Ryan’s face was grave. “Everything is going to change.”
I was supposed to leave. Ryan wasn’t. He had a baseball scholarship to pitch at some division-one school, until the school-sanctioned drug-test results came back, a month ago. They affirmed a truth about marijuana use.
Ryan lost everything.
I took a shallow sip. It killed me to see him this way.
“Nothing is going to change,” I said. I lit another Parliament Light and looked up at the sky. A cloud formed an attack against the sun.
“How’s Heather?” I slipped and held back another secret between friends. Stupid.
Another cigarette in his mouth, Ryan whispered, “We broke up.”
My face itched beneath the skin. Heather and I had slept together. On more than a number of occasions. Recently. It was a mistake, on purpose.
He gagged down the remaining liquid from the glass bottle as if pouring it down the drain. Ryan hurled the bottle, empty, off of the roof. We didn’t hear it break.
“She said that long distance relationships never work. She doesn’t want either of us tied down in college, missing out on the whole experience.” Ryan paused. “That fucking whore!”
Three months later, my freshman-year roommate would tell me, “It takes one to cheat, but two can.” Our laughter would excuse past mistakes. I wouldn’t ever tell Ryan about Heather. That’s not what friends are for.