Page 46 of Brushed and Buried
All of it, gone. Or maybe it was never really there to begin with.
The tears continue, and I let them. There’s no point in fighting anymore, in pretending I’m stronger than I am, or that I’ll wake up in the morning with renewed determination. This is probably not just a temporary setback I’ll overcome.
Outside, the city continues its ordinary existence. Cars pass. People call to each other on the street. The world keeps turning while mine grinds to a halt in this darkened apartment.
I close my eyes and let the numbness spread. It moves through my limbs like cold water, dulling everything, muting the sharp edges of grief into something flatter and more manageable. The tears slow down and eventually stop, leaving behind only emptiness.
So this is what giving up feels like. It’s not a conscious decision but a gradual erosion, like watching a cliff face crumble into the sea one grain at a time until suddenly there’s nothing left to stand on. It’s like I’ve been building on sand for years, and the tide has finally come in.
And somewhere in the empty space where my heart used to be, I realize I’ve finally stopped feeling anything.
17
Vince
The morning after Adrian leaves, I wake up feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck. The resort suite feels too big and quiet, like the walls have absorbed all the words we didn’t say and are pressing them back into my lungs.
I drag myself to breakfast, where Trevor’s already holding court at our usual table, gesturing wildly about something involving the wedding reception, cousins he likes to be there, and those not.
“You look like hell,” George says, not unkindly.
“Thanks. Always what a guy wants to hear.” I slump into the chair across from him and reach for the coffee pot like it might contain the answers to life.
“Adrian left early,” Trevor mentions with forced lightness.
I don’t respond. I just pour coffee and pretend the mention of his name doesn’t make my chest feel compressed.
“Everything okay between you two?” Lance presses gently.
“There’s no ‘us two,’” I say, sharper than I mean to. “There never was.”
The defensiveness in my voice betrays me instantly, answering a question Lance didn’t ask. My friends exchange glances, unsure how to approach me when I’m being such an asshole.
“Sorry,” I say, forcing a small smile, especially at Trevor. “Ignore me. I shouldn’t be a dick on your wedding week.”
“Nah, you’re good. Come on,” Trevor says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Let’s hit the beach. Get some sun, maybe rent those jet skis you were talking about yesterday.”
I want to say no, hole up in my room, and nurse this hollow feeling in my chest. But they’re trying to help, and this is my best friend, and I owe them that much.
So I nod and follow them out into the blinding California sunshine.
The beach should be a distraction, exactly what I need with sun, surf, and the mindless physical activity of cutting through waves on a jet ski. But everywhere I look, I see reminders.
That building visible from the shoreline looks almost the same as the old wing at Santa Ynez Valley High School. The couple sharing a book under an umbrella makes my stomach clench. Even the way the light hits the water reminds me of how Adrian used to paint, all movement and feeling, like he could capture the soul of a thing with just a few strategic strokes.
I gun the engine and take off. But even the adrenaline of riding this thing can’t touch the ache spreading through my chest. Because every time I close my eyes, I’m eighteen again, standing in that dusty theater space, watching Adrian work magic with paint and light.
And remembering how it all fell apart.
I never should have taken that art class. It was a last-minute elective, the only thing that fit my schedule that final term. My guidance counselor had chuckled when he suggested it, saying, “You can’t throw a football forever, Holloway.”
I remember just staring at him, thinking,you have no idea.
Football was more than my life. It was my structure, pressure, and future. I played outside linebacker, the kind of position that demanded speed, instinct, and ruthless awareness. I’d already caught the attention of recruiters from Golden State University, Oregon, and Texas A&M. Some of them flew in just to watch my practices. Word was, if I stayed healthy through senior year, I had a real shot at playing Division I ball.
My father made sure of that. He was a legend back in the day, a former linebacker for the Dallas Cowboys who’d retired after two Pro Bowl seasons and transitioned straight into coaching. Now he ran an elite youth football program in Orange County, one of those “by invitation only” training academies where five-star recruits were practically minted like coins. He was respected, feared. He’s the kind of man who shook hands with college athletic directors and expected them to remember it.
And I was supposed to be his legacy.
