Chapter 10
SETH
Somewhere around the South Carolina border, Tanner kicked off his shoes, propped his bare feet on my dashboard, and took over the aux cord.
“Payback,” he said, cueing up some indie band I’d never heard of. “For the Garth Brooks.”
“I will never apologize for Garth Brooks.”
“Then suffer.”
Three hours of suffering followed. The best kind, not that I’d tell him it wasn’t actually torture.
Tanner hummed along to songs he’d memorized, his fingers brushing my arm when he wanted to point out a hawk circling over a field.
He’d gone loose and easy in a way I’d never seen—shoulders dropped, jaw unclenched, his laugh coming quicker and lasting longer.
He wasn’t checking his phone every ten minutes or narrating the miles left until home. He’d stopped bracing for something.
My phone buzzed in the cupholder. I didn’t look, but I felt Tanner glance at it.
“Your mom again?”
“Probably.” I kept my eyes on the road. She’d called twice yesterday, left voicemails I’d deleted without listening to. The pattern was familiar—radio silence for weeks, then a flurry of contact when she wanted something. Usually ammunition.
Tanner’s hand found my thigh, squeezed once. He didn’t say anything else, just turned the music up and let me have the quiet.
We pulled into our parking lot around nine, both of us stiff from the road.
I braced for the reset—for the familiar retreat where Tanner would disappear back into his head, brick by brick rebuilding every wall Wilmington had coaxed him into lowering.
I’d watched it happen before: the slow shuttering behind his eyes, the careful distance creeping back into his voice.
I told myself I was ready for it. Whatever we’d been on that trip didn’t have to survive the return.
The apartment felt different when we walked in—smaller, maybe, but warmer. Like we’d left as two people sharing space and come back as something else.
“Shower,” Tanner announced, dropping his bag. “I smell like gas station coffee and stale fast food.”
“You smell fine.”
“Liar.” But he was smiling when he disappeared down the hall.
I unpacked while the water ran, sorting laundry, putting away the snacks we hadn’t finished. My phone buzzed again. This time I looked: a text from my sister.
Mom’s asking if you’re coming for Thanksgiving. I told her I didn’t know. Are you?
I stared at the message until the screen went dark.
Thanksgiving was three weeks away. The thought of sitting across from my parents, pretending everything was fine while they cataloged my failures, made my stomach clench.
I’d rather spend the holiday with Tanner, but he had family who genuinely loved him.
It’d be weird to lobby for an invite to his celebration. Right?
Tanner emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, wearing one of my old T-shirts and sleep shorts that hung low on his hips. He walked straight to me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and pressed his face into my chest.
“Thank you,” he said, voice muffled. “For this weekend.”
I held on and didn’t think about Thanksgiving.
He didn’t pull away. Didn’t retreat the way I’d expected.
“Stay with me tonight,” he said. Not a question. His eyes held something raw—hope edged with fear, like he was offering me a piece of himself he couldn’t take back.
My chest ached. “Every night. As long as you’ll have me.”
His breath caught. For a moment, he just looked at me, and I watched him let go of whatever argument he’d been building against this—against us.
“Good.” His voice dropped. “I sleep better when you’re next to me.”
He kissed me—brief, tasting like mint—and headed toward his room. I stood in the kitchen longer than I should have, my phone buzzing on the counter. Another voicemail notification from my mother. I deleted it without listening.
My phone buzzed again. Marcus this time.
You back yet? Grab a beer?
I glanced toward the hallway and heard Tanner moving around in his room. We’d been in the car together for hours. He probably wanted space.
Yeah. Give me 20.
Tanner appeared in the doorway as I was grabbing my keys. “Going somewhere?”
“Marcus wants to meet up. You good if I head out for a bit?”
“Go.” He waved me off, already settling on the couch with his laptop. “I need to organize my notes from Lincoln anyway.”
The bar was half-empty, a Sunday night lull that left plenty of space between us and the nearest occupied table. Marcus slid a beer across to me before I’d even sat down.
“You look different,” he said, studying me. “Lighter.”
“Just relaxed. Good trip.”
“Uh-huh.” He took a long pull from his bottle. “Wilmington treat you well?”
“Yeah. Hunter’s got a place near the beach. He’s loving it down there.”
“Bet he is.” Marcus grinned. “Man, I still can’t believe he went pro. Remember when he dropped that wide-open pass against State junior year? Coach almost had a stroke.”
