Slice [On Hold]

Chapter 5: Brodie

I shouldn't be here. I know that. Despite my reputation, I do have some self-awareness. I wish I could say that I was here because of how much I loved Erin. Or because I wanted to comfort her family, share in their commemoration of how amazing Erin was. But I'm me, and so I'm here for my own selfish reason: to put this damn distraction to rest. When I heard the news from Val, I wanted to laugh. There was no way Erin Rhodes was gone. Let alone gone by her own hand. She was lightness, happiness, everything good and pure and so opposite of me. Even after what I did, how it changed her thirteen years ago, she found her light again. Callan Holiday certainly had something to do with that. We'd never liked each other, but he was a good man. An okay tennis player, but a solid person. The husband type. I thought keeping Erin with me would kill her, it almost happened once. No way did I ever imagine letting her go could have the same outcome.

I squint my eyes and look off into the distance as a group gathers around freshly dug up earth, the smooth wooden casket being lowered into the ground. This is why I'm here. To make it final. Erin Rhodes is dead. She's right there, in that box, an elegant tombstone marking her grave. I want to cry because I feel like I should. But I don't feel anything. I just watch each movement, calculated and final, the pieces settling slowly and heavily in my mind like moving large stones. The only woman I have ever loved is dead. Suicide.

My plan is to wait for the burial to be over, to maintain an obscenely respectful distance from a group of people who most certainly do not like me, and to say my final goodbye once the group is gone. I turn my head from the lowering casket and catch a flash of bright blonde hair, a delicate hand coming up to tuck a wayward thick strand behind an ear. I'm too far away to see her face clearly, but I know it's Mercy Holiday. Callan's little sister. That's who she'd always been to me. A wiry energetic kid who didn't have enough control of the ball to make it pro, but who had more passion for the sport than I ever had. Life is fucked like that.

After I turned pro, I didn't see her for years. Never thought of her once. But four years ago, I saw a blonde head bent forward, wrapping the ankle of Nicholas Burnstead, a six-foot-ten-inch lumberjack with a deathly serve, and I wanted to wrap my hand around that thick hair and pull her up by it. The thought was in my head before I could stop it. Then she turned her face and sat back on her heels, piling her blonde hair into a knot on her head. Mercy fucking Holiday. Her pretty face had blushed at seeing me, the pink color trailing over her now ample chest and I felt conflicted as hell. Am I about to fuck Callan Holiday's little sister right here in the locker room?

I would have, of course. Conflicted or not, the girl was a knockout. But Mercy quickly gathered her taping supplies, gave me a faint, formal nod, and left the locker room. Nicholas and I both stared after her before shaking our heads. Then we went out and played the men's semifinals for the US Open. I won, three sets to zero.

The crowd finally starts to disperse, heads bowed and arms locked as small clusters break away from Erin's burial site and head back toward their cars. I glance at my phone. I have just enough time before practice, not that I haven't been late to Val's sessions before. Short of quitting, there wasn't much the coach of the number one tennis player in the world could do if I didn't show up.

I push away from the tree, ready to say my goodbye and get this thing out of my head once and for all. This year's US Open final match had been too close. I may hate tennis and have loved Erin, but if I can't play, if I can't compete, I can't do anything. I can't be anyone without it. I'd been ruthless and selfish enough my entire career to take whatever I needed, no matter who it hurt. And right now, I needed closure. Not out of peace, or love, or respect. But out of desperation for my mental game. My control. A twisted part of me knew that if anyone could understand what I was trying to do at this moment, it would be Erin Rhodes.

I start walking toward the site when I notice Mercy's gaze in my direction. She gives Callan a brief kiss on the cheek before he lumbers off, his shoulders slumped. And then she's walking quickly. Toward me. I don't stop my pace but I don't speed up either, not entirely sure what her plan is. Then she's three feet in front of me, her feet suddenly coming to an abrupt halt, her arms crossing over her chest, forcing her cleavage upward. I can't help myself from staring.

"Brodie."

"Mercy," I say her name slowly like she might attack, not that I would mind, "how's your brother doing?" She scoffs and the sound is rough, harsh.

"Not only do you have the audacity to show up here today, but you have the fucking nerve to ask me how my brother is doing?" Her face pinks and it reminds me of that time in the locker room four years ago, the flush settling over her smooth skin. But it's different. This is rage. An emotion I know well. But I'm not sure why Mercy is so angry with me. She didn't know what I did to Erin all those years ago, what happened between us. No one did.

"I think we both know that audacity and fucking nerve come quite easily to me," I take a step forward, hating myself for always being such a dick but entirely unsure how to stop, "but I really am sorry for your brother. Erin meant a lot to me, we grew up together, of course I'd be here–"

"I know you grew up together, I was fucking there."

"You take up swearing recently? Seems like you're really testing it out."

"God, Brodie, you're so–," Mercy drops her arms before putting her hands on her hips, "I just don't know anyone else in the world who could be so callous despite such an awful letter."

"A letter?" I shove a hand through my hair, well and truly confused now. I'd come here to close doors, not open them. Mercy pauses, her brows lifting slightly on her forehead.

"You really don't know?"

"Apparently not? What is it, Mercy, that I'm supposed to know?" Whatever it is she hears in my voice or sees on my face, must convince her that I'm being honest. Because I am. I have no clue what she's talking about. Mercy swallows hard, glancing back to the spot where she'd said goodbye to her brother before stalking over to me.

"Erin, she...she left a letter. A suicide note she wrote before she died. It was written to you." I feel my knees nearly buckle and I brace myself as best I can, wishing that Mercy is fucking with me, trying to rachet up my guilt. But her expression is serious, apologetic even despite the fact that it's clear she hates me. Really fucking hates me. I look past her toward the tombstone, my heart racing in my chest. It had been years since I'd spoken to Erin and nearly as many since I'd loved her. A lot of things in my life were my fault, but never once did I think Erin's suicde would be one of them.

"What did it say?"