Page 74 of Fair Catch
Zeke stopped, his jaw tense as he rubbed a hand over it.
“I tried getting us an Uber, but he didn’t want to wait. He was so fucked up over all of it. He was shaking, pacing. He just needed out of there.” Zeke was quiet for a long moment. “So he grabbed my keys.”
Ice ran the length of my veins at his words.
“He insisted he was fine,” Zeke kept on. “But we didn’t get far before he hit a curb and proved otherwise. I screamed at him, told him he was being an idiot and made him pull over.” He rolled his lips together, shaking his head. “But he was so messed up, Riley. He was so upset over everything and he just wanted to get home. I’d only had a couple of those shots he poured. I just figured…”
He couldn’t finish the sentence, but I knew what happened without him having to say it.
Zeke figured he was fine to drive.
My heart squeezed, tears flooding my eyes at the memory of my brother in that hospital bed, of the wounds stitched up but still swollen and bruised and bloody.
Zeke finally looked at me. “I lied and told him I was fine.”
I closed my eyes at the confession, setting two silent tears free to run hot down my cheeks.
For a long time, Zeke just held my hand, watched me cry, waited. For what, I didn’t know. I didn’t know what to say.
“You had every right to hate me, Riley. To blame me. I know there’s part of you that still does.”
“No,” I tried, shaking my head, but Zeke squeezed my hand like he knew that was a lie.
“It’s okay. I blame myself, too. I should have said no. I should have insisted we get a driver. I was young, so fucking young and so fucking stupid. I couldn’t see past what felt like the most important thing in the world at that moment — which was that my best friend was heartbroken and needed me to help him out of the situation.”
He rolled his lips together, shaking his head as he stared absentmindedly at the television.
“I regret that night. Every second I’m awake, I regret it. I’ll never forget how my decisions have consequences.” His eyes found mine. “But I’m trying to forgive myself. And… I’m asking you to forgive me, too.”
Another silent tear slipped free at his request, and he thumbed it away, holding that hand on my face.
“You don’t have to do it right now. Tonight. Or tomorrow. Or next week. Just… it’s been three years, and I wanted you to know the truth. I wanted you to understand what happened. Not so you would excuse me, but so maybe, you could find peace in this if nothing else…” He ducked his head until I looked him in the eyes. “I would never, ever intentionally hurt your brother, Riley. And I would never intentionally hurt you.”
I leaned into his touch, nodding as more tears slipped free.
It was too heavy for me to swallow, too thick to digest. All this time I thought he’d driven drunk because he was being stupid, because he didn’t want to leave his car at the party or some other ridiculous reason.
And in reality, he’d done it to save my brother from himself.
The sick irony in what happened after that decision made me want to vomit.
“I just wanted you to know that,” Zeke finished, and then his touch was gone, and he reached behind him for a haphazardly wrapped cylinder.
When he handed it to me, I laughed, swiping at what tears were left on my face before I picked at the pink paper. “You’re terrible at wrapping presents.”
“It’s what’s inside that counts.”
I chuckled, peeling the paper back to reveal a slender jar with…
Stars.
Not golden confetti or white glow-in-the-dark plastic, but bright and beautiful paper folded into puffy little stars.
“Origami?” I asked, arching a brow.
“Take one out.”
I did, holding it in my hands with a smile as I inspected it. And the more I did, the more the art came into focus. “Wait,” I said, tilting it between my fingertips. “This is The Kiss by Gustav Klimt.”
Zeke smiled. “Open it.”
“Open it?”
He only nodded at my confusion, watching as I turned the star this way and that before I found a small sliver of where the fold began and ended. I carefully peeled it open, revealing the small painting, creased from the origami.
“It’s beautiful,” I remarked, remembering the first time I’d seen that painting in a textbook, how it had resonated with me even then.
“Now, flip it over.”
I did as he said, and the back of the small print was completely black, save for a small quote written in white script in the middle.
“We are all mortal until our first kiss,” I read. “And our second glass of wine.” I chuckled then, smoothing my thumb over the text. “Eduardo Galeano.”