“He’s come a long way.”
“Your roommate go with you?”
I reached for my beer, keeping my hands busy. “He wanted to show Lincoln some research. Needed time with Hunter too.”
Marcus nodded. “Cool.”
He didn’t push further, just steered the conversation toward the upcoming game.
We talked coverages for a while—their nickel package, the way their linebackers liked to disguise blitzes—and I felt myself settle into the familiar rhythm of it.
Football talk was safe. Football talk didn’t require me to examine why I kept glancing at my phone, wondering if Tanner had eaten anything.
“Coach noticed, by the way,” Marcus said, peeling the label off his bottle.
“Noticed what?”
“Practice last week. Before the trip.” He shrugged. “Said you looked like you finally got your head out of your ass. His words.”
I snorted. “High praise.”
“I’m serious.” Marcus leaned back. “You’ve been different the last few weeks. More present. Like you’re actually here instead of running through some checklist in your head.”
I didn’t know how to answer that. The truth was tangled up in things I couldn’t say—that somewhere between moving in with Tanner and falling asleep next to him, I’d stopped waiting for everything to fall apart.
“Just focused,” I said. “Four more games. Want to finish strong.”
“Yeah, well, whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.” Marcus drained his beer. “Jenkins said you made a read in practice Wednesday that he didn’t even see coming.”
“Lucky guess.”
“Bullshit.” But he was grinning. “You’re playing like you’ve got something to prove. Or something to protect.”
The words landed heavier than he probably intended. I thought about Tanner on the couch, organizing notes, the way he’d waved me off so easily. The way he always made space for the parts of my life that didn’t include him, even when I could see what it cost him.
“You good?” Marcus asked. “You went somewhere.”
“Just thinking about the season.” I finished my beer. “It’s weird, knowing it’s almost over.”
“You’ve got grad school lined up. The Wilmington thing.”
“Yeah.”
“So what’s the problem?”
The problem was that I wanted both. The field and the person waiting at home. The brotherhood and the quiet nights on the couch. I wanted to not feel guilty for loving something that hurt him to watch.
“No problem,” I said. “Just processing.”
Marcus studied me for a long moment. “You know you can talk to me, right? About whatever.” He stopped, started again.
“We’ve been playing together for four years.
I’ve seen you through some shit. Whoever you’re seeing, whatever’s got you walking around like you actually like your life— I’m not going to make it weird. ”
My throat tightened. “Who said I’m seeing someone?”
“Nobody had to say it.” He smiled, not unkindly. “You check your phone every five minutes. You turned down poker night three weeks in a row. And you’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The stupid one. The one that says someone’s taking up space in your head and you don’t mind.”
I should have denied it. Should have deflected, done any of the things I’d been doing for months. But Marcus was looking at me with something that might have been understanding, and I was tired of carrying this alone.
“It’s complicated,” I said.
“Always is.”
“I can’t— Not yet. After the season, maybe. But right now—”
“Hey.” He held up a hand. “I said you can talk to me. Didn’t say you have to. Whenever you’re ready. Or never. Your call.”
We finished our beers, split the tab, and headed for the parking lot. Marcus clapped me on the shoulder before we went our separate ways.
“Get some sleep, Landry.”
“You too.”
The drive home was quiet. I pulled into our lot, cut the ignition, and sat there for a moment. Through the window, I could see the glow of a lamp in our apartment—Tanner still awake, still working.
Something to protect. Marcus had no idea how right he was.
Wednesday afternoon, we claimed the back corner of the coffee shop near the engineering building. Six tables, perpetually empty creamer dispensers, and an espresso machine that sounded terminal. The windows fogged from the contrast between the November cold and the overcrowded heat inside.
Tanner frowned at his screen, fingers drumming against the scarred wood. His capstone presentation was due next week, and he’d been rearranging the same three slides for an hour. Every few minutes, he’d delete something, undo the deletion, then stare at it like it had personally offended him.
I was supposed to be reading about rotator cuff rehabilitation. Instead, I watched him—the furrow between his brows, the way he bit his lower lip when he was thinking, how his sweater pulled across his shoulders when he leaned forward.
“You’re staring,” he said without looking up.
“You’re interesting.”
“I’m fighting with PowerPoint.”
“Interesting PowerPoint.”