No one noticed Luke didn't show up to practice. Coach didn't say a word. Just blew his whistle and barked out warmups like everything was fine. But there was this tension in the air, like a thread pulled tight. The lanes felt emptier than usual, even though the numbers were the same. I kept glancing at the locker room door, half expecting him to stroll in late with his stupid half-smile and bloodshot eyes. He never did.
"He's probably just hungover," said Mateo, the new guy who never shuts up. "Or locked in some girl's bed," Jace added, chuckling like it was funny.
I didn't laugh. After practice, I changed slow. Everyone else cleared out. I was the last to leave the showers. Still dripping. Still thinking. I wasn't planning to go looking for him. I really wasn't. But I ended up near the back of the school anyway, the concrete courtyard behind the gym, where kids smoke, make out, or cry quietly when they think no one's watching.
Luke was there. Hunched over, hoodie pulled tight over his head, like he was trying to disappear into the bricks behind him. A half-burnt joint dangled from his fingers. He didn't look up when I stepped closer. "You gonna share?" I asked. He didn't answer. Just handed it over without looking at me. His hand was shaking a little. I didn't smoke it. Just held it. Let the silence crawl in.
One day in freshman year, I caught him in the hallway holding his little brother's hand. The kid must've been in second grade, maybe third, way too small to be wandering the school alone. Luke looked so out of place, tall, hoodie half-zipped, bruised cheek from a fight the day before, and there he was, crouched down, tying the kid's shoelaces.
He didn't notice me watching. Didn't care.
I told Ava about it that night and she said, "Maybe assholes are just people who learned the wrong way to survive." I didn't forget that. Back behind the gym, I sat beside him. Not too close. Not too far. The ground was cold, but I didn't mind.
He finally spoke. "You hate me." It wasn't a question. I shrugged. "Sometimes."
"Fair." He is so fucking high. He stubbed the joint out on the concrete and sighed, pressing the heel of his palm into his eye socket like he was trying to push the whole day out of his skull.
"You left the team because of me, didn't you?" I didn't answer. "That's what they say," he added. "Ava. Jace. Even Coach."
"They talk too much." He finally looked at me, really looked, and for a second, it hit me how tired he looked. Not in a physical way. In a soul-way. Like he'd been running from something for too long and forgot how to stop.
"I didn't mean to fuck everything up," he said, barely audible. I almost laughed. "Yeah, well. You did."
We sat in silence again. Cars passed by somewhere beyond the fence. Birds chirped like it was a normal day. About that Sophomore year, I told you about. Later that night, I saw Luke behind the gym again, this exact spot, bleeding knuckles and all. He was just sitting there, head back against the wall, eyes closed. I asked him if he wanted ice. He said, "Nah. I like the pain."
And then he smiled. I hated that smile.
"You think you're the only one who broke?" I said now. Luke looked sideways. "You seemed fine." "Yeah, well. I fake shit better than you."
His lips curled slightly. Almost a smile. But not really. "You didn't come to my house that night," he said suddenly. I blinked. "What night?" "You know which one." He meant the night after I left the team. The night I ghosted everyone. Turned off my phone. Ava came banging on my door. Coach emailed my parents. Luke… he didn't show. "You expected me to?" I asked.
He nodded once. "I waited on the porch." My throat tightened. "Don't do that," I said. "Don't act like you care now."
"I've always cared," he said. And god, I wanted to believe him. But I couldn't afford to.
The bell rang, distant and sharp. A wave of student noise followed. Doors opened. Feet thundered. The world spun back to normal like nothing happened. I stood up. "Don't skip again," I said. He didn't look up. "Don't follow me next time." I almost smirked. "Don't flatter yourself." But he did glance up, just once, that slow, vulnerable kind of look that felt like a confession. "I didn't think you'd still be here," he said. Sometimes I think Luke's silence isn't just who he is, it's where he's from.
He doesn't talk about his dad. I've never seen him at school events, never heard him mentioned. Once, in the ninth grade, I asked Luke if his parents were coming to our swim meet and he said, "My mom works late. And my dad's not the kind you invite places." That was it. He didn't even look at me when he said it. I found out later from Ava, who heard it from someone else, that Luke's dad used to be a cop. Got fired. Something about "excessive force" and a bar fight that got swept under the rug. Since then, he's been jobless, angry, and way too loud when drunk. The kind of man who slams doors like they're people.The kind of man who turns love into control. Luke never said that. But you can see it in the way he flinches when someone raises their voice too fast. In the way he pulls his hoodie down lower when adults walk by. In the way he apologizes for things he didn't do. I don't think he hates his dad. I think he's afraid he's becoming him.
He's always looking over his shoulder like he's waiting for someone to drag him back inside. That's how it feels with him, like he's permanently halfway out the door. Like part of him never left home. Not really. Once, I saw him walking his little brother home. It wasn't the first time. He kept checking behind them like he was on guard duty. His brother was chewing gum and skipping cracks on the sidewalk. Luke kept one hand on the kid's shoulder, steering him like a shield.
It hit me then, the reason he always walks like he's carrying something heavy. He is. He invited me over once. Didn't say why. Just, "You wanna come in?" after school, like we hadn't spent the last year avoiding each other. Like I hadn't spent half my nights trying to get him out of my head.
I said yes anyway. The second we stepped inside, I got it. The house smelled like old takeout and bleach. Not dirty, just scrubbed in a way that felt desperate. Like someone was trying to erase something that didn't come off. A game show blared from the living room. His little brother sat too close to the TV, wrapped in a blanket even though it wasn't cold. Luke didn't say anything to him. Just gave him this look, soft, protective, worn. He tossed me a bottle of water and nodded toward the stairs. We ended up in his room. Door half open. Light off. The window was cracked even though it was raining. There was nothing on the walls. Just paint peeling a little near the ceiling, a crooked shelf with some books, and a mattress on the floor. No frame. No posters. Just blank space and silence.
Then the yelling started downstairs. A man's voice, deep, slurred, mean. Not loud enough to be words. Just…tone. That tone. Luke froze. He didn't flinch. Didn't move. Just sat on the edge of the mattress and stared at the carpet like he was trying to burn a hole through it. I stayed quiet. What the hell do you say to someone who lives in a war zone?
After a minute, he let out a slow breath and said, "He's not gonna come up here. He only does that when my mom's home." I said, "Okay," even though none of it was okay. I asked, "Does your brother hear all of it?" Luke shrugged. "He's used to it." Then after a beat: "I'm trying to save up so we can leave. Just me and him. Someday."
He didn't look at me when he said it. He didn't have to.
That was the moment I realized Luke doesn't think of himself as someone who gets to have things; just someone who protects them. Carries them. Gets them out. He doesn't dream about freedom for himself. Just for the people he's trying to shield. And somehow, that made me want him more.
Not in a sweet way.
In a way that hurt.
In a way that tasted like guilt.
"Yeah," I replied. "Neither did I."
And then I left, before I said something I'd regret.
Like: I still think about you every fucking day. Or: You ruined me and I still let you. Or worse: I miss you so much it's pathetic.
January 13 2008