Page 98 of Break Your Fall

LOVED

I recognize the painted handwriting, specifically the thinner, upward tilt of the bottom line of the Ls.

Tommy.

When did he do this? How am I just now noticing?

I breathe in his words, all the ways he sees me. All the ways I am.

I am smart. I am real. I am strong. I am talented. Kind, beautiful, brave. And loved.

And so is he.

29

Wide Awake

Thomas

It’s taken me all of a week to convince myself that I’m not a failure. That I’ve made the right choice by denying my scholarship and giving up my spot at Blareton.

All of a week to be standing here, in my parents’ driveway, preparing to let them down.

My basketball is in my hands. I couldn’t resist after resisting for so long, holding the ball in my hands now that it’s out of my hands. I couldn’t go forward with this without the love. I couldn’t. I need the feelings. And turning this sport into work has slowly chipped away all the joy that playing it has ever given me.

A humorless, pitying laugh releases through my nose as I squeeze the leather, the future I’ve always seen, the only future I’ve always known, being swiped clean from my head, leaving behind a blank surface to build from. I’m rebuilding. Hope and possibility. I have to hold to those things now.

I let the ball go, for the last time in this driveway. It sails from my hands and sinks straight through the net with aswish. The ball bounces against the concrete and rolls into the grass.

The loneliest victory.

My parents are in the kitchen when I make it inside the house—arguing.

“You could stillhelpme around this house while you’re still in it.”

“I’m exhausted, Karin. I just want to relax when I get home.”

“And I guess I don’t need to relax, do I?”

This one’s not as intense and lower than their usual volume, so I’m more comfortable to interrupt. They quiet down at my presence, Mom managing a smile from the counter, her hands wrapped around a towel, and Dad eyeing me from his stance near the table with a sigh like he knows why I’m in here.

“What is it, Tommy?”

Mom snaps a glare in Dad’s direction, his tone sounding both dismissive and curious. I’ll never understand how my father can make me feel so invited and so disregarded at the same time.

I breathe in the scent of garlic wafting out from the stove behind Mom, and before she can give me a true invitation to stay for dinner, I say what I have to say, contribute to soiling the atmosphere.

“I’m not going to Blareton.”

My parents freeze in place, their stares searing through mine. Water sizzles from the pot on the stove, prompting Mom to collect her thoughts and feelings with her back to me as she tends to the food. My eyes lose focus on her back, her dark hair and light blue blouse blurring and blending as I wait. Wait and breathe. That’s all I can do.

“Yes, you are,” Dad finally says.Out of the question.His tone is now stern, but lazy, like I’m having a passing moment, and all I have to do is sleep on this and wake to my senses in the morning. I’m thinkingAt least he’s not silentwhen Mom turns back around to scold him before he can start in on me.

“Ashby—”

“No, I’m not,” I assert at the same time, looking my father in the eye, wanting to get this done and over with. He’s effectively worked up, the argument ours now.

I’m wide awake, Dad.

---