Page 82 of Holding On

Chapter Fifteen

Ethan

"Is that still true?" Becca asks.

"What?"

"That you only date cheerleaders because they're always around?"

I take her hand and thread it with mine. "Obviously not, because I'm dating you."

She looks down at our joined hands but doesn't respond to my comment.

"We're still dating, right?" I ask.

She looks up. "I don't know. I mean, I like you and I like hanging out with you but I don't like it when you treat me like you did earlier. That thing with the coach wasn't my fault and I'm not going to be blamed for it. I get that you have issues with your coach but I'm not letting you take your anger out on me."

"I know, and I'm sorry I did that."

"And I don't like it when you're calm one minute and blow up the next. If that's just who you are, then fine, but I don't want to be involved with someone like that."

"I'm not." I rub her hand and look in her eyes. "I'm not like that, or at least I wasn't before."

"Before the accident?"

"Yeah." I look down. "Ever since it happened, I haven't been myself. I'm trying to get back to being the person I was before, but I'm not there yet."

"Ethan, I know I've said this before, but I think it would help if you talked to someone."

"I don't need to. I told you, I don't like talking about it, especially with some fuckin' counselor who will try to psychoanalyze me. Besides, it isn't about the accident."

That's a lie, but I don't want to admit how I still struggle with what happened. The nightmares. The memories. I don't need to share that shit with Becca or anyone else. I know that'll all go away eventually. I just need more time.

"If it's not the accident making you feel this way, then what is it?"

I shrug. "Being stuck in that house. Still having my leg in a cast. Not being able to train like I used to. I'm tired of it. This isn't me." I hear my angry tone and take a breath to calm down. "Sorry. The whole thing just pisses me off."

"What if it wasn't a counselor?"

I look at her. "What do you mean?"

"What if you talked to someone who might know what you're going through?"

"Like who?"

"My brother. He was in the military. I haven't told you much about him yet but—"

She's interrupted by a knock on the door.

"It's probably my neighbor. I have her spare key because she always loses hers."

Becca heads to the door while I remain on the couch, watching TV.

"Mom," I hear Becca say.

Turning back to the door I see Becca facing an older woman with bright blond hair. She's a little shorter than Becca, and thin, her tan, skinny legs popping out of a pair of white shorts. She looks like a smoker, with deep lines around her mouth, and sagging skin.

"What are you doing here?" Becca sounds shocked and a little angry.

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