Chapter 13
Tyler’s apology reached Avery eight months after the pool party.
Not directly.
Through their therapists and attorneys.
He wrote:
Avery,
I dropped the hatch after looking at your hand.
I knew you were reaching inside.
I thought the video would look more real if the hatch came close to you.
I told myself the gas strut would slow it even though I knew it was loose.
After you got hurt, I let Dad say you grabbed me. I knew that was false.
I am sorry for hurting your hand and for making you hear adults argue about whether your truth was worth my season.
You do not have to answer me.
Avery read the letter twice.
Her hand had healed by then.
The fractures united properly.
She regained nearly full motion.
A small area along her middle finger remained numb.
Cold weather caused aching.
The doctor said sensation might continue improving.
She placed Tyler’s letter on the table.
“Does this mean he changed?”
“No.”
“What does it mean?”
“He understands more of what he did than he said before.”
“Is that change?”
“It may be one part.”
“Do I forgive him?”
“That is yours.”
“I don’t.”
“Okay.”
“Not yet.”
“Okay.”
“Maybe never.”
“Okay.”
She looked irritated.
“Do you have another word?”
“No.”
That made her laugh.
A year after the injury, Avery agreed to one mediated meeting.
Tyler sat across from her without Michael.
Dana waited outside.
Dr. Ortiz remained in the room.
Tyler had grown taller.
His hair was shorter.
Without football clothing and cameras, he looked less like a local sports profile and more like a nervous teenager.
Avery placed her hand on the table.
“Can you see this finger?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t feel the side properly.”
Tyler’s face tightened.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t cry so I have to make you feel better.”
He wiped his eyes.
“Okay.”
“Why did you do it?”
“I wanted the video.”
“Why did the video matter?”
“Followers. Sponsor. Dad.”
“Which one?”
“All.”
“Would you have done it if no one was filming?”
“No.”
The answer hurt.
A camera had not merely recorded the act.
It had supplied the reason.
Avery asked:
“Do you still play football?”
“Not right now.”
“Do you want to?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think you deserve to?”
Tyler looked toward Dr. Ortiz.
She did not help.
“I think playing football and deserving forgiveness are different.”
Avery considered that.
“That’s probably true.”
The meeting lasted twenty-five minutes.
No hug.
No promise of reconciliation.
When we left, Avery said:
“He sounded real.”
“What does that mean?”
May you like
“Like he wasn’t repeating Uncle Michael.”
That was enough for one day.
