When he got back from Wyatt’s funeral, dreary from the late flight, he showered, made a double shot espresso, and walked to the basketball court to drop in on a pickup game. Hadn’t he just been on the court with Wyatt for his birthday? He could still see the way his brother had excitedly gripped the ball, clumsy in his dribbles, but whooping with joy at every attempted shot.
He replayed the fight he’d had with his parents before he flew back. They’d confessed Wyatt had been showing suicidal tendencies for months, but they’d never uttered a word. He felt betrayed they hadn’t warned him. It was dangerous to take his brother on a city outing where anything could happen.
Noah had worked with his fair share of suicidal students over the years, but Wyatt hadn’t displayed any of the signs. At least not with him. But he had with his parents, and that’s what mattered. He could have saved his life if they’d warned him. He could have prevented it. Wyatt could still be here.
The court was littered with shirtless, sweaty regulars. He laced his shoes and waved at Phil, an acquaintance he sometimes grabbed a beer with.
“You in today, Banks?”
“Yep.” He stretched his arms over his head and heard his back crack.
“Cool. Four on four.”
Noah’s body was stiff from the flight and lack of sleep, but he ignored all the twinges and immediately fouled Charles, a loudmouthed show-off who loved to dunk.
“Take it easy.”
“You take it easy.” He was itching for a fight.
“What the fuck, Banks? Chill.” Charles passed the ball back to Phil. “It’s a game, dude.”
Noah wanted to slam the ball in his face, but backed off and took a breath. “Just pass the ball.”
Charles passed the ball, and Noah ducked around him to sink in a three-point shot.
“Ooh, look who came to play.”
Phil passed the ball to Stewart, who passed it back to Noah.
“Something like that,” Noah said, taking another shot and missing it. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Wyatt with his arms spread like wings. How he’d wanted to be weightless. How it must have felt to be dragged across the train like something caught in a grater.
In one second, his beloved brother was there, and then he wasn’t, and no matter what he did, how many games he played, how much he worked, how angry he was at his parents, or what punishment he doled out, it didn’t change anything. Wyatt, his brother, his lifeline, his purpose, had taken his own life.
He kept seeing his mother’s shattered face as he stormed out of their condo after the funeral. He knew his parents blamed him, and it felt like being stabbed in the fucking heart. He carried the burden of witnessing such violence—not them. He would never forget how beautiful his brother had looked on that platform, and then after, as he was carried away by the wind.
He needed to shut off his brain. He lost himself in the game, ending three points ahead of the other team. He squirted water into his mouth at the side of the court and wiped his face with a towel.
“Nice game, Banks,” Phil said, clapping him on the back.
“You too.”
“Why don’t you come to my house tonight?” Phil asked as he removed his T-shirt and tugged on a clean one. “It’s my birthday.”
“Oh yeah? Happy birthday.” Noah thought of Wyatt’s birthday party and his blue lips as he licked frosting from a spoon.
“Lots of chicks, right, Phil?” Charles added as he stuffed his shoes into a bag.
“You seeing anyone, dude?” Phil asked.
Noah shook his head. “Nope.”
“Come then. It’ll be fun.”
He hadn’t told them what he’d just been through. The suicide. The guilt. His parents’ blame like a whip. For one night, he needed to feel something other than this all-consuming, gut-wrenching anguish. The thought of getting blackout drunk was the only thing that sounded appealing. It beat sitting in his condo by himself.
“Sounds good, man. Thanks.”
“Cool. I’ll text you the details. Good game.”
Noah slapped hands with the guys and watched them walk away. He collapsed on the bench. The exhaustion, the trauma, the flight, the drive, the funeral, and the game smashed into his body. He glanced at the time and wondered if it was too early to start drinking.
He’d go home, take a shower, and hit the pub. A few beers before the party couldn’t hurt.