Ten Years Ago – Michael
"Michael!" I hear my name like an echo. It blends in with the thunder, and I keep walking.
I don't know how long I've been out here.
The rain has started coming down even heavier, soaking through my jacket, plastering my hair to my face. At least it masks the tears. Small mercies.
My feet just keep moving because stopping means thinking, and thinking means feeling the full weight of what just happened in that poolhouse and I'm not ready for that yet. I'm not sure I'll ever be ready for that.
It was all a fucking joke.
Three months.
Three months and it meant nothing.
I knew there were cruel people in the world. I'm not na?ve. Four years of high school have disabused me of that. But I never expected Blaire to be one of them. I thought I knew her. I thought she let me know her in a way she didn't let most people in.
Boy, did she have me fooled.
Lightning brightens the sky for a brief second, then a hand closes around my arm and Rosalie is suddenly standing in front of me, soaking wet, her eyes wild.
"Michael, what are you doing out here?" She yells over the pelting rain.
"Walking," I say, and try to move around her.
"Michael." She presses both hands against my chest. "Michael, it's three in the morning. You weren't back when I woke up. I've been looking for you. What happened?"
Three in the morning.
I left the party just after eight. I remember looking at my phone on the way out the door, making a grim joke to myself about the time of death of my heart being eight thirty-one.
I've been walking for nearly seven hours.
Did I black out? I don't remember any of it. Just the poolhouse door and the rain and my feet moving and now Rosalie's hands on my chest and her face searching mine in the dark.
"Michael, where is Blaire? Why are you out here alone? Come get in the car."
Something about hearing her name out loud caves my chest in in a way I wasn't prepared for. I look past Rosalie at the street behind her, at the headlights of her car idling at the curb, and I make a decision that feels less like a choice and more like the only possible next thing.
"I'm leaving," I say. "I can't live here anymore."
Rosalie goes very still. "What are you talking about?"
"Houston. I can't." The wind is getting stronger, and I'm so cold I've stopped feeling it. "I'm done here, Rose. I'm not doing this anymore."
"Michael." She steps closer, gets both hands on my face, and forces me to look at her. Her eyes search mine, and whatever she finds there changes her expression entirely. "Get in the car," she says. "Right now, we go home, get you warm, and you tell me everything."
"Rose—"
"Everything, Michael. Then you can climb into a warm bed and get some rest. I’ll even heat your sheets like I used to when you were younger." Her hands tighten on my jaw. "But first, you get in the car."
Images of Blaire in my bedroom flood in all at once. Her laugh when she watched Spaceballs for the first time. Her throwing popcorn at me across the room. Her falling asleep in my bed.
My face crumples.
My knees hit the wet pavement before I can stop them, and the sound that comes out of me doesn't feel like something I made. I’ve been quietly breaking since I left that party and I’ve officially run out of road.
"God, Michael! Please talk to me!"
I can't. I can't even form words. I press my fist into the ground and hit it, and then again, and again. The pain in my knuckles is the only thing that feels real right now, the only thing I can locate, and I can't stop.
Rosalie steps back. I can hear her sobbing somewhere behind me, not knowing what to do, and I hate myself for that too, for making her stand in the rain at three in the morning watching her little brother come apart on the pavement, and I still can't stop.
I scream into the rain until my throat is raw.
***
The paper on the exam table crinkles every time I shift, which is often, because there’s no position where my hand doesn’t feel like it’s throbbing in its own language. It’s swollen enough that it doesn’t look like mine anymore, like someone swapped it out while I wasn’t paying attention.
Once my emotions settled, Rosalie was finally able to get me into the car.
The adrenaline drop let the pain in my hand and arm finally register, and she detoured to the closest emergency room.
On the way, I filled her in on everything.
I don't think I've ever seen such a murderous look on her face as I did in that car.
Both of us running on impulse, we made a plan.
Pull me out of school and finish the last couple of weeks remote.
Pack. Leave Houston immediately. She said she goes where I go, that she can practice law anywhere.
I've already been accepted to UCLA and Caltech.
The move to LA was always the plan — I'm just making it sooner, and with Rosalie in tow.
I don't know if she's fully serious about coming with me, but it's been me and her for four years and I can't imagine doing this part without her.
Once we checked in, I told her I'd see the doctor alone.
I'm officially an adult and have been for six months, so I don't need her hovering like a mother hen.
But mostly I'm too embarrassed to have her beside me while I hear the full damage report on what I did to myself by punching concrete like that was going to solve anything.
The doctor rolls back on his stool, eyes moving from the X-rays to me.
“Alright,” he says. “Good news first, nothing’s displaced. You didn’t shatter anything.”
I let out a breath, but he’s not finished.
“But you’ve got a couple of hairline fractures across the metacarpals.” He taps the screen. “Here... and here. Fourth and fifth.”
My ring finger and pinky.
I stare at the image, trying to make sense of the thin, pale lines he’s pointing at. They don’t look like much. They don’t look like the kind of thing that should hurt this bad.
“It doesn’t look like much,” I say.
“This type of fracture typically doesn’t,” he replies.
His gaze drops to my hand again, taking in the swelling, the raw skin across my knuckles.
“What did you punch?”
"Concrete." I pause. "I know it was stupid."
He nods and sets the tablet aside. "Here's what we're going to do. I'm going to immobilize it — splint for now. We'll see how it looks in a week before deciding if you need a cast. Healing time is four to six weeks if you don't do anything else stupid."
I twitch my fingers instinctively, like I'm checking if they still work. The pain spikes immediately and catches my breath.
“Yeah,” he says, catching it. “That’s your body voting no.”
I huff out a laugh, but it dies halfway.
“No gripping, no lifting, no punching anything,” he continues, already reaching for the wrap. “Ice it, keep it elevated. Swelling’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
He starts working, the splint pressing along the side of my hand, locking my fingers into place whether I like it or not.
“I’ll give you something for the pain,” he adds, “but honestly, the best thing you can do is leave it alone. Because if you push it, those hairline fractures can turn into full breaks. Then we’re talking pins, surgery, and a much longer recovery.”
I nod. What else am I going to do?
He finishes, presses lightly along the splint to check the tension, then looks up at me with the expression of a man who has seen this before and isn't judging it.
"You'll be fine," he says. "Just — maybe don't pick fights with concrete next time."
***
"Are you sure about this?"
We're standing outside the courtroom waiting for the hearing to officially change my name from Michael Bennett to Bennet Sullivan.
Three weeks since the prank from hell and things have moved fast. We rented an apartment in LA sight unseen.
Movers have packed up the house. Rosalie withdrew me from school and filed a formal complaint about what happened, but since it didn't occur on school grounds, nothing will be done about it.
What difference would it make anyway? The damage is done.
I felt my heart calcify in real time that night in the poolhouse and nothing was going to undo that.
Rose helped me petition for the name change so we can start completely fresh. New city, new name, new everything.
I’m leaving Michael Bennet here in Houston. I've buried him alongside Blaire Alexander, and I have no intention of looking back at either of them.
"Yeah," I tell Rosalie. "I'm sure."
I push through the courthouse doors.
Bennet Sullivan walks in.
Michael Bennett stays in the grave where he belongs.