Chapter 43
Icancel the threesome with Mia and Mike on Tuesday morning via text between my Econometrics II and Long-Term Sustainability classes.
It’s not my proudest moment, but I don’t have the strength for a personal conversation.
Mike answers immediately, telling me he understands, given everything that has happened during the last two weeks, obviously attributing my decision to the assault on Olli.
I debate clearing that up, but ultimately decide against it. Mike is a nice guy, but I’m not ready yet to open up to anyone outside of my immediate circle.
Mia’s answer takes longer and is a lot more cryptic, considering the whole thing was her idea to begin with.
I’m actually relieved
The message follows me through the rest of the day, making me think I missed a comprehensible part of Mia’s summer.
Those thoughts are still there when I step out of the Nook that evening for some fresh air.
Our porch has seen better days. One of the planks has started to bow slightly, making my stomach flutter as it gives way under my weight.
In addition, the railing on the right side leans a few degrees off vertical.
I’ve been meaning to fix that ever since coming back from the Woodrow farm.
The whole place could use a fresh coat of paint, too.
But right now, bathing in the warm amber glow of the evening light, it feels comfortably lived-in rather than shabby.
I’m sitting on the top step with a cup of coffee that’s gone cold two hours ago when the door opens behind me. I don’t have to turn around to check. I already know who it is. Brandon Woodrow moves the same way as his son—calm and without hurry.
The soft plank creaks under his weight, and he stops, testing it a few times with his foot, probably already forming a plan in his mind about fixing it. He doesn’t comment on it, though, just lowers himself onto the step beside me with a low grunt, his forearms resting on his knees.
For a while, neither of us speaks, our eyes resting on a faraway spot on the horizon while the sun slowly retreats, the gentle chirp of crickets growing louder around us, mixing with the low murmurs coming from inside the house.
Kelly and Linden have taken over the kitchen for the evening, Linden telling her about his classes and work at the pound, letting go of the secrets he kept so long, word by word.
“How are you holding up, boy?” Brandon finally asks, his eyes still fixed on the street.
I turn the cup in my hands, the cool material gliding smoothly against my skin.
“I’m okay,” I start, then stop when the two words already taste like a lie on my tongue.
“I think I’ll be okay,” I rephrase carefully. “Right now, I’m just tired.”
Brandon hums, his arm reaching out to wrap around my shoulders, squeezing lightly. “That’s okay. You’re allowed to be tired.”
A lump forms in my throat, big and unmoving, allowing me only a nod as I drop my gaze to the cup in my hands, investigating the black liquid with sudden interest.
“Your roommate,” Brandon says, “the one who got hurt.”
“Olli?”
“Yeah, that one. Were you close?”
I consider this for a moment, my mind going back to the fight we had the week before the party about that stupid fucking AC.
It seems so petty now, so…trivial. I wish I could take back half the things I said to him and ask a few questions instead.
I wish I had followed him that night of the party and not let myself be sent away.
All in all, I wish many things had gone differently.
Still, we’ve shared rooms and walls for a year now, and the house is undeniably empty without Olli around, even when we all try our best not to let each other feel it—Vince’s jokes too over the top, Marisol’s laughs too loud, Nicko calling every night just to be quiet on the other end of the line.
“I think we could’ve been close—if we had been more honest, maybe,” I finally answer.
Brandon is quiet again, allowing me to sit with my answer, giving my quiet regret room, just squeezing my shoulder again. A car rolls slowly past the house, and somewhere down the block, a dog is barking.
“And you and Linden? Where do you stand now?” he asks.
For the first time since he came out here, I turn to look at Brandon. He’s focused on a small bird hopping up and down the sidewalk, his features relaxed. His jaw is the same as Linden’s, just settled a little differently. Harder somehow—from difficult seasons and years of keeping words unsaid.
“I thought he told you?” I hedge, gnawing on my lower lip when he chuckles softly.
“Oh, he did. But I’d like to hear it from you,” he points out, turning his head slightly, his eyes catching mine. “What are your plans going forward?”
I take a deep breath, my thumb tracing the rim of the cup as I sort through my thoughts.
“We…well. We’re still figuring things out one day at a time, I guess.
I mean…I love him. I want to be with him.
But right now I don’t have much to give him.
By the time I graduate, Linden will still have a year left in Bonham before he can apply to vet school.
” I carefully place the cup onto the step next to me, rubbing my sweaty palms together.
“I thought I’d enter the draft, try to get picked up by a team. I don’t have a big legacy or media attention to boost me, but I’m a hard worker and I…I think I could make it work, establish myself over a few seasons, build some financial ground by the time Linden’s done.”
Brandon doesn’t say anything to that, which means he’s either thinking about this or already has a fully formed opinion he’s deciding on whether to share or not.
“Financial ground for you and Linden?” he finally asks, and I swallow thickly. The question sits between us as I watch the bird spread its wings and disappear into the neighboring garden.
“Partly, yes.”
“And the other part—who’s that for?”
It’s not a real question this time. He already knows. I can feel it in the way he’s looking at me. Maybe Linden told him, but I don’t believe that. Instead, I think back to the afternoon out by the fence, with the wire coil in my hands, Oak and Owen chasing each other through the dry grass.
“Part of my scholarship money goes to my parents. That won’t change once I make a secure living,” I say, a little surprised by how easily the words come over my lips this time.
“My dad…he always needs something for his…for his projects and the community. And my mom’s in Thailand and—” I cringe when I notice how crazy this comes across when stripped of the context I laid out so carefully for Linden.
