Chapter Five. Case

I never tried to be popular in high school. It always just happened that way. I've never had any misconceptions about my appeal; it's absolutely rooted in my family's wealth and grown out of rodeo celebrity. I'm not saying I didn't use it to my benefit, but I didn't actively seek it out. Another thing Walker used to give me endless shit about.

What we couldn't know, or at least what I never imagined, is being the best friend of the dead kid is a whole new level of notoriety. The ladies love a sad boy. And a sad boy who drunkenly climbed a corn silo in the middle of the night is especially interesting, if the multitudes of texts lighting up my phone are any indication. (One very persnickety stable hand notwithstanding.)

I don't know how to react to the recent influx of attention for something so humiliating and stupid, so when Pax waves me into his hot, overcrowded kitchen and whispers that he stocked the lesser-known downstairs fridge with a six-pack of Lone Star beer, I waste no time. The door to the basement is familiar after a thousand games of hide-and-seek when we were kids, and I don't bother to let my eyes adjust to the darkness before scrambling down the stairs. The change is glaring. Down here, it's cool, quiet, and musty. It smells like uncomplicated memories, and I'm mightily tempted to stay down here and drink my beers alone. Suddenly, my reasons for coming tonight feel hollow: the dangling carrot of an uncomplicated hookup and another item from Walker's list (jumping into a pool, at a party, naked—yeah, I know). Even if I'm starting to wonder if he made this stuff up to fuck with me. Like one day I'll get to heaven and he'll be like, "Oh shit, man, I thought you knew I was kidding!"

It's not like we talked about this stuff when he was alive. He was always sick, but not. Chronic, but living with it, you know? Until he wasn't. When the entire world went to hell, it was as if there was this cosmic fuckup with management and Walker's papers were misfiled. If he'd gotten sick two years earlier, or maybe a year later, he'd have gotten his transplant and his uneventful hospital stay, and it would have been okay. He could have lived the rest of his life like everyone else.

Instead, his lungs decided they'd had enough, right in the midst of a fucking pandemic. He didn't have a chance in hell.

I tug open the downstairs fridge with a clatter of bottles and pull one out, twisting off the cap and downing half in a gulp. The sooner I get this party over with, the sooner I can go home.

Maybe I should just go home. Walker's list isn't going anywhere, and I haven't been able to shake off the guilt from Madi calling me a "rodeo fuckboy," even if I have been open with the girls I've been hooking up with. I'm still able to drive, and Pax's basement is a walk-out. I could sneak out the back and no one would be the wiser. They might not even remember I was here, which is equal parts depressing and a relief.

Just when I'm about to leave, I hear multiple voices over loud footsteps tromping down the stairs. One of the voices is instantly familiar, and I bite back a curse. Christine.

"Case!" she startles as she flips on a light, her manicured hand pressed to her chest. She's trailed by three guys around our age. "You scared the shit out of me. Are you sitting here alone in the dark?"

I bristle at the pity implied in her tone, even if that's exactly what I'm doing.

"Not me."

She narrows her eyes, her false lashes tangling in a way I used to find attractive, before she pulls open the fridge door.

"Oh! Jackpot, boys. We've got Lone Stars down here. Want one?" Her question is directed to a tall, vaguely familiar guy who might be rodeo-affiliated or might just be Texan. He seems to know who I am, and we exchange nods before I turn back to Christine.

"Those are mine."

She looks dubious. "All of them?"

I shrug and grab a second before she huffs and picks something else, closing the fridge with a bump of her curvy, denim-clad hip.

"We're gonna sit out on the patio. Pax said there's one of those classy little propane fireplaces out there. Wanna join us, or are you going to stay drinking in the dark?"

I don't even want this second beer. I just didn't want her to give it to her friends. Christine and I hooked up early on in my personal crusade to sleep away my misery. She's beautiful, sweet, and flirty on one hand, while also jealous and more than a little shallow on the other.

I'm plenty shallow enough already. Or at least I used to be. Even if I hadn't made the one-time-only rule, I don't need to date a carbon copy of myself. Christine has seen it as a sort of challenge ever since.

I'm not an idiot. I know it's nothing to do with me so much as she likes the competition, but I'm too tired for games. It's why I made the rule in the first place.

