Page 60 of Brushed and Buried
“And this changes everything.” George’s voice is quieter, but it cuts like ice. “You let us…you let us touch him. You were there while we…” He stops, shakes his head. “If we’d known he meant something to you…”
“He doesn’t,” I say, almost without thinking. “He shouldn’t.”
“Bullshit,” Trevor exclaims, clearly not having it.
Lance exhales like he’s trying to shake the air out of his chest. “We thought we were all just messing around. What are the fucking odds? Out of all the strippers in the world…it had to be him, your high school fucking sweetheart. This is insane. How the hell does that even happen?”
I shrug, keeping my tone flat, careful not to let the guilt leak through. “He’s not really like that. It didn’t go…that far.” And carefully, I add, “I was fine with it. I was fine with it all happening.”
“Were you?” George asks, voice low, incredulous, sharp. “Now your reaction at the gym with me makes sense.”
“It was ten years ago,” I cut him off. “High school. Ancient history. A different life. Adrian is obviously free to do whatever he wants.”
“Then why the hell have the last few days been such a mess?” Trevor’s voice cracks with frustration and hurt. “All this time, I thought you just didn’t want him around because he wasn’t one of us, because he’s some kind of an anomaly in your otherwise perfectly structured life.”
I don’t answer. There’s nothing I can say to untangle the sick twist in my stomach, the way Ayaka’s words keep looping, colliding with my memories.
I look out over the water. The ocean seems calm, almost mocking, like it knows something I don’t. “I guess I’ve been blind to a lot,” I say finally, my voice low but clear. “This time, I think I need to actually listen.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything unsaid. Then Trevor steps closer, his voice softer than it’s been all afternoon.
“Look, you must have had a good enough reason why you couldn’t tell us.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustration and understanding warring in his expression.
Lance nods slowly. “We’re not mad about the history, Holloway. We’re mad because you’ve been carrying this alone when you didn’t have to.”
George uncrosses his arms, his posture relaxing slightly. “You should have trusted us. We would have understood.”
Their words hit me harder than their anger did. They’re hurt, yes. They feel betrayed by the secrecy, absolutely. But underneath all of that is the same thing that’s always been there—that they’ve got my back, even when I don’t deserve it.
“I know,” I say quietly. “I know you would have.”
Trevor claps a hand on my shoulder. “So, what are you going to do about it?”
My eyes stay fixed on the horizon, chest tight but steady, resolve settling in like steel. For the first time in a long time, I know exactly the answer to that question.
21
Vince
The service corridor smells like industrial cleaner and the faint sweetness of abandoned pastries. I find Adrian exactly where I expected him to be, clipboard in hand, cross-referencing inventory against his checklist, completely absorbed in the kind of methodical work that lets him pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
He doesn’t look up when I approach him. He just keeps marking boxes on his list, pen moving in quick, efficient strokes. His shoulders carry the same tension they’ve held since Ayaka’s revelation three hours ago, rigid like he’s bracing for impact.
“Adrian.” My voice echoes off the concrete walls. “What Ayaka said about the commission work…why would she say something like that?”
The pen stops moving. He doesn’t lift his head, but I catch the slight tightening around his eyes, the way his grip shifts on the clipboard. “She probably just remembered wrong. It was a long time ago.”
“No.” I step closer, and now he has to acknowledge me. “She was specific. She mentioned you commissioning something for the scout.”
Finally, he looks up. The careful neutrality on his face doesn’t quite mask the conflict underneath, like he’s fighting a war I can’t see. “Vince, just leave it alone.”
“What were you really doing at that hotel, Adrian?”
Adrian’s shoulders drop almost imperceptibly, and the wall he’s been keeping between us thins. I watch him arrive at some internal decision, one that doesn’t seem to bring him any relief. He sets the clipboard down on a stack of linens and runs both hands through his hair, a gesture I remember from high school when he was trying to work through a particularly difficult piece.
“I was at the game,” he starts, voice steady despite the tension in his shoulders. “The one where you punched your teammate at the sidelines. I watched you fall apart out there, watched the scouts leave early. I knew you’d lost everything because of that fight.”
He pauses, gathering himself before continuing. “There was this woman sitting near me in the stands, part of some alumni group. When the scouts started leaving, she was talking to her friends about this scout, Mitchell, from Golden State University. She mentioned how she and her husband had coffee with him earlier that week when he came to town. She keptgoing on about what a shame it was that our players weren’t at their best that day, especially you.”
