Page 58 of Your Secret to Keep

Ah, there’s something he got from me—the worrying about everyone else before taking the space for yourself.

“I rearranged my schedule and am going in later. Only thing I’m missing is the catered food, but since you and I have a lunch date, I’ll be fine.” I bump into him before reaching up and pulling him in for a hug.

I hold him longer than either of us anticipate. Wes squeezes me before asking, “Wait, is something wrong? Are you sick? That’s why you came today?”

Pushing myself away, I gasp, “No! Why would you think that?!”

Wes shrugs his shoulders, tilting his head and replying, “All I know is you trading any time away from the Jags arena, to be anywhere else, is cause for concern.”

I scoff at the joke and lightly push his chest, which he then turns into a dramatic stumble backwards, his hand covering where my fingers barely touched him.

“You’re just jealous you haven’t been to a game yet,” I scoff.

His eyes flash with confusion. “You’re right. What the hell is up with that?” He shifts from trying to be funny back to the dramatics.

This is the best part about Wes. He’s always been extremely likeable and easy-going. While he may try to perpetually put others first, which is something I’m still trying to grow out of, he’s always had a good head on his shoulders. Typically, he gravitates towards people like him and stays out of trouble. He gets it, even when someone his age shouldn’t have to.

Maybe it was the tragedy that changed us both down to our bones, and we lost a lot of the bickering that siblings are almost programed to do. It’s not that we never fought or annoyed each other again, but it was always short-lived. We were always so eager to get back to our baseline that no fight really lingered.

“Let’s look at the home game schedule at lunch and pick a game. Sound good?”

“Yes. Especially now that Brooks is back. He’s starting tonight, right?”

Brooks.It’s like I watch him slam into the court on repeat. It hurts in a way that I almost lose my breath. I try not to think about him that night on FaceTime. The fear in his eyes. I don’t know if it would’ve been worse or better if I had made the trip for that away game.

“I think so. I watched him practice yesterday and he looked solid,” I reply. He played with a hesitancy he’s probably familiar with. It was probably worse when he was coming back from the ACL injury, and part of me is glad I didn’t get the job until after. Him playing like that, beating himself up, questioning everything? It hurts me.

“That injury looked way worse when it happened,” Wes adds. “Glad he was out for only a few games.”

I nod in agreement, afraid to open my mouth and give myself away. We walk towards the exit and I wonder if I should tell Wes about Brooks and me. We’re not big on keeping secrets, mostly because we know each other too well. There’s a solid chance he’ll come to the game, watch me with Brooks, and figure it out on his own.

That might be the other reason I haven’t offered Wes a complimentary ticket, but who can really say? Maybe I’m afraid to see him watching Brooks and I together. I mean, he’s a teenager—maybe I’m giving him too much credit?

Wes stares at me curiously. “I’m not trying to be weird, but what’s going on with your eyelids?”

My reflection from this morning roars back. Red bumps appeared again at the corner of my eyes. I didn’t remember seeing them the night before while I was doing my skincare routine.

I try to brush away his concern. “Ah, don’t worry about it. Just allergies.”

I have no idea what it really is, but I’m still waiting to get in to see a dermatologist. If there’s something that is complete bullshit, it would be healthcare in America. Even if I had the money to pay out of pocketfor an appointment, everyone I’ve called is booking six months out. My name is supposedly on a few cancellation lists, but I’m not holding my breath.

“You had the perfect opportunity to say you were allergic to me and you didn’t even take it,” Wes jokes, shaking his head as we get to my car.

I let out a laugh, almost too loudly, and playfully push Wes in response.

There’s something spectacular about a good thrift store find. I walk through the arena with my head held a bit higher—yes, it’s game day, but I’m also wearing the most perfect purple blazer. It’s one of those pieces that’s bold enough to work in the best of ways.

I thought the idea of home games would lose its luster, but that’s far from the truth. My heart races enough for me to notice and a smile is permanently on my face, sort of aching my cheeks.

I walk courtside and can practically feel Brooks before I see him. It’s as if there’s a string between us which snaps into place when we’re in the same vicinity. He’s dribbling up and down the court, warming up fora key matchup in the conference. The Jags are third in their conference while the opposing team is first, but only two games separate them.

Tonight is a prime-time game—it’ll be aired nationally, which means some of my favorite commentators will be working. I pick up the pace, eager to get in the booth to watch everyone get ready for tonight.

For a prime-time game, we seem a little light on staff. Entrances and places which usually have three to four security or building staff seem to have only one tonight. Maybe they’re wrapping up a meeting or had an incident?

Before going to the booth, I stop by the staff hospitality suite to grab a Dr. Pepper and a snack. Lunch with Wes was so much fun, but naturally we talked for way too long and I had to rush to get here. I wanted to have time to stop and get something, or see if any catered food was left, something easy to grab for later, but I ran out of time. It won’t be the first or last time I have chips for dinner.

I’m opening a bag of Doritos when Megan stops me. “Lia, I’m so glad you’re here,” she says hurriedly. Once she gets closer, it’s clear something is wrong. A sheen of sweat glistens on her forehead and upper lip, and it showcases how pale she is.

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