Page 59 of Final Down

“Hey, I gotta get back. But maybe we can do that thing tonight where we fall asleep on the phone, like teenagers?”

“It’s a date,” she says. “Oh, and Wyatt, one more thing. I can’t travel. Like, at all. So?—”

“So . . . no visit this weekend.”

“Or the next.”

The line is silent with our shared, heavy thoughts. This sucks. But it’s important. She has to stay healthy and safe, and traveling for a few football games isn’t worth the risk. Football became number three when we found out she was pregnant.

“There’s always the Arizona game,” she finally says.

I do the mental math, but it’s too far away to count to the first week of November. Instead, I’ll count the hours until I can call her tonight.

“I’ll be in the apartment by seven sharp.”

“It’s a date.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

My sister hasn’t spoken to me since she ran into the house proclaiming I ruined her life. I tried a few times to crack her armor, but she’s thirteen; her world is not as big as it’s going to be, so her feelings are valid, given the scale.

I distinctly recall at least five times before I was sixteen when I thought my life was ruined. Turns out, my life only got better from each of those points. And one of the greatest changes in my life was the birth of my sister.

Our mom told me she was worried when she found out I was in the hospital. Honestly, half the reason I wanted to get released early enough to come home was to get a chance to tell her I was okay before she went to bed. But she was asleep, or at leastplayingas if she was, when I rolled in at ten.

Ellie’s running late for school this morning. I’ve been watching for movement in the garage for the last twenty minutes while Mom and I work with Macon in the arena. Unless she found a way to get her bike out and clear our property unseen, she’s hiding out upstairs and plotting a way to stay home “sick.”

I’m about to ask my mom if she minds if I leave her with Macon so I can check on Ellie when the garage door slides up.

“She’s probably going to need a ride at this point.” My mom says with a tilt of her head toward my Jeep.

My lip tugs up, and my gaze shifts to Macon.

“I feel like I’m always ditching you.”

“Eh, I like the horse better than you anyway,” Macon teases with a smirk. He waves a hand at me from his spot atop Otis. He’s sitting so much taller than when he first started working with us. He’s relying less on his walker, too, at least on his trip from the car to the arena.

“Thanks,” I say with a nod before jogging toward the garage to intercept my sister.

When I step inside, I find she’s not pulling her bike out at all, but shoving an abnormal number of T-shirts into her backpack.

“Those are going to wrinkle,” I say, unintentionally startling her. She stands up quickly, dropping her open backpack to the concrete. A few of the shirts spill onto the garage floor.

“I just need them to make it to school. It’s fine.”

She crouches down and snags the loose shirts quickly, shoving them into the side pocket of her bag while simultaneously zipping the top closed. She snags one in the zipper, so I reach in to pull it free, but halt when I notice words printed on the front. She freezes, and I recognize that move—it’s the same one I made when I got caught doing something I preferred to keep to myself, good or . . .not so good.

“El, what’s on the shirts?” I could probably yank one out and read for myself, but I’m hoping she’ll tell me.

Her eyes zip up to meet mine as her mouth hangs open. My head leans to one side, and I mentally sift through every context clue I can. She’s not teary-eyed, and she’s not exactly trembling. But she’s clearly nervous.

“Can I see one?” I ask.

Her gaze drops to the one caught in the zipper. She slowly nods.

I work the fabric out of the zipper teeth and unfurl the light blue shirt to see the phrase DO BETTER printed on the front in large letters, with my name small underneath. It’s my quote, from the statement I had Jason help me send out to the media.

I wanted to point out the hypocrisy, the way I did during the school board hearing, the way women are treated versus men, the way this town gladly makes excuses for football players but excoriates cheerleaders for the same behavior. They’re at the same parties, drinking the same beer, jumping in the same rivers, and being reckless in the same cars. Yet the football players get a slap on the wrist after wrecking a car in a drag race, but the cheerleader who sat in the passenger seat or stood on the side of the road is suspended for merely being present. One is vitally important to play a stupid game, while the other won’t be missed yelling from the sidelines.

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