I miss hockey. I know that probably sounds selfish, but I do miss it. I’m honest with you. And as much as I miss my family, my boring routine and that shitty apartment, I miss kicking someone’s teeth in on the ice more.
They have basketball here. Owen would love it. Me…not so much. I suck to the point where I’m literally the last one picked during rec time.
A lot of these guys are real assholes. And a lot of them actually did some bad shit, but nothing really bad. Petty theft, fights, drugs—things like that. I mean, it’s reform school. They call it boy’s academy. I guess that makes it sound better.
Oh hey, I got a letter from Owen, by the way. They let me get mail. I’d love to hear from you. Please write if you have time. I get phone privileges next week for being “good.” I’ve already been offered twenty bucks to make a call for someone who doesn’t get them. I’m thinking of taking him up on it.
Anyhow, I guess I just hope you’re okay.
Andrew
Seven Months Later
Emma,
I get to come home next week.
I’m not even sure why I’m writing this to you, because I know I will have the choice to see you in person next week.
I say “choice” because…you know why I say choice. I think you know what I’ll choose. I’m sure you’re hoping for it.
This letter, I think it needs to be the last one I write. I didn’t keep track, but I know I sent you more than twenty. Whatever the number is, it’s the same number you never sent back.
It’s spring, and the weather is warm. I’ve worked ahead of my class here, which really wasn’t very hard. They offered to let me into the Excel Program again, although I’m on probation. My mom has forgiven me, for the most part, and Dwayne comes to visit every weekend. Even Owen came last week.
Owen had a lot of questions about the accident. I think he knows things don’t add up. That man on the road, he lives in one of the housing projects on the edge of town. He’s in his sixties. My mom said he recovered, though, and they’ve settled with him. I don’t ask for the details, because I’m sure Dwayne had to help with the costs. I don’t like that. But I guess that’s just money. I’m alive. I’ll go back to where I was. And you…you’ll be wherever you are.
Oh, and I never told anyone. I never will.
Maybe I’ll see you around.
I probably won’t.
Andrew
One Year Later
Dear Emma,
This letter is for me. It isn’t for you.
I resent you.
I blame you.
I hate you.
And when I sat in my car last week, just out of your view, and saw you dressed in that pink homecoming dress, your hair done up, probably from one of those fancy salons in the city, and saw you kiss that guy on your front porch… I thought about going back to that moment and taking it all back—letting you stay in that seat, letting you lose everything important to you.
I thought about it.
I want to want that for you.
But I can’t. I’ll never want that for you.
I’ll always want you to be the one who gets to be okay.
And I hate you for that most of all.
You said that night ruined everything, and you were right. It ruined me. I will never be the same.
It ruined us—as if there ever was an us.
I can’t stay here. I can’t stay in this town because there’s too much of you in it. I’ve seen you too many times. You never see me, but I see you. I see you fucking everywhere!
And I don’t want to see you anymore.
I’m going to live with my uncle in Iowa.
It doesn’t matter, because you’ll never visit.
I’ll never give you this letter.
It wasn’t for you anyway.
This letter—it’s the only thing I’ve done in a year for me. Just for me.
I’ll never make the mistake of picking someone else again.
I pick me.
Me.
And you can go to hell.
Andrew
Part II
Chapter 6
Andrew Harper, Age 21
“You’re a fucking cocksucker, Harper,” Trent says, slapping the back of my head as he passes behind me at the bar. I hit him hard today. He blew it last week, though, and that’s my job—to get guys ready to take hits in the real games.
I get to play, but I’m more of an insurance guy—the one they send in to be distracting and cause trouble for the other guys, to shift the game to our advantage. It lands me in the box a lot, but we’re surprisingly good at penalty kill. We come out stronger, and sometimes we need to feel the pressure to get things going.