Roommates with a Player

Chapter Thirty Eight: Recruiters

Nathan’s P.O.V.

            Why wouldn’t she respond? My inbox hadn’t had an unread message in it in ages and I was yearning to see her email address pop up. The growing need to know if Emma was all right had me twisting and turning in my sleep…well, the sleep that I could get. Being an insomniac seemed like a curse.

            “Nathan!” my mom’s panicked cry echoed across the house. “Nathan, where is Trevor?!”

            I cringed, my hands balling into fists at the mention of my brother’s name. Over these past few months, it seemed like Mom’s disease was just getting worse and worse as time passed. Alzheimer’s had claimed her mind about a year ago, but only now were the effects really showing through. It used to be she’d forget where her car keys were or what her telephone number was, but now she would sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and not know who my father was. And only month ago did she start asking where Trevor was.

            Suddenly, she was at my door, a horrid look painted across her face. She had broken out into a sweat and her apron was hanging haphazardly from her body.

            “I can’t find Trevor,” she exclaimed.

            “Mom,” I started slowly. “Trevor is dead. He was killed in a car crash about seven years ago.”

            I never thought that I’d be explaining my brother’s death daily, but it seemed like everyday she’d be asking once more about where he was or why he hadn’t come home from soccer practice. It felt like being sliced by a knife each time I had to break my mother’s heart. I could see the absolute horror play in her eyes and then she’d droop over in sadness.

            Dad had tried to persuade me to make up some lie to tell her that Trevor had gone off to boarding school or something softer, but I couldn’t bring myself to lie to my own mom. She was so helpless in her state and it just didn’t feel right.

            So I stuck to the truth.

            “Oh God,” she murmured, covering her mouth.

            I looked away then, not wanting to see her reaction once more. Instead, I pulled on my headphones and turned my music up all the way so I wouldn’t have to hear her cries.

            Sometimes I liked to think about how I thought I could actually make it out of here. I had the grades, I had the perfect résumé, and I had the perfect smile to win someone over. I was going to go far, and that was only proven by the piles of acceptance letters to colleges that arrived at my doorstep. I’d already mapped out the rest of my life: I’d attend Yale, graduate with flying colors, then head out into the world and start my own business. Maybe I’d even find a wife and settle down. Or maybe I’d just come back to town to woo Emma with my college degree and money and she’d come rushing into my arms, my ring already around her finger.

            But would Emma even still be around? It’d been five years since I’d seen that rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed face of hers. How was she doing? Was she still able to get by? Had she found someone else by now?

            “It doesn’t matter, anyway,” I muttered to myself. “I’m never going to get out of here.”

            I was forced to stay and take care of my mother. She was in no condition to fend for herself. Dad was never around, so I couldn’t rely on him. I had to stand up and be the man of the house. And that flushed my dreams of going to college right down the drain. Instead, I was filing papers at the local police station.