Blood on My Hands

asks.
    Oh my God! How many nights have I cried myself to sleep, yearning to hear his voice? I try to answer his question, but what comes out is a choked gurgle followed by sobs as I’m overwhelmed by a flood of feelings.
    “Cal?” Slade says.
    “I … I … Just give me a minute.” I try to catch my breath and calm myself. I’m happy and sad and scared and stressed. “Just don’t hang up. I have to talk to you. Don’t go away.”
    “I won’t.”
    I have to focus, get ahold of myself, stop trembling, breathe steadily. Finally I feel like I can speak again. “Thank you for calling me back. I know you didn’t have to. You probably didn’t even want to. I’m so sorry for what I did, Slade. You don’t know how many times I wanted to tell you. And now you probably never want to see me again.”
    “No, that’s not true,” he says, but his voice is clenched like a fist.
    Still, that’s all it takes for my filter to fall away and allow me to blurt, “I still love you.”
    First there’s silence. Then he says, “Don’t say that, Cal.”
    It would have been better if I hadn’t told him so soon, but now it’s too late. There’s no backing away. “Slade, I want to explain why I broke up with you. It was such a stupid, idiotic reason, and I’ve regretted it every second since. But I don’t have time now. Because … you won’t believe what happened tonight. Slade, I need to talk to you. I need your help. I … I—” When I think about the enormity of the task I’m faced with, tears start to bubble up and the shaking returns.
    “Okay, stay calm,” he says. “Take a breath and tell me where you are.”
    I do what he says and feel the cool air fill my lungs before I exhale. “Up in the Glen. In someone’s yard. In a kids’ playhouse.”
    “What street?”
    “I don’t know. The first one on the right when you drive in. A couple of houses down. I’m so sorry, Slade. I’ve wanted to tell you for so long. I just wish it didn’t have to be like this. Please, believe me.”
    “Cal, I can’t—” he begins, his voice suddenly anguