Joanna’s a beautiful woman, with a chin-length dark bob and blue eyes like Beau’s. Those eyes are so lifeless right now. Her face is haunted. So are the faces of her parents.
In her simple black dress, she sinks onto the bench of a black grand piano on the other side of the stage. I was wondering about the piano, and now I have my answer. Joanna Maxwell was a music major when she went to Briar, landing a job on Broadway right after graduation. Hannah says she’s an incredible singer.
I wince as microphone feedback screeches through the stadium.
“Sorry,” Joanna murmurs, then adjusts the mic and leans closer. “I don’t think many of you know this, but my brother was actually a pretty good singer. He wouldn’t dare to sing in public, though. He had his bad boy reputation to maintain, after all.”
Laughter ripples through the bleachers. It’s eerie combined with the wave of grief hanging over us.
“Anyway, Beau was a big music buff. When we were little, we would sneak into our dad’s den and mess around with his record player.” She sheepishly glances at her father. “Sorry you’re just finding that out now, Daddy. But I swear we didn’t break into the liquor cabinet.” She pauses. “At least not until we were older.”
Mr. Maxwell shakes his head ruefully. Another wave of laughter washes through the stands.
“We loved listening to the Beatles.” She adjusts the mic again and poises her fingers over the ivory keys. “This was Beau’s favorite song, so—” Her voice cracks. “—I thought I would sing it for him today.”
My heart aches as the first strains of “Let It Be” fill the stadium. Sabrina clutches my hand tighter. Her fingers are like ice. I squeeze them, hoping to warm her up, but I know mine are equally cold.
By the time Joanna finishes singing, there isn’t a dry eye in the bleachers. I’m rapidly blinking back tears, but eventually I give up and let them stream down my cheeks without wiping them away.
Afterward, Joanna gracefully rises from the piano bench and rejoins her parents. Then come the speeches, and the tears only fall harder. Coach Deluca gets behind the podium and talks about what a talented player Beau was, his dedication, his strength of character. A few of his teammates speak, making us laugh again with stories about Beau’s shenanigans in the locker room. Beau’s mom thanks everybody for coming, for supporting her son, for loving him.
I feel ravaged when the memorial finally reaches its conclusion.
Sorrow thickens the air as people shuffle out of their seats and make their way down the aisles. Sabrina releases my hand and walks ahead of me. Hope and Carin sandwich her between them like two mother hens, each one wrapping an arm around her shoulders as the trio descends the steps.
On the landing, I come up behind her and lean in to murmur in her ear. “Want me to come to Boston tonight?”
She gives a slight shake of her head, and disappointment and frustration flood my stomach. She must see it in my eyes, because she bites her lip and whispers, “We’ll talk soon, okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper back.
With my heart in my throat, I watch her walk away.
“What was that about?” Garrett appears beside me, focusing on Sabrina’s retreating back.
“Just offering my condolences,” I lie. “That’s Sabrina James—she used to date Beau.”
“Oh.” He frowns. “Dean’s Sabrina?”
My Sabrina.
I choke down another rush of frustration and offer a careless shrug. “I guess.”
I’m sick of this. So fucking sick of it. I want to tell my friends about Sabrina. I want to tell them about the baby and get their advice, but she made me promise not to say a word until we’d made a decision. Then again, if that decision results in no baby, there’d be no point in telling them anyway. What would I even say? I knocked someone up, but she had an abortion, so there’s nothing to talk about?
I swallow through my suddenly dry mouth. I have no idea how I got to this place. My friends tease me about being a Boy Scout, and truthfully I thought I had the “be prepared” thing down pat. But one careless mistake and now I might be a father. I’m twenty-two, for fuck’s sake.
I don’t know if I can do this.
Panic bubbles in my throat. I’m a patient guy. Rock solid. Good head on my shoulders. I want to have a family someday. I want kids and a wife and a dog and a goddamn picket fence. I want all that—someday.
Not today. Not nine months from now. Not—
You might not have a choice.
Christ.
“C’mon,” Garrett says, gently nudging me forward. “We’re all going back to the house.”