“I know how that sounds. It’s not that bad,” I tell him quickly. “They just need some support to—”
“Micah,” Brandon interrupts me gently before I can talk myself into a frenzy. “It sounds like you’ve been carrying a lot of stuff that isn’t yours to carry,” he states calmly, his voice void of any pity or anger. Just facts.
“They’re my parents,” I remind him weakly, my hands clasped in front of me.
“They are,” he agrees with me, his arm dropping off my shoulder as he leans back on the step.
“But that doesn’t make it your job to support them financially.
Not when their situation is a consequence of their own decisions—and forgive me the assumption, but from what I gathered, it sounds like it is. ”
I think of my mom, lying in the darkness of our living room, her gaunt face under my fingertips.
I think of the desperation in my father’s eyes, the police stalking through our backyard, taking samples from the little stream.
I think about Benny in my lap, his tiny body trembling.
I think of the van, beaches, national parks, sunsets at the coast, and peaches in Georgia.
“They didn’t have it easy,” I murmur. “They did what they could, and now it’s my turn to do what I can.”
“I’m not here to argue with that, but do you know the difference between parents providing for their child and a child providing for their parents?” Brandon asks, not unkindly.
I don’t answer that, just press my lips together in a thin line as I stare down at my hands.
“One of them,” he continues, “is the right order and the other is not.”
Something moves in my chest—similar to when I sat in Coach Wagner’s office—like a knot loosening in the middle of it and allowing me to breathe easier.
Not easily.
Easier.
“Is football what you want?” Brandon asks patiently. “Not what your parents might want or what your coaches might want, but what you want?”
I lift my hands to my face, my fingers rubbing over my eyes, afraid that he’ll see the answer plainly in my features.
I know the right one to that question. It sits on the tip of my tongue: Of course it is.
I love the game, I’ve loved it since I first stepped onto a field and found something I was really good at, a purpose and an escape. A direction.
But I also think of Seb and his scratched-up arms. I think of Coach Wagner and some things not being worth the cost. I think of compartmentalizing and secret relationships.
I think of Linden choosing himself over the future carved out for him.
I think of a small farm in Vermont and a summer when football never once crossed my mind.
“I love football,” I say quietly, my words barely audible even to my own ears.
“But even early on, it had this…shadow attached to it. I was never allowed to just love it; I had to want it, need it. Like it’s my only shot in life, and if I fuck it up, I fuck everything else up, too.
And I’ve seen what it does to others—to my best friend.
The pressure, the demands, the schedules.
It takes over our lives and owns us completely.
And I…I’m not sure I want to be owned by it. Not, if I had a chance to choose.”
I stop talking when I realize my hands are shaking from the impact of what I just let slip.
I haven’t said any of this to anyone before—not to Linden, not to Seb, not to myself.
I haven’t even allowed myself to think it in the dark of my own bedroom.
And now the words are out, and I can’t take them back.
“That’s an honest answer,” Brandon says.
His arm has found its place on my shoulder again, pulling me against his side for a moment.
My whole body goes stiff under his touch.
I can’t remember the last time I was hugged by a parent like this—whether it was before my mother boarded a plane to Thailand or after.
I’ve forgotten how nice it feels. Like, for just a second, I don’t need to hold everything up on my own and can just be.
“I need you to know that you have a choice, Micah. Football isn’t your only shot at a good life.
You’re twenty-two years old. You can try ten new things and put them all down again.
You’re a hard-working kid, and you’ll graduate from this school debt-free—that’s something football did for you, and it’s okay to take that and then put that part of your life to rest. But it’s also okay to pursue a career in the NFL.
It’s okay to do something else completely.
Play your last season here and enjoy it.
You don’t have to decide anything tonight, but I need you to know that you’ve got a choice.
I almost fucked that up with Linden, and I feel like if I’m not making sure you know this now, no one will tell you. ”
“Okay,” I rasp out, my throat tight again, my hands back in my lap. “Okay.”
“And,” he continues, his hand increasing the pressure on my shoulder, commanding my full attention, “there’ll always be a place on the Woodrow farm for you.
To work, to just think, or to do both. A place, no matter where Linden is or what you guys will end up doing.
It’ll just…be there whenever you need it. Consider it a standing offer.”
My jaw drops at that, and I pull back a little to get a better view of Brandon, to see if I might have misheard. If this is some kind of cruel joke. He meets my eyes, completely serious and unbothered, like he didn’t just offer me a place at his table at any given time.
“Brandon—” I start, my throat completely closed now. I take a careful breath through my nose, blinking to ease the sting in my eyes. I’m not going to sit here and cry in front of a grumpy farmer who also happens to be my boyfriend’s father. I refuse. But fuck, I’m close.
“Don’t make it into a big thing,” Brandon warns me, and I let out a short laugh.
“Right,” I say, then add, “Thank you.”
He simply nods, squeezing my shoulder one last time, then gets to his feet with a low groan, taking my cup of cold coffee with him.
Behind us, the front door opens, and Linden sticks his head out.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” he announces, then frowns when he takes in the look on my face.
“Everything okay?” he asks carefully.
“Yes,” Brandon answers simply as he passes him, his hand reaching out to press down on Linden’s shoulder, brief but firm, before he vanishes inside.
Linden looks after him, then drops down on the step beside me, his arm brushing mine, warm and soft.
“What did you two talk about?” he wants to know.
I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I let my gaze wander off into the distance to where the light is almost gone now, the last of it bleeding orange and red along Bonham’s skyline.
My hand reaches out for Linden’s, and when I find it, I squeeze it gently in mine.
“Choices,” I say as I lift our joint hands to press a soft kiss to his knuckles. “And life.”