The Boy Most Likely To. Huntley Fitzpatrick

      “Say no more.” I reach for the cards in their familiar, worn box, next to the pink hospital-issue carafe of water, the kidney-shaped trough to spit into after tooth brushing, the clutter of empty, one-ounce pill cups, and the roll of medical tape to re-bandage his IV shunt. Nothing like home, his nightstand piled with wobbly, homemade, clay penholders and mugs, heaps of sci-fi books, the picture of him and Mom in high school, big curly hair on her, leather jacket on him.

      “I haven’t the heart to break your streak,” he says with that grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes before overtaking his entire face. “The painkillers gave you an unfair advantage.”

      “I’m six for seven, Dad. Is it your painkillers or my raw talent?” I smile.

      “Well, I’m off ’em now. So we’ll see.” He edges to one side a bit and his face goes sheet-white. He looks up at the ceiling, his lips moving, counting away the pain, taking deep breaths.

      “Pant, pant, blow,” I murmur. Labor breathing. Everyone in our family knows it.

      “Whoo, who, hee.” Dad’s voice is tight. “God knows I should have that one down.”

      “And yet Mom says you still don’t.” I try for another smile but it slips a little, so I focus on the cards, shuffling them once, twice, three times. “Do you want me to call your nurse?”

      He reaches out for the cards, takes them, and does his famous one-handed shuffle.

      “Only if she’s got bonbons. Look, they’re kicking me out of here soon,” he says abruptly. “Not enough beds, I’ve outstayed my welcome, I’m all fixed now. Not sure what the latest explanation is.”

      “And then –?”

      “Home,” he says on a sigh. “Or a rehab facility. They’ve left it up to us.” He glances down at Mom, smiles, the same grin as in the SBH photo, tucks the hanging-out tag of her dress under the neckline. She nestles closer.

      “Rehab’s covered by our deal with the devil,” I point out. Our devil may be a tall, blond, conservative state senator, but facts are facts.

      “You can’t think of it that way, Alice.” He shakes his head, winces.

      Still in pain, no matter how often he says it’s not a problem. The last of his summer tan is fading, the line of his jaw cuts sharper, his shoulders locked in rigid lines. He looks at least four years older than he did four weeks ago and it’s all that woman’s fault. However often she sends fancy dinner salads and gourmet casseroles over with Samantha, I can’t forget. I can’t drive past reality without even stopping, the way she did.

      “Grace Reed did this, Dad. She wrecked us. She –”

      “Look at me,” he says. I do, trying not to flinch at the shaved part of his scalp where they drilled the hole to relieve pressure from his head injury. Duff, Harry, and George just call it “Dad’s weird haircut.”

      “A little battered maybe. But definitely not wrecked. Accepting rehab, on top of all the hospital bills – charity.”

      “Not charity, Dad. Justice.”

      “You know as well as I do that it’s time to get on with things, Alice. Suck it up and get on home. I’m needed there.”

      I want him there. I want everything back the way it was. Coming in late at night from a date or whatever to find him watching random History Channel or National Geographic documentaries, baby after baby, Duff, Harry, then George, then Patsy conked out against his shoulder, clicker poised in his hand, nearly dozing himself, but awake enough to rouse and say, “Do you know the plane Lindbergh flew to Paris was only made of fabric? A little glue brushed over it. Amazing what people can do.” But I’m enough of a professional to look at his vital signs and translate his medical chart by heart. No matter how amazing it is what people can do, bodies have their limits.

      “You know better,” I say, “about what’s needed. What you have to do.”

      A muscle in Dad’s jaw jumps.

      How much pain is he in? He should still be on those pills.

      I wipe my expression clean, rubbing the back of my neck with one hand. Game face.

      The things Mom and I traded off doing, today alone. I did breakfast, while she did morning sickness and talked on the phone setting up everyone’s back to school doctor appointments. I drove Duff to the eye doctor, she took Andy to the orthodontist, then the little guys to the beach. Then we all went to the sailing awards. Mom cheered up Andy in the bathroom after Jade Whelan said something stupid to her, then took her to get frozen yogurt. I hauled the little kids to Castle’s for hot dogs. Mom ferried the gang to Jase’s practice, then dropped them off and came to visit Dad – and dozed off. I stayed home until everyone crashed except Andy, then came here, chugging a venti Starbucks on the way. And I’m only Mom’s stunt double. I’m not Dad.

      “If you leave here for home, you’ll be picking up George and Patsy, toting them to the car. You’ll be driving Harry and Duff to soccer. Taking Andy to middle school dances. Relieving Jase at the store. You’ll be on, all the time, Dad. You can’t do that yet. It’ll only set you back and make things worse. For all of us.”

      He scrubs his hand over his forehead. Sighs.

      “Aren’t you supposed to be the child I’m imparting all my hard-earned wisdom to, Alice?”

      Mom shifts in her sleep, pulling her arm from his waist to rest on her stomach.

      The new baby. Right. I almost always forget about that. Her. Him.

      Dad reaches his good hand down to cover hers. He never forgets.

      I rest against the windowsill, put my head down on my crossed arms. Cloudless night with, I don’t know, crickets, locusts, whatever, making sounds in the high grass the Garretts wait too long to cut. You can even hear the river if you listen hard enough.

      When my eyes adjust to the dark, I see her.

      Alice is tipped back against the hood of the Bug, looking up. Not at me. At the sky. Full moon, a few clouds. Stars. She’s darkly silhouetted against the white car, all curves, one foot on the bumper, moonlight shining off a knee.

      Jesus.

      A knee.

      Oh, Alice.

Chapter Six

      Early the next morning, I jolt out of bed so fast my brain practically sloshes against my skull. Where am I? The familiar feeling – the burning, dizzy oh shit of it – makes my temples crash and bang.

      I got drunk last night.

      Or something.

      Because, if not, why am I so freaking disoriented?

      Then I remember, assisted by the twelve girls in twelve different improbable contortions staring at me. I rub sweat off my forehead, fall back on the hard-as-hell couch I crashed on after too much quality time with the Xbox, and listen to the emptiness.

      I never realized how freaking quiet it is when you’re all alone in a building.

      Then I’m up, yanking one poster off the wall, then the next, then the next, until the walls are bare and I’m breathing hard.

      Running – isn’t that what Jase does when he doesn’t want to think? I rummage around in my cardboard box for gym shorts I can’t find. Just lame gray slacks. Who packed those? And my Asics – nowhere to be found. I pull on the only workout option, a faded pair of swim trunks, and head for Stony Bay Beach. I read once that Navy Seals train by running on sand. Barefoot. It’s harder, a better workout.

      I’ll jog to the pier. Gotta be like a mile or something.