After about an hour, the center of the barn finally clears. It almost looks usable.
We’re both adjusting table placement when Shaun breaks the quiet.
“So... what are you doing back home?” He keeps his tone light. “Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”
I freeze with my hands inside a ripped box. “I could ask you the same thing.”
He smirks. “Yeah, but I asked first.”
What are we, twelve?
“I just needed a break,” I say, aiming for casual. I pull out a battered box of crayons and line them up on the table. Some are snapped in half. Relatable.
His eyes track my movement, but he doesn’t push. That almost makes it worse.
I tear open a box of paintbrushes and change the subject before he can circle back. “So how does a guy like you end up volunteering for a pumpkin festival?”
He arches a brow. “A guy like me?”
“You know what I mean.” I keep my focus on the brushes, but curiosity hums under my skin. I want to know. I just don’t want to admit that to him. I want to know a lot of things about him. I always have. I only ever saw him from the outside. But even in kindergarten, he looked out for everyone. Stepped in when someone got picked on. Acted like it was nothing. His care and confidence drew me in like a mosquito to a bug zapper.
Stop.
Pull your shit together, Val.
God. What is wrong with you? You’re mad at him, remember?
He pauses, studying me like he’s deciding how much to give away. Then he steps closer. Too close. My pulse doesn’t get the memo that I’m supposed to be mad.
He lifts both hands like he’s about to high-five me. “You want the long story,” he says, shaking his right hand, “or the short one?” He shakes the left.
I always want the whole story.
I slap the right.
“It was during the playoff quarterfinals,” he says. “Fourth quarter. We were up by two touchdowns. Three minutes left.” His jaw tightens. “The coach should’ve let the second-string guy finish it. But he kept me in. Since it was against our biggest rivals, I guess Coach wanted to send a message.”
He takes a steadying breath.
“Defensive end jumped the count and drilled me. I landed wrong.” He snaps his fingers. “That was it.”
The echo of the snap makes my stomach drop.
“No more football,” he says quietly. “Can’t even lift it above shoulder height without feeling like it’s full of glass. So, I came home at the end of last semester. Don’t really have plans to go back.”
Well.Shit.
Silence settles between us, thick and heavy. I’ve seen him play on TV highlights, always commanding the field, always alive in a way that felt effortless. Even through a screen, his confidence radiated. I can’t imagine what it does to a person when that gets ripped away.
So I do the thing I always do when emotions get too big.
I reach for facts.
“The upside,” I say carefully, “is that repeated concussions raise the risk of long-term neurological damage. Memory issues. Cognitive decline. You’ll probably live a healthier life.”
He cracks a small grin. “True.”
“But it still sucks,” I add fast, meeting his eyes. “A lot.”