“So it's over,” Tyler whispers, looking over at me and taking my hand. “It's over.”
“Not quite,” Connor says, taking out a piece of paper. “You have to sign this, showing that you understand and agree to the dismissal of the suit. Also, you need to decide if you're going to pursue charges against them. Civil harassment, libel, and quite a few others if you want.”
“Fuck it, just let it drop,” Tyler says, signing the paper. “If they had money they wouldn't have tried to pull their bullshit on me. Did your investigator even ever find out if I really slept with them or not?”
“Actually . . . yeah, he did. Not enough to bet his life on, but enough that it'd have been a tough case to make in the courts. After you two left, they've got you on a couple of CCTV cameras, they had to drag you out of the taxi at the hotel, and both girls left the hotel less than ten minutes after helping you in. Unless you happen to be able to have sex while unconscious twice . . . you never did a damn thing with those two.”
Tyler shakes his head, and looks at me. It's a little thing, I know, but I can't help but feel a surge of joy. He never slept with them. Ever. I look over at Tyler, and he's got the same look on his face, and I can tell he's feeling the same way.
“Thank you Connor,” Tyler says quietly, reaching over and taking my hand. “Thank you very much.”
Connor smiles and gets up. “Glad I could help. Take care, you guys. Oh, and April . . . remember he's got a game tomorrow, let him get some sleep.”
Connor leaves with a laugh, and after the door closes, I turn to Tyler, fresh tears in my eyes. I don't know why, I should be laughing and happy, but instead I'm crying, and as he pulls me in for a hug, I start sobbing, the happiness and the sadness mixing in a vile blend that churns my stomach. I push away from Tyler and turn, barely making it to the toilet before the little bit of dinner I'd been able to eat after the funeral comes up.
“April . . . are you okay?” Tyler asks carefully, kneeling next to me. He pulls my hair back and out of the way, the hair that he loves to run his hands through.
“I'm fine,” I snap, not knowing where my anger is coming from. “I'm just fine, Tyler. I'm not a soap bubble, you know. I might be stupid, I might be ugly and someone you settle for, but I'm not a soap bubble.”
“Whoa. I wasn't trying to piss you off. Just… well, when someone you love pukes in the toilet, you worry about them.”
“Glad to know you worry about me,” I snap again, then shake my head. What the hell am I doing? “Sorry. I guess the stress is really getting to me.”
Tyler rubs my back, humming. “I understand. I still don't know how I'm going to play well tomorrow.”
“Like your game is the most important thing in the world!” I hiss, angry again. My father is in the ground less than twelve hours, I'm counting down the days until the Alzheimer's takes my mother, and he's worried about a fucking game? What the fuck? “I'm so sorry that my father's death is screwing up your preparation for Ottawa!”
Tyler takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. “You're right, I'm sorry I put it that way. Let me go get you some cool water, wash out your mouth.”
“I'll get it myself!” I snap again, getting up and stomping out of the bathroom and to the kitchen, where I yank a glass down from the cupboard and turn on the faucet. I hear Tyler flush the toilet then walk nearly silently to the living room, where I hear him settle down on the couch. He doesn't say anything, just sits, and my anger evaporates, replaced by fear and sadness. This was how Mom started showing symptoms, mood swings and snappiness. Did the doctors miss something? Can I even have it at my age? Or is it really the stress?
I rinse my mouth again, and drink half a glass, trying to settle my stomach. When I think I'm not going to sick it up, I leave the kitchen and see Tyler sitting on the couch still, his knees sticking up almost ridiculously high. It's a side effect of our couch, which Tyler chose from an Asian inspired collection. It's low to the ground, so when he doesn't lean back, his knees are nearly at his shoulders until he stretches out. I make my way over and sit down next to him, and I can see that he's got his hands clenched and his head hanging. “Tyler?”
“I'm sorry,” he whispers, his voice soft and pained. “I know you’re going through a lot.”
I swallow, and take his hand. “I'm sorry too. I . . . I don't know why I feel this way Tyler. I'm scared because this is how Mom started. Maybe it's just the stress of today, maybe the fears that are always inside me came out . . . but I'm scared. I've been feeling off even before Baltimore's offer, and tonight . . . it was just too much.”
Tyler looks over at me and takes my hand. “I understand. Don't think I haven't thought about it too. Ever since you mentioned it in the car as we were going to visit them, it's popped up in my mind.”