Page 119 of Forever We Fall

“Yeah,” I grouse, “where are your letters from?” We’d talked about where we wanted to apply. All of them had been in the States. We were both running from things. It’s possible he’d changed his mind along the way and decided to stay in the UK.

My stomach warbles.

“Iowa. NC State. Iowa State. Nebraska. Penn State. Oklahoma State. Missouri. Stanford. Harvard.”

All colleges with excellent wrestling programs. Of them, the one I wanted him to choose is the lowest ranking of the bunch. A fat fucking chance of that happening. I swallowed past the expanding lump in my throat. “You go first.”

He stalls.

“I know you can’t.” He centers his gaze on me, punctuating the meaning of his words. “I didn’t mean to imply…” He huffs. “What you’ve been through, I can’t imagine. I know you can’t. Not now, and maybe not ever. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you in my life. Stop pushing me away.” He glares. “Whatever the reason, fucking stop.”

I nod and blink back tears.

This is hard for me, but it might be harder for Hota. He’s not the one who suffered at the hands of my uncle, yet he’s still paying the price.

“Okay.” He points at me. “Where are your letters from?”

I grab the three from where they landed and fan them in my hand, though I don’t need to look at them to know. “Wharton. Stanford. Harvard.”

We stare at each other for a while, holding our futures in our sweaty palms.

“Okay, fuck it.” Hota jumbles them up in his lap and picks one at random. He rips into the seam and pulls out a simple trifold paper. His cheeks puff with a breath, and then he flattens the sheet and tugs his gaze from mine. “Nebraska. Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah. Accepted with full scholarship.”

“Holy shit.” My stomach hits the floor, but I know what an accomplishment it is to receive a full ride to any college, much less one with a highly sought-after collegiate wrestling program. “That’s amazing, Hota.”

He sets it on his right side by this thigh. “Your turn.”

“Go again. You have so many.” And I can’t even think about operating my hands right now. They’re clenching onto the envelopes so hard to keep from shaking.

“Fine.” He snatches another and tears into it. “Penn State.” There’s a rattle in his voice that wasn’t there with the first. There are no blah, blah, blahs. His gaze zips down the page, and then they bloat. “Accepted.” Then they narrow, searching some more. “Full scholarship plus room and board.” He gasps. As though he needs a full ride.

His dad is a business mogul with overflowing bank accounts.

“Open a letter, Arlo,” he demands as he places the second letter in the center of his lap under the unopened envelopes.

Giving him two options that would put him far away from me and farther away from me.

“Wharton first.” I drop the other two into my lap and carefully peel back the seam of the envelope. My stomach quakes. I don’t know if I want to be accepted to a place where there is zero chance Hota could attend. That’s not right. I know I don’t care about this one, which is why I chose it first. I blow out a deep breath and skim. “Accepted.”

“That’s great, Arlo.” His gaze narrows. “Why did that sound like a rejection?”

I want to roll my eyes. I don’t. Instead, I point at his pile. “You next. Two more.”

“Bossy.” He grabs another envelope and rips into it. “Missouri. Accepted.” His eyes work down the page. His lips part, but no words come out. He closes his mouth, then folds the paper and stuffs it next to his left thigh. “Partial scholarship.”

“Hota, three for three. That’s fucking great.”

“Yeah.” He nods and snatches another. Paper tears and he reads. No words come. Then he blinks at the page.

“Well?”

“Oklahoma State. Full ride.” He grins. “Tuition plus room and board.”

“Wow!” That’s all I can say because I fucking hate that school. I don’t know anything about it, except they have the most decorated wrestling history in all of college wrestling, and it’s where Nate goes to school.

“Yeah, wow.” He sighs and carefully slips the paper under the others on his lap.

I grab my next letter, just to have something to do with my hands. I take too much joy in ripping the envelope so terribly that the paper would never go back inside. I look at words. They don’t make much sense right now.

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