Page 88 of Fragile

“Tell you what…” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls something out. “I’m giving you these for free, because we’re friends, and if you ever need anything else, you come see me.”

He leaves, and my hand tingles with a familiar plastic bag that feels like it holds my entire future inside it. A decision I know should be easy, easier than breathing, because what I want to do isn’t the right thing. But I feel like a caged animal, desperatelyseeking relief from being locked up. I know I shouldn’t take it… I know that. I stare at the bag, my mind racing. I know I shouldn’t. I should turn around, go find Quinn, or just get the hell out of here. But Dad’s words are still echoing in my head, gnawing at me, tearing me down.No one would know, no one needs to know, this is a one-time thing.

And my last thought is that I hope she can forgive me.

Chapter forty

Quinn

Glancing at my phone,I see Miles’s name with five missed calls next to it. Immediately, I check the text thread with my brother to see if anything is wrong. But there’s nothing. A wave of worry washes over me as I hastily leave the shelter, annoyed that I’d left my phone in the office the entire time I was there. And then on top of that, some of the usual women wanted to talk peach cobbler recipes with me, and now I’m hauling ass across town to get back for cheer warmups.

Pressing his name on my phone, I wait for the ring to start, but then I hear his voicemail.Hi, you’ve reached Miles, you know what to do.Followed by the echoing beep, my feet quicken the pace even more. I manage to make it to Indie’s truck she lets me borrow sometimes, and hope that I don’t get caught speeding, because the more I try Miles’s number and it goes to voicemail every time, the bigger the knot in my stomach gets, and the harder my foot hits the gas.

I try my brother too, which also goes to voicemail. And then I look at the clock and remember they’re probably suiting up now, which means no distractions.

I’m sure he’s fine; he probably just wanted to check in before the game. It’s all fine.

Everything will be fine.

So, why do I have this feeling in the pit of my stomach?

It doesn’t go away when I get to my dorm and pick up my cheer bag.

It doesn’t go away when I warm up on the field with my team, knowing he’s mere feet away from me and I can’t go to check on him.

It doesn’t go away even as the crowd begins to liven up, and both teams come out onto the field, and I see his face for the first time today.

The face that looks like something isn’t quite right. Something is on his mind. Something that I wish I could help him with. I watch him with rapt attention, analyzing his every move during final warmups. My palms felt clammy, gripping onto my burgundy and white pom-poms like my life depends on it.

Look over at me, just once, Miles. Let me see your eyes.

But he doesn’t, and a weight settles on my chest, pressing and pushing down every time he almost glances my way.

Miles still runs routes and makes plays, but his movements aren’t as sharp as they usually are. He fumbles the ball, and a gasp ripples through the stands behind me. I watch him scramble to recover, and my stomach twists more painfully. This isn’t like him. Not at all.

He lines up for the next play, but his posture is off, like he's fighting against an invisible force. I squint, trying to read his expression from here, but it’s no use.

I see Miles in the middle of the play, his usual confident stride faltering slightly. There’s something off about him—a tense set to his shoulders, a hitch in his step.

Then, in an instant, it all goes wrong.

The opposing player, bigger and more aggressive, slams into Miles with a force that makes my breath catch.

Miles goes down hard, crumpling to the ground. His body lands awkwardly, helmet off his head, limbs splayed out in a way that makes my heart stutter. He doesn’t move.

And he doesn’t get up.

The noise of the crowd fades into a distant murmur as I watch, frozen in place, locked in this moment of horror. My nails bite into my palms as I clench my fists, my heart now pounding so hard I can feel it in my ears. The shriek of a whistle echoes around us, and the game pauses, but my focus is solely on Miles. Coaches rush onto the field, Seb and Hudson right by his side, but nothing about my brother’s urgency getting to his best friend tells me this is okay.

I feel a lump in my throat that threatens to choke me as I hold back the sting of tears.

I need to get to him.

My feet move before I can process where I’m going, and I’m halfway across the field with my squad yelling my name behind me.

The closer I get, all I see is his body sprawled out on the grass, unmoving as medics rush to him too. There’s a screeching sound, and I don’t even realize it’s being ripped from my throat like a wild, untamed animal.

I barely register arms wrapping around my middle, hauling me backward, moving me farther away.

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