Page 64 of Near Miss

“I was eighteen.” A tear escapes, tracking a path down my cheek.

“Have you ever told your father or your sister this?”

“How would you suggest I do that?” I choke a laugh and raise my hands. “Hey, Stella, Dad, I know I gave you my liver so we could try to be a family, and I did it without knowing if you’d stay sober, so thanks for doing that. But I think I regret it?”

“He stopped drinking, Greer. Do you think maybe that had anything to do with what you gave?”

I inhale and narrow my eyes. “No. Addiction doesn’t work that way, and you know it. No one will get sober for anyone but themselves. And I don’t say that with judgement. It’s one person versus a disease we still don’t understand. He did it for himself, and I am thankful he did. It would have been rather unfortunate if he killed my liver, too.”

Rav says nothing, but today, it all feels so heavy in my chest, my scar twinges, and he wins. The edges of my vision blur, and I don’t bother to wipe at my eyes. “I thought that maybe—I don’t know. That it would make me better at this. More understanding. Give me unique compassion in a system that’s meant to beat it out of us.”

“If you could pick a different specialty, a different residency, would you? What would you pick?”

Blinking, I open my mouth and I’m about to tell him I’m not sure. But I think, despite it all, I am sure. I think of Theo. I think of Jer. I think of the people who died and breathed life into someone else. I press down on my rib cage and remember that it is a beautiful thing. I just wish it looked different. “I’d invent a specialty where I grew livers and pancreases and kidneys on trees and plucked them off for my patients instead of cutting someone else open.”

“There’s always regenerative medicine.” The corners of Rav’s eyes crinkle with a smile. “You could do research.”

“Maybe,” I say softly, offering him a tentative smile, watered by the tears staining my cheeks.

He sits up, swinging his feet off the coffee table. “Are you still seeing the football player?”

I purse my lips, those lines and boundaries and the bars making up the cage of my heart darken. “It’s just sex. Surely, I don’t have to explain base physical needs to you?”

“Can I offer one more thought before we’re done for the day?” He pauses, but he’s not waiting for permission. “Your mother left, and though that had to do with your father, I’m sure there’s a subconscious part of you that told yourself there was something you could have done differently. That if you just gave more, it would have been enough for her. And then you did give more. You gave a piece of yourself away, and instead of acknowledging that it was a very painful thing you shouldn’t have had to do, you’ve spun this tale about never really living for yourself and being unable to draw lines and boundaries. That if you can just be enough for you—you’ll be enough for everyone.”

Rav pauses and he says this thing I sort of wish he did ask permission to tell me because I’m not sure I’m ready to hear it.

“You don’t have to be alone to be enough.”

Beckett

Lights hang from what seem to be carelessly strewn strings attached to poles cemented in planters, strategically placed in each corner of the rooftop. Tables litter the surface, with the occasional heat lamp standing over them, glowing a faint red against the smoggy night sky. It’s only mid-September, but Toronto can start getting cold at night pretty early.

I tug on the beak of my hat, pulling it lower over my face as I trail behind Pat and Nowak, the one beer a week I have during the season cold in my hands.

It’s pretty crowded for a random bar on a random rooftop—but Nowak swore up and down when we left the practice field that it was the best undiscovered gem in the city.

Seeing as it looks like it’s mostly college-aged hipsters, and we’re a group of twenty-nine-to-thirty-one-year-old men, I’m not sure I’d give it the same label.

But he might be onto something, because I doubt anyone cares that Beckett “Near Miss” Davis is here.

He stops abruptly at an empty table pushed up against the edge of the rooftop, swipes a hand through his messy brown hair, and pulls out a chair.

Pat looks around, eyebrow rising apprehensively before dropping into the chair beside Nowak. He clears his throat, tipping his beer towards us. “Thanks for staying late today.”

“Don’t tell Coach Taylor I was running.” I finally did what he asked, stayed late when the stadium was empty, practiced routes with Pat, using another skill I have that turned out to be useless, while Nowak watched and stretched.

It was his idea to come out. And if it was two months ago, I would have made up an excuse.

But I think a nice part of being real would be having real friends.

Pat smiles, one corner of his mouth kicking up when he shakes his head. “You can still catch, man. You sure you want to spend the rest of your career shouldering the expectations of a team, barely getting credit for a win but taking all the responsibility for the blame?”

No.

I’m not sure what I want, and I’m about to toss out a typical Beckett Davis grin and deflection. That I always get the credit. That I’m going to win and I’m going to break the next record.

And then I hear it.

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