Ghost Walker gives a grunt of assessment in my brain, though I'm pretty sure in real life, he'd hate my fucking around. He'd say something about how it "wasn't me" and "just because you can doesn't mean you should." But what is me, then? How do I know this isn't me? I have no fucking clue who I am anymore.

I follow Christine and her posse of guys through the sliding door and out to the patio. By the time they have the gas pit lit, someone has already fetched me a third drink. I accept it gratefully, but don't drink yet. I still haven't decided if I want to stick around.

"The silo looks real pretty from here. What d'ya think, Case?" Christine asks, her smile wicked in the firelight.

My lips curve in a fake grin. "It's a little cold for me, thanks."

"Did you really try to jump off?" one of the guys asks. The one who nodded his greeting. Now that I think about it, his name might be Copper. Or Cooper. He definitely used to do rodeo with Walker and me in junior high. I don't know the other two, but they perk up at his bold question.

One tries unsuccessfully to hide his snicker. "I heard you were too wasted to get down on your own."

I glare.

Christine idly swirls her bottle in the dancing light. "My theory is it was a bid for attention."

"I don't need cheap stunts to get attention," I say and take a long draw from my beer. This third beer sloshes with the last two, and I realize I'm trapped here. I can't drive like this, and staying here makes me want another drink to drown out everyone else.

"So you were suicidal, then?" I barely hear the third guy's question.

A louder group comes toward us from the edge of the yard, thankfully interrupting the conversation. They look pretty drunk even though it's still early, and as they get closer, I realize they're young. High school young. Maybe fifteen years old, tops.

"Who's that?"

Christine sneers at the display as if she didn't just graduate last spring. "Oh, that's Pax's little sister, Chelsea, and her friends. I hear she's dating the Sutton brat."

That gets my attention. "Sutton?"

Christine flicks her curled hair and shakes it out, sending the scent of expensive-smelling shampoo in my direction. "Yeah, you remember his sister? She was in our class? I think she graduated early or maybe got pregnant and dropped out. Winnie or something embarrassing like that?"

I feel even more annoyed at myself for not recognizing Winnie Sutton straight off. Even Christine, who barely notices anyone outside of her circle, knew Winnie back in school. "I didn't realize she had siblings."

Christine narrows her eyes, noting my interest. "Two, maybe? That dark-haired fool over there is Jesse Sutton. He's the one dating Chelsea, who apparently has no problem picking through trailer trash."

Ghost Walker and I suck in twin breaths. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I ask Christine. She slow blinks at me, like she's confused at my outburst. To be honest, I'm a little taken aback myself. But, for real, has Christine always been this mean?

"It doesn't mean anything," she drawls. "I just don't care for fleas in my bed." The guys snicker.

"The kid can't be more than a freshman, and his sister probably graduated early because she was smarter than the rest of us. Where they live has absolutely nothing to do with it."

Christine raises a brow. "Okay, who even are you right now? Like, you're the guy always flaunting your money around, asking your housekeeper to deliver your lunch every day at school, driving your brand-new Navigator around town."

I inwardly wince. She's not wrong. "I'm an asshole, true. Walker said it every day. I'm only saying being rich might've made me trash, but that's got nothing to do with money and everything to do with me. Stop being such a snob."

"Christ, Michaels. When'd you get so deep?" Copper-Cooper, whoever, says.

"You know, you haven't been much fun since Walker died," Christine adds.

Ghost Walker groans, shaking his head as he settles down on the concrete bench next to me. Not worth it, Case.

The fuck it's not. "Yeah, well, I guess my perspective has changed. Death will do that."

"Okay, like no offense, Case, but Walker was sick a long time."

(For the record, never has the phrase no offense been uttered when the person didn't absolutely mean offense.)

Christine is still talking, and Ghost Walker is shaking his head all the more fervently now. Walker hated confrontation. No time like a good time and all. I also used to hate it, before he got sick. But Christine is still running her mouth off about things she has no earthly idea about. "He was never going to live to be old. It's okay to be sad, but you had to know he wasn't going to be around forever."

For a half second, Walker's voice echoes in my brain: Leave it. Go jump in the pool and go home. But I'm a little buzzed and a lot angry, so I don't.

"He could have been old. Or at least, he could have died from something else years and years from now."

