34. Roman
34
ROMAN
I wake up with a raging hangover.
I shouldn’t be surprised, considering the amount of booze I’ve consumed in the past week, but it’s been so long since I’ve drank enough to pass out that I’m caught off guard by the way my head is pounding.
Dragging myself out of bed, I set to showering and cleaning myself up. But even washing the smell of whiskey and regret off my skin does nothing to fix my miserable mood. I throw myself onto the couch with a frustrated shout into the void.
Suddenly, electronic beeps fill the air. When they’re followed by the sound of a lock disengaging, I turn my head to see who’s walking unprompted into my house.
It’s Mikey. Of course, it’s Mikey.
He struts in like he owns the place, merely glancing at me before he plops himself down on the other end of the couch.
I wonder if he’s going to comment on my current hungover state, especially because it’s been weeks since he’s seen me drink more than the occasional beer. But the only reaction he gives the whiskey bottle and empty beer cans is a raised eyebrow. Then he looks at me and asks simply, “So, what are we playing today?”
Clearing my throat, I sit up into a more comfortable position. “Uh, I don’t know. Call of Duty sound good?”
He nods and reaches for the controllers, throwing one of them over to me as he asks, “Don’t you have PT today?”
My throat tightens at the memory of Lily, and the knowledge that I gave up on the clinic entirely. I haven’t been back in probably two weeks now; not that I’m keeping track. My voice is hoarse when I say, “Nah, I’m done with that shit.”
Mikey’s brow furrows, though he’s still not looking at me. “Why?”
My shrug is stiff. “Bunch of reasons.”
“Such as?”
“Jesus, what’s with the interrogation?” I explode, uncomfortable and at my wit’s end. “You’ve never given a shit about my rehab.”
Finally, Mikey turns to me with a frown. “That’s not true. I just never pressured you about it. You got enough of that from everyone else.”
I look away from him, shame heating my face. He’s right; he’s never been one to nag me. It’s one of my favorite things about him. Who am I to blow up on him the first time he shows concern?
“Although that doesn’t mean I haven’t thought you’re a moron about some things,” he says casually.
Now I’m the one frowning. Turning to face him, I ask, “What do you mean? What things?”
He shrugs, as if this isn’t the most serious conversation we’ve ever had. “Your PT, for one. I won’t say I know anything about what it’s like to be paralyzed, or to go from one of the greatest athletes in the world to paralyzed, but even I can see that you’re being a pussy about your rehab.”
I almost laugh at that, his resemblance to Lily uncanny with that statement.
“You could’ve been walking a year ago, and you know it.”
That makes my amusement disappear.
I look down at my lap, fidgeting with the controller as I grumble, “Anything else you’d like to unburden yourself with?”
“Yeah. What are you doing? ”
My head rears back, confused. “What do you mean?”
He throws his arms out, clearly at his wit’s end. “I mean, what is this? What’s your plan here? Every time I come over, you’re sitting on the couch, watching TV or playing a video game.” I wonder if he can feel the way his words burn me, because after his focus shifts to me, and he watches me for a moment, his voice is gentler when he continues. “Don’t get me wrong, there’s something to be said about being able to rely on you as an escape from my everyday bullshit. But you should also have everyday bullshit, man. This can’t be all there is for you.” He hesitates, shooting me a curious look. “You seemed to be doing better for a while but… I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going on with you.”
I can sense him waiting for me to give him an answer, to react in some way to what he’s saying. But when I don’t, he sighs. “You know, sometimes when I’m typing in the code on your keypad, I catch myself wishing you’re not home. That you found a job, or a hobby, or something that lights you up the way fighting used to.”
I swallow roughly and finally speak. “I don’t think that exists, man. Fighting was everything to me.”
“Maybe,” Mikey says. And my gratitude for him grows that he doesn’t simply wave me off as being dramatic the way I have been in the past by doctors and therapists. “But people can have more than one thing that fulfills them. Family, hobbies, careers. You keep thinking of fighting as the only thing that could ever be your reason for living, and it’s keeping you from moving on, man. You’re stuck in this limbo that you don’t need to be in.”
“So, what am I supposed to do?” I demand, my frustration peaking. “If I don’t have fighting”— and I don’t have Lily, I add silently—“then how do I figure out what fulfills me? I’m almost thirty. I feel ridiculous even asking that question out loud.”
Mikey shrugs. “Same way a twenty-year-old figures it out. Just think of it as a midlife crisis.”
I blow out an exasperated breath. “So, what, buy a sports car and start dating models?”
“Well, you can’t drive, and you’ve already done the second one, so both of those are out.”
I glare at my supposed best friend. “You’re terrible at this.”
“Hey, this is why people pay professionals to be their therapists,” he says with a shrug. “It’s not my fault you’ve been too stubborn to ask. Now you’re stuck with my amateur version of therapy.”
My sigh is tired. He’s right, but one step at a time.
Then something occurs to me, and I ask curiously, “How did you decide you wanted to be an accountant?”
“Same way a lot of people find their career path. I was in college and liked my math classes the most.”
Instantly, my thoughts flash back to Lily’s comments about school, about being good at history and the career options that talent might come with. Should I go back to school? Could I go back to school?
“Look,” Mikey continues, “All I’m saying is you have more options than you think you do. And you don’t have to do anything today, but whatever you eventually decide on, you have to just do it. You can’t keep sitting around here; you’re going to go crazy.”
Dropping my head back against the couch, I let out a heavy, tired exhale, a million thoughts spiraling around my head. But then I notice Mikey looks a little pleased with himself, and I lift my head as my eyes narrow in suspicion.
“So, how long have you been waiting to say all that?”
As if he really has been holding everything back, a breath whooshes from his chest. “You have no idea. I wanted to throw it in your face every time you started your woe-is-me bullshit.”
I let out a bark of laughter, shaking my head. I can’t even really blame him for it. “Then why the fuck did you hang around?”
He shrugs. “Because you’re my friend. And you helped me get through my family shit in middle school, even if you never realized it. I figured you needed someone to just be your friend.”
My chest squeezes at his admission, and the easy way he says it. No feelings, just easy truth. And I think about how I have no reason to doubt him, how everything he’s said, everything he’s done for me this past year has proven that he wants nothing from me. How I’ve always felt like he just wanted to bring back the same friendship that two middle schoolers had almost two decades ago.
And then I think about how that , that easy friendship, kept me sane a lot of days. How he made me feel normal, made me feel wanted, how he kept me busy.
And I become overwhelmed with gratitude.
I clear my throat, trying to get rid of the tightness in it. I want to tell him I appreciate him, that he probably saved me more than once, but it’s also Mikey—he’d probably just get uncomfortable and run from my house.
So instead, I toss him the controller in my hand, the one I know he loves because of how smooth the buttons feel. And then I grab the shitty one from his hand.
We don’t exchange any words. I know he knows what I’m doing because of the way his eyes go wide, but he doesn’t say anything about it. He just grins and settles deeper into the couch cushions.
“Don’t think I won’t still kick your ass,” I taunt. “A shitty controller won’t save you.”
Mikey rolls his eyes. “Let’s revisit this conversation in twenty minutes when you realize a controller was the only thing giving you those W’s.”