strains of “Let It Be” fill the stadium. Sabrina clutches my hand tighter. Her fingers are like ice. I squeeze them, hoping to warm her up, but I know mine are equally cold.
By the time Joanna finishes singing, there isn’t a dry eye in the bleachers. I’m rapidly blinking back tears, but eventually I give up and let them stream down my cheeks without wiping them away.