Page 39 of Beyond the Bright Lights

“No, Mylan, that’s not what I meant. I . . . I liked what we did. I really don’t regret it. I just . . .” I remember Tyler’s final words to me. Would he be disappointed? He never wanted this life for me—a life where I’ve been selfish with my love and my body, where I’ve held back from experiencing the pleasures of a new relationship. “I needed it. Trust me.”

Mylan’s tense shoulders relax and that vulnerability trying to push through fades. I attempt to release my hand, but he tightens his grip. So, we hold hands for the rest of the drive, only separating as we pull into the long horseshoe driveway to Silo Springs High School.

The single-story building is made of boring gray cement blocks, a red roof, and red siding housing grades nine through twelve; a decent-sized school despite Silo being a small town.

We step through the front doors and pass by the office on the right, entering a long hallway full of red lockers and a bluish gray carpet. Bruno follows, not too close, but near enough that if a problem arises, he’ll be able to intervene.

The lights are low, the sun that’s filtering in brightens the halls. Halfway down, we come to a crossroad where one direction takes us to the cafeteria. I stop us at a floor to ceiling glass case with trophies, ribbons, and pictures placed throughout. I point to the one front and center: a picture of Tyler and me at Senior night.

“The night he secured his spot at Arkansas State on a full-ride,” I explain and notice Mylan pulling a rolled-up script out of his back jeans pocket. He retrieves a pencil from somewhere and starts writing. He’s taking notes? Why does that make my heart clench with . . . something. Shock? Pride? I shake my head and continue. “Recruiters from all across the country, some from prestigious schools, had been coming all that week, watching Tyler kick ass. This was a tough game too. We were playing our rivals and at one point, we were down double digits. But Tyler was such an optimistic person. As team captain, he never let anyone feel bad about how they played. He'd always inspire through words, no yelling, no insults. He had this way of pulling you in. Like he was the sun, and everyone thrived off his golden rays.”

I stare at the picture. Tyler’s light brown hair was drenched from sweat, clinging to his forehead. His arm is thrown over my shoulder and I’m staring up at him, smiling.

I force myself to look away and see Mylan scribbling fast. Wow, his handwriting is atrocious.

“Why Arkansas State?”

“What do you mean?”

Mylan stops writing and looks at me. “If he had the chance to go to a prestigious college on a full-ride and play football, why did he choose Arkansas State?"

My heart drops to my stomach. I was wondering when this would come up. I’m not ready to share that part of my life with him yet.

“His dream wasn’t to play. He wanted to be a social worker. And he wanted to be close to me.” It’s still true. Just not the whole truth.

“Still . . .”

I scoff. “Still what? Am I not enough?”

Mylan rolls his beautiful blue eyes at me. “Of course, you are. That’s not what I’m trying to say, and you know it.”

I sigh with my entire body and turn away from Mylan, lifting my hand to the glass. I should tell him. He should know everything about Tyler, right? But this? I . . .

“Lana,” he whispers, seeing my struggle. “Tell me when you’re ready. Okay?” He reaches up to wipe tears off my cheek. Damn it, I didn’t mean to cry. Not in front of him, which I happen to do a lot. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I’m not going anywhere.

A promise. A declaration. Words in the here and now with a subtext of forever.

I clear my throat, nod, and turn on my heel to walk down the hallway, past the cafeteria, until we reach the end where I veer right. All the way at the end of this hallway are double red doors with the words ‘locker room’ over the entrance.

The stifling air inside reeks of dirty men. We pass the benches and rows of lockers until finding Coach Harold’s office in the back left corner.

“Well look at what the cat dragged in. The homecoming queen and the movie star,” Coach says in his thick Arkansas twang. He stands up from his seat behind a metal desk, wearing a red t-shirt with the school’s name and mascot etched on the upper left, a matching red hat, black shorts, and sneakers.

“You don’t have to call me that every time you see me, you know,” I say, amused. I flick my eyes to Mylan. “Mylan, Coach Harold. Coach Harold, Mylan.”

The two greet as I keep speaking. “Harold was a grade below me.”

“And I had the biggest crush on you, like every other guy in the school. Still have a crush on you.” Mylan tenses at my side, his hands in fists. He’s jealous. I brush my fingertips over the back of his arm, and he relaxes, almost immediately.

“Harold, you better stop, or I’ll tell your wife,” I tease.

“Please, Sheila knows about my crush. Hell, she has a crush on you too.”

“Oh my god, stop!” I laugh, embarrassed by the flattery.

Harold shakes his head, hands on his hips, before focusing his attention to Mylan. “So, you’re the big-time actor causing a tizzy around town?”

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