Walker's joke was always, You're more likely to get hit by a bus. As if no one really gets hit by a bus, but he hoped he might have a shot at it.

Christine sighs patiently, and it's close to making me snap because here she is being all reasonable. "Walker was terminal. Always."

God, I hate that word. "Technically, every one of us is terminal. No one survives life. But sure, if it makes you feel better, then yes. Walker's lungs were shit. He was never going to live long with them. He packed as much life as he could into eighteen years and had excellent odds of getting a new pair of lungs. At least until the rest of the world couldn't be inconvenienced by thinking of others over themselves. Until they decided 1.78 percent of the population was weak and therefore expendable."

"Dude, Case," one of the guys cuts in, but Christine quiets him with a look. It's that look that sets me off. The let it go, he's a sad fucker look.

I get to my feet, pointing with the bottle in my hand. "No. It's fine. Let him talk, Christine. I want to hear this. Really. Please convince me I'm wrong."

She rolls her eyes, and the guy holds up his hands in surrender, backing down. "Never mind."

"Never the fuck mind is right. Because I'm not wrong. And you know what's the worst part? Walker understood it. He was on your side. He used to say to me, ‘Why should it matter to them if a sick kid dies? It's natural selection, ain't it?' He'd say he could just as easily die being stomped on by a bull. Or jumping off a corn silo. But that never flew with me, because he deserved a chance. But you fuckers didn't care."

I smash my bottle to the ground, and it shatters in a hundred pieces, making Christine shriek. I stalk back to the basement and pull another cold beer from the fridge. I don't think about it. Instead, I crack the cap off with a flick and gulp it down. This is not at all how I expected tonight to go. I was supposed to show up, have a few beers to get loose, jump in a pool to fulfill Walker's dumb list, and then find a willing distraction to finish off the night. A few hours to pretend I'm the new and improved Case. The one who's still the life of the party. The one who does casual sex. The one who's moved on since his best friend died and is fine on his own. Instead, I'm drunk, sad, and empty as fuck.

I grab the last two Lone Stars, tucking one under my arm, and stomp up the stairs, wincing in the harsh light of the kitchen as I fling open the basement door. The number of people has multiplied. Loud hip-hop thumps from the speakers while a group of kids plays flippy cups on the island. A quick glance shows that Pax has wandered off, possibly with Madi. I waver on my feet, rocking slightly in indecision. There're two girls by the sink, laughing at who knows what. One of them gives me a bold look up and down. She seems vaguely familiar, and I think maybe she's a year or two older. A college student home on break or something.

Someone shouts by the flippy cups, and I see Jesse Sutton with his skinny arm slung around Pax's little sister, Chelsea. From what I can tell, they aren't drinking anymore, and anyway, it's not like Pax, Walker, and I didn't sneak beers at their age. But I still feel weirdly protective of Winnie's younger brother. Or something. Seeing her brother reminds me of the way she brushed me off the other morning, and it makes me feel…

Well, I don't like it. Don't want it. Not here and not now. I walk up to Jesse and hold out my last beer. "Here, man. Your hands are empty."

His eyes widen in surprise, but he takes it.

I look to Chelsea. "Hey, Chels, where's your bro?"

"Outside by the pool, I think."

"Fucking perfect." I down the rest of my beer, slamming the glass on the counter with a grimace, and pull off my shirt. I turn for the sliding glass door that leads out the back. Along the way, I yank away my belt, toe off my socks and Jordans, drop my jeans, and slip out into the night. I'm followed by catcalls and cheers. It's cold. Real cold. So I don't stop, and cannonball right into the pool. For a beat, I consider staying under the water forever. It's quiet, surprisingly warm and calm when the rest of me feels anything but.

Then more bodies jump in the pool alongside me. One after another after another. The pool is suddenly filled with half-drunk, half-dressed teenagers.

My lungs begin to burn, and I surge to the surface, shaking my head and making everyone scream and laugh. How fucked up is it that no one can even tell I'm crying? You're right, Walker, I think wryly. This was a great idea.

A hand reaches out, and I grasp it, using it to pull myself out of the pool and into the freezing air. Pax's gaze is grim. "You're wild, man. You'd better crash here tonight. Remember where my brother's room is? He's at a college visit this weekend." He helps me to my feet and passes me one of the towels hanging on a lounger. "You can use his room."