“Reagan!” my dad shouts, looking down, his chin at his shoulder, but his eyes still not on me. “That’s enough. Go home. Don’t worry, someone will give Nico a ride.”
My body vibrates with my pulse, and every piece of me grows tense. Others are watching us now, watching me be scolded—watching my father want to protect me from this at-risk boy.
“I am not a child, Dad. If I want to give my boyfriend a ride home, I’m going to,” I say, mentally lining up the next part of my argument. I’ll start buying my own gas. I’ll save up and get my own car. I’ll talk to Mom and see what she thinks. I’ll make Noah come with us.
“Nico, go on, get changed. I’m sure you understand,” my dad says, his nostrils flaring. My face flushes red. I’m mortified, and I’m heartbroken. I open my mouth, ready to protest, but stop the moment he speaks.
“Yeah…I get it,” Nico says, stepping into the space between me and my father, his head down until he stops right in front of my dad, lifts his chin and looks my father in the eyes. “I’m good enough to throw the ball for you, but I’m not good enough for your daughter.”
“That’s not it,” my dad says, stopping short, shaking his head no, but lost for the words to go along with it. He has nowhere to go from there.
“Sure it is. You might not think that’s what you mean, but…I bet you wouldn’t have a problem with her driving up north, to Metahill. I just live eleven miles in the wrong direction.”
“Nico…” my dad says, his weight shifts, his voice a little less urgent—less sure.
“Coach.”
Nico stares my father in the eyes, not to intimidate, but to challenge, certainly. Several of his teammates are still around, including Colton and Travis, who both look on, their eyes fixed on the field between Nico and my father. It becomes clear soon that my dad isn’t going to have a miraculous change of heart.
“It’s okay, Reagan,” Nico says, still facing my dad. “I can ride my board.”
“I’ll take you,” Travis says.
“Thanks, yeah. See…it’s fine, Travis will take me,” he says, sucking his lip in and glancing down from my father, the disappointment evident to me…to everyone. “Hey,” he says, turning and taking a few humble steps in my direction, his eyes soft over me, his mouth curling in the faintest smile. I start to shake my head no, no because I’m not willing to let this go. Nico nods yes, though, and reaches for my fingers, glancing down and smiling at our touch. “I’ll call you when I get home.”
He looks back up, staring into my eyes, and his dimple shows, though faint.
“You texted me, so I finally have your number,” he says.
My eyes feel heavy, my brow drawn in as his hand slips away. He walks slowly to the locker room with Travis and Colton. Eventually, the rest of the team follows along, the coaches long gone, in their cars and on the road already. I’m left under the bright floodlights with my father and my brother, and all I can think about is how different the three of us are for people who share the same DNA.
“Reagan…” my father starts, and I cut him off, recognizing the tone. He’s going to lecture me, explain how he knows best, how the neighborhood isn’t safe, how this isn’t about Nico at all, but I just can’t hear it. I just can’t, because that boy did nothing wrong, and neither did I. And I’m embarrassed.
“Don’t,” I say, closing my eyes.
“It’s just that it’s late, and you’re only eighteen, and…”
“I said don’t, Dad. Please, just…” I stop, and open my gaze on my father, his mouth set in a firm line.
The three of us stand silent, and I tug my equipment bag up my arm and fix my grip on the tripod, thankful when my father’s phone rings. I look to my brother, who actually seems sympathetic, raising his shoulder in a slight shrug. “Could have gone worse,” he whispers.
“I’m sorry…she…she’s what?”
My dad pushes a finger in his open ear and holds the phone tight to his head, turning slightly away from me and my brother.
“Right…I see. Yes…I’ll be right there,” my dad responds, ending the call and staring at his phone screen, his body rigid, and his eyes not blinking.
“Dad? What is it?” I ask.
“Your mom,” he says, and my pulse picks up as the blood leaves my head. I feel faint. My dad’s eyes flit to me. “She drove the car through the garage…into the house.”
“Oh my God!” I shout, holding my hand to my chest.
“Linda heard the noise and ran next door. She says Mom’s high off her ass on marijuana. Where the hell would she get that?”
My dad looks back at his phone, as if it’s going to give him any answers. My eyes grow wide, and I feel the earth pull me down as my blood rushes back through my body. My mouth is frozen open and dry as hell. I tell myself repeatedly not to say a word, when my brother falls on the sword that’s been waiting for him for weeks…probably months.
“Fuuuuuccckkk,” he breathes, his eyes closing and his head tilting to the sky.
Noah Prescott may as well get used to those crutches, because in less than an hour, I’m pretty sure our father is going to break his other leg.