Robin Wasserman - Pride

“You’re talking about basketball?” Adam asked, visibly relieved.

Kane launched the ball up for a perfect three-pointer and glanced over at Adam. “What did you think I was talking about?”

“Nothing,” he muttered, chasing the ball out of bounds. “It doesn’t matter. What do you want?”

“Like I said, I want to help.” Kane had no trouble with fake sincerity-but the real kind always came out sounding forced. Mocking.

“I don’t need your help. And you don’t believe in it. So really, what do you want?”

Kane steeled himself. What he was about to do, he’d never done before-but how hard could it be, right? Other guys-lesser guys-did it all the time, and Kane knew he was as tough as any of them. “I just wanted to say-” He stopped, struggling to choke out the words. It was like Beth said: You had to close your eyes. And jump. “I’m sorry.”

Adam whipped his head around. “You’re sorry ?” he said incredulously.

“Yeah.” Kane grinned, proud of himself for making the effort-and Adam, of all people, should know exactly how much of an effort it had been. But he’d done it-and, you know? It hadn’t been all that bad. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, just because he could.

“Gosh, Kane, I’ve never heard you apologize before,” Adam marveled. “That must have been really difficult for you.”

“It wasn’t all that bad, really. But, you know, our friendship’s worth more than my stupid pride.”

“Yeah, coming here, humbling yourself-that’s real love,” Adam said, and Kane suddenly gave him a closer look. Sarcasm was rare for Adam-and it showed. “I mean, you betray me, steal my girlfriend, humiliate me in front of the whole school, destroy me-but hey, you’re sorry. Do you know how much that means to me?”

Kane said nothing.

“It means shit !” Adam yelled, hurling the ball toward Kane’s head-who ducked just in time. “You think you can come here, say, ‘I’m sorry, bro,’ and I’m supposed to laugh it off? Now what-you, me, and Beth all go out and get drunk together? Like it’s no big deal?”

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” Kane pointed out. “You’re just making it into one. She’s just a girl-”

“You would say that.” Adam shook his head and jogged over to the side of the court to grab his T-shirt and his car keys, and began stalking toward the parking lot. “I’m sorry too,” he called over his shoulder. “Sorry I was ever stupid enough to think we were friends. Sorry I ever let you into my life just so you could piss all over it. Guess what, Kane? Some mistakes you don’t make twice.”

Kane picked up the ball that Adam had left behind and slammed it angrily into the ground. Adam wanted to sulk, Adam wanted to hate him forever? Let him. Kane had violated his own policy, had opened himself up, put himself out there for someone else-and look how he’d been rewarded. He’d tried, he’d failed-and that was it.

Adam had at least been right about one thing, Kane thought: Some mistakes, you don’t make twice.

“Can you believe it?” Adam asked, still fuming, hours after he’d left Kane on the basketball court.

Harper sat in the corner of his bedroom, knees hugged to her chest. She shook her head. “No, Ad, I can’t believe it, any more than I could believe it the last ten times you told me the story.”

Adam ignored the undercurrent of irritation in her voice-he was still too upset to give Harper’s mood much thought. He’d called her as soon as he got home, needing some solace, a sympathetic ear-and whatever had, or hadn’t, happened between them, she was always the person he turned to when he needed a friend. But here they were, sitting across the room from each other, this huge distance between them. And it was only making him feel worse.

“Like he could just say ‘sorry’ and I’d forgive him,” Adam raged. “Like I could ever forgive him for what he did.”

“I know. It was horrible,” Harper said mechanically.

“Though at least he did apologize. You know what I can’t get over? Beth has never apologized! Never even admitted what she did. I mean, if she could just accept some responsibility-”

“Adam!” Harper shouted suddenly. “Stop!”

“What?” He looked over at her, suddenly noticing her red-rimmed eyes, the lines of tension around her mouth. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong is, I’m tired, and hung over, and sick of hearing this.”

“Excuse me if I’m boring you,” he said hotly. “I just thought-”

“Ad, I’m your best friend,” Harper said, standing up. “And as your best friend, I’m happy to listen to anything you need to say… But as your girlfriend, I can’t listen to another word about how Kane and Beth broke your heart. If you want her back so bad, why don’t you just go and get her? What the hell are you doing here with me?”

Adam hopped up and strode over to her, but she pushed him away.

“I know you’re just with me as… a fallback,” Harper said, her voice breaking. “Could you make it any more obvious? I can’t be Beth for you, Adam,” she cried, hitting at his chest as he tried to pull her into an embrace. “I tried… but I just can’t.”

“Who said I wanted you to be?” Adam asked quietly.

“You didn’t have to say it. I’m not an idiot.”

“Could have fooled me.” He led her over to the edge of his bed. “Harper, sit down. Please. There’s something I want to show you.”

She sat down grudgingly, a scowl masking the tears straining at the corners of her eyes. Adam opened the closet door and began digging through a pile of junk in the back-it had to be here somewhere. He would never have thrown it away. Finally, he found it-at the bottom of an old shoe box, tucked beneath a fraying stack of baseball cards and an old Lakers cap.

He turned back to Harper and placed it in her hands, sitting down on the bed beside her and putting an arm around her shoulders.

“What is this supposed to be?” Harper asked, holding the graying, chewed-leather leash between two fingers with a look of distaste. “If this is your way of telling me you need a girlfriend you can control, I already told you, I’m not Beth and-”

“Harper, just stop for a minute,” Adam said, taking one end of the leash and running his hands across it. He’d forgotten the feel of the worn leather beneath his fingers, how comforting it could be.

“Did I ever tell you I used to have a dog?” he asked, closing his eyes for a moment to picture the scrappy terrier he’d had to leave behind. “We left Calvin in South Carolina when we moved.” Adam could still see Calvin’s droopy face, watching Adam walk out the door one last time, as if, somehow, he knew his owner was never coming back. His ears and tail stuck straight out at right angles, he hadn’t barked, hadn’t whimpered, hadn’t run after the car-he’d just stood there and watched as Adam had abandoned him. His father had promised to look out for Calvin, but Adam knew that would never happen. And so he hadn’t been surprised, a few months later, to get the call. It had been a big truck. Fast. Unavoidable. A painless way to go. So his father had said.

“When I moved here, I didn’t know anyone,” he continued, shaking off the memory. “Didn’t have any friends, the house was this strange place, and my mother, well, you know…”

Harper didn’t say anything, but she nodded, and her face had softened into a pensive frown.

“I brought this leash with me and, I guess I was so desperate for a friend that-” Adam paused. This was more embarrassing than he’d expected it to be. He looked over at Harper, semi-patiently waiting for him to get to the point. He’d keep going-she was worth it. “I pretended like Calvin was still here. I’d walk that leash all over town, talking to Calvin, telling him everything, how I hated my mother for bringing me here, how I was lonely, how I missed home and wanted to go back, even if-well, I told him everything. It sounds pretty ridiculous now,” he admitted, blushing at the memory, “walking all over town, talking to myself. But I couldn’t have made it here without him. Not at first.”