Page 157 of Holding On

"She's not my girlfriend," I mumble. "She dumped me, remember?"

"Because you pushed her away. What did you expect her to do? Keep running back to you, knowing you'd eventually push her away again?"

"I didn't mean to push her away. I just needed some time."

"Time to what? Sit around feeling sorry for yourself?"

"I'm not feeling sorry for myself!" I yell, my anger rising.

"Then why are you sitting around this house instead of at Laytham, training with your team? You've got the brightest fucking future of anyone I know and you're letting it slip away."

I work my jaw back and forth, tired of this conversation and wanting him to leave.

"Is that really your plan?" he asks. "To just keep yourself locked away in this house? Give up your future?"

"Maybe I don't fuckin' want it," I growl, my teeth clenched.

"Okay," he says casually. "So now we're getting somewhere."

I glare at him. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"You're using your grief as an excuse not to go back to football. The question is why?"

"Maybe I'm tired of it."

"I've seen you on the field. You love the game. You love throwing the ball. You love the competition. You love the energy from the crowd. You're not tired of it. What else you got?"

Damn, this guy doesn't give up.

"Doesn't matter." I point to my leg. "I may not even be able to play again."

"This isn't about your leg. So what's the reason? Why don't you want to play?"

My head is pounding as I try to fight off images of Jason on the field. He loved the game. So damn much. It made him happy. And he was good at it. He definitely would've made the pros.

"Why are you giving it up?" Mike asks.

The images keep replaying in my head. Why didn't I take his keys? Why the fuck didn't I take his keys?

"Ethan, tell me why."

"Because I don't deserve it." I'm breathing hard, my anger building. "I don't fuckin' deserve it."

"Why don't you deserve it?"

"Because I killed them!" I yell, then immediately wish I hadn't. Nobody was supposed to know that. Ever. And yet I've said it twice now. To Becca's brother. A guy I barely know.

Mike's silent, probably thinking I'm crazy. I probably am. Some days I feel like I am.

"I didn't mean that," I mumble.

"Yeah, you did. And I know that because I felt the same way. I thought I'd murdered my friends. Some days, I still feel that way."

My breathing slows and the images begin to fade as I focus on Mike. "So what do you do? When you feel that way, what do you do?"

He shrugs. "Depends on the day. I start by shutting it down. When those thoughts even creep in my head, I shut them down before they take over. Because none of it's true. I didn't kill the guys on my squad. Just like you didn't kill your friends that night."

"I could've prevented it. I could've stopped Jason from driving."

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