Shut Up And Kiss Me (gxg)

47. A F*cking Vacation

       "YOU ASKED MONROE TO BREAK your nose on Thanksgiving?" 

       Aaron winced, probably at the shouting-level of my voice in his ear. "Yes, which is why―"

       "You stupid―" I tried to restrain myself. "You stupid motherfucker. So you got her to break your nose on Thanksgiving, but that wasn't enough, so you . . . what? Asked her to break your leg?"

       I was standing on the front driveway of Aaron―and Monroe's―own house. He'd called me only a minute ago, with news that I couldn't stop myself from squeaking at.

       "I needed to," said Aaron, sounding pained. "I couldn't―can't. Keep doing this."

       "Doing what?"

       "Football. My dad―he―this ten thousand dollar scholarship, you know? It's too much fucking pressure and I . . . don't want to tell my dad I don't want it. That I don't want football. To him, that's my ticket to glory. So my solution―"

       "Was to break your leg?" I scoffed. "That's the only thing you could have come up with? Rather than telling your dad you don't want to pursue football?"

        Aaron's voice took on a static-like quality over the phone. "The thing is, Mom left when I was a kid. You know that. I was always more like her, more sensitive and whatever, but when she was gone . . . Dad hated that. The reminder, I guess. Of her. So telling my dad I quit football, the one thing that's kind of our bond . . . our only bond . . . God, you know my dad. He'd be crushed. I can't."

       I understood enough not to press. And he was right. His dad would be crushed. But was that really worth breaking his leg for?

       "Does anyone know Monroe did it?" 

       I guess I have more to talk to her about than just her mercenary-style kickbox service.

       Aaron sighed. "I told everyone it was an accident. I was training by myself, I hit the ground too hard. A good enough lie. I'm in the hospital now, I've got an IV hooked up and everything."

       I wondered how Monroe had done it. And then decided I didn't want to know. "And afterwards, how did he react? Your dad, I mean?"

        "He's . . . waiting outside my door right now. It's probably going to be pretty bad."

        An understatement.

        "So you're calling me to stall."

        "It's that obvious?" 

        This scholarship was everything to Mr. Andersen. His son's success, his future, his dreams. If Aaron was stalling, I didn't blame him.

        Maybe I  was stalling too. I needed to talk to Monroe, after all, and I had . . . no idea how that would go.

        "He's probably already coming up with a plan to get me training again," said Aaron. "I bet he thinks I still have a chance, if I just tackle the broken leg like any other obstacle. Push through the pain. Shit like that."

        "And you're sure . . . that this is what you want? No more football?" Of course he was sure, though. I doubted he'd decide to break his leg on a whim.

        "I'm going to travel the world," Aaron whispered, and I remembered the conversation we'd had once, about a dream of a starry sky beyond this one―a world that wasn't limited to our small town. "As soon as I graduate, I'm out of here."