Chapter 2
Conin
Aweakening ache travels from each shoulder, each bicep, pec, quad, hand, and toe. My ass is on fire, and I will definitely be feeling this sore throb tomorrow, but for now, I’ll let sleep wash it into a cool numbness.
After Dan gave me the okay to go, I left our concluded football practice where I was tasked to put away equipment and push the blocking sleds back into place.
I trek home in the waning light of the sun.
Days like these remind me why I should have never accepted the co-captain position. Too much wasted time.
There’s always regret.
The sun sets behind the peak of Mount Ogden, shading the sky in blends of inky orange and yellow. I’m so sick of these long hours, how the evening is upon us every time I set foot back home—another reason in the long list of reasons why I hate this as passionately as I do.
My thoughts were preoccupied throughout most of the training session.
For one, I was hyper-fixated on the staggering amount of homework that currently sits in a haphazard pile across my desk when I stumbled into my room, which is cast in a paradisiacal orange glow.
The sore sight of it elicits a deep, guttural yawn from me.
These stupid, unrelenting AP classes. They’re going to be the death of me.
I can’t glance at them another moment—instead, I fall loose-limbed onto the full-sized mattress placed alluringly before me.
Its warm, soft reassurance ebbs the tension suppressed in my shoulders.
God. This feels amazing. I turn onto my ass, head propped up on a pillow.
Absentmindedly, I gaze at the wall ahead and watch as the shadows from the blinds slowly dissipate.
A buzz vibrates in the pocket of my shorts.
A sliver of hope wells until I grip the phone and pull it out, realizing it’s only Mom letting me know she’ll be home late tonight from her shift at the library.
I sigh and thumb to my text thread with Ezra—see that the last message I sent sometime this morning has been left unread.
Again. The longer I stare at the text, manifesting Ezra to reply, the more I succumb to disappointment and the sleep that threatens to pull me under.
Sleep should wait, but it tugs on my eyelids.
I haven’t seen or heard from him in a while.
As a final admonishment, I remind myself that I could have visited Ezra, called him more often, and searched for him at school in my free time between classes.
But I didn’t. I wonder if he’s okay and if shit at home has worsened or if I need to intervene with Mom.
Maybe Mom could speak with Rochelle, Ezra’s mother—though, their tight-knit friendship is nonexistent now, ever since Lukeman began his drinking tirade.
Loyalties were put to the test back then.
I can’t do the same thing to Ezra. I’ve been such a terrible friend.
Shooting another message, I let the fatigue wrap me in its embrace.
I wake up an hour later drenched in sweat, panting from some nightmare I can no longer recall when the brain fog overcomes me.
Every limb and every muscle shakes violently.
I heave myself out of bed and move to the bathroom where I run hot, scalding water down my spine.
The water drenches the curls atop my head and cascades down the stomach I’ve let go, inflaming my feet until they’re beet red, almost purple, from poor circulation.
When the shivers cease, I pat dry my damp body and moisturize.
I glare at the inflamed acne that dots my chest and back until I can stand it no longer.
Homework and sprawled-open notebooks taunt me from my desk.
Simultaneously, colorful spines aligning a vast bookshelf tempt me from the far end of the room.
The books beg to be read, but I can’t give in.
This coursework will only collect and build if I leave it alone.
I can’t help but think I made a mistake trying to pursue a writing career instead of my predestined path into a life of football.
I should never have accepted the full ride to the U of U knowing well in my heart that it wasn’t what I desired for myself.
It had felt obligatory—as if I was doing only what was expected of me.
And I know I was, I know what I must do, and working my damn hardest to get into a university near wherever Ezra goes needs to be a top priority.
And well . . . I suppose I don’t have a fail-safe if everything goes awry.
Because Ezra will get admittance to whichever school he wants based solely on how talented he is with the violin.
And because he’s expressed interest, I’ve scoped the universities nearby with decent creative writing programs, most of which are in New York, where I could have a decent enough chance of acceptance.
If I’m honest, I want to follow my dream of becoming an author and I want to do so with Ezra at my side as he takes on the unfamiliarity of a new life—far away from this one in Utah, one made abhorrent by his terrible excuse of a family.
Not only do I need to make this a reality for myself, but for Ezra too. He deserves that much.
So, I must remain diligent as an exemplary student.
It’s so exhausting. Most days I want to tear my hair out, sleep forever in the comfort of my bed. Why am I doing this to myself? Why don’t I just quit football?
“Why don’t you?” Ezra asked after I told him I’d be signing up for AP courses in our senior year.
“It’s expected of me. I’m not sure I can handle my mom’s disappointment.”
“Your mom will accept whatever you decide to do, Co” he said.
“I know.” It was the truth. “But accepting the full ride meant that she wouldn’t feel the need to help me with tuition costs. If she knows I don’t want that for myself anymore, she’ll want to help me pay for whichever university I decide to go to. She’s done so much for me already.”
I hate football. It no longer brings me joy.
And I hate even more that I suffer through it—a tiny, screwed-up part of me grasping at straws for some of my dad’s approval. Maybe if I made it big, he’d come back to us.
“You’ll have to tell her eventually,” Ezra muttered. His nonchalant, yet sarcastic retort set me on edge. He sounded almost resigned, but maybe even a little kind. I couldn’t stay mad at Ezra for long.
Our conversation then proceeded into a heated debate which resulted in Ezra’s convincing me to tell my mom and work harder to get where I wanted to be.
That had been weeks ago. I haven’t said a word since—haven’t taken the necessary steps except for piling an excruciating amount of stress on top of the sport I no longer enjoy.
So much is on my plate, I find little time to fulfill other hobbies or wants or needs.
I’m falling apart at the seams. I could burst or implode at any moment, frozen within a vicious cycle.
So, I begin where I ended off, analyzing “The Yellow Wallpaper” for AP English. I don’t enjoy it. It’s boring. Sitting here, lost in mind-numbing texts makes me crave something more exciting—something queer, fun, adventurous, dark, or thrilling—everything I enjoy writing about.
Gilman’s words are a bore. Sorry, I said it.
How is this a classic again?
I would much rather write than lose the ability to retain anything I’ve read. I’ve had this novel brewing for years, but never had the willpower to execute it onto the page. Maybe one day, if I can get my shit together.
I breathe out an exasperated sigh. Casting a dirty glance at my phone, I type a message to Melissa.
Conin: Want to come study?
My thumb shifts to Ezra’s message thread in one subconscious movement. Nothing. No reply. I hover over the call icon, find myself pressing it before I sissy out, and listen to the ring perpetuate. After an entire minute, nothing. No dice.
A text chimes.
Melissa: Hell no! It’s a Friday, Conin. I’m coming over and we’re going to watch a movie.
I chuckle and emit an exhale of relief. An excuse not to work on homework is one I’ll welcome with open arms. But in the meantime, I set the phone down and return to the endless sea of cracked-open books.