Page 23 of Echoes of Us

They still managed to kill him despite my best efforts.

“This game sucks,” he said, frowning.

“You suck.”

He kicked me playfully. I placed the controller down and reached for another beer to hand him. We had already gone through the six-pack, and I felt a little lightheaded.

“I resent that. This is a team game. I’m only as strong as my weakest player,” he said, taking a drink.

“You’re the weakest player.”

He let out a hearty chuckle, leaning back on the bed with his legs crossed as I sat up. Noah’s playlist was still playing softly in the background, and I noticed the little gold chain around his neck had come out. It probably happened when he pounced on me. He was usually good about keeping it tucked in.

“You always have that on,” I said.

He glanced down at himself and grabbed it. “Yeah, it was my dad’s.” He had never mentioned his dad to me before. I don’t know what face I was making, but he smiled a little. “It’s okay, you can ask about it.”

“What happened?”

“He got cancer and died,” he said bluntly.

“I’m sorry.”

His eyes flickered away as he put the chain back under his shirt. “It’s okay.”

“You don’t like to talk about it,” I said.

“Not really. It’s a conversation stopper for sure. We weren’t really close until he was diagnosed, but he died a year later, so I guess we still weren’t close.”

“What about your mom?”

He sighed. “She’s a wreck. We don’t really get along.”

“You don’t have brothers or sisters?”

“I have an older sister, but she lives abroad. We’re not close either.”

My heart hurt. So he was just alone?

“Could you not look at me like that?” He was serious,more serious than I had ever seen him. There was no trace of a smile on his face.

“I’m sorry. I don’t have much control over what I do with my face,” I told him, making him smile a little.

“That’s for fucking sure.” He let out a laugh.

“It’s okay to be sad about it, though. It’s a sad thing that happened,” I told him.

He closed his eyes. “Thanks,” he said, so softly I almost missed it.

“What about the ring?”

He didn’t always wear it, but sometimes he had it on his pinky.

“The family crest my dad gave me when I graduated. He got it from his great-grandfather. He was Italian,” he explained, taking it off and handing it to me.

“Your family is Italian?” I asked. I handed him his ring back and he placed it carefully back on.

“Originally, I guess. I’m Argentinian. We moved to the States when I was nine,” he told me. That explained the Spanish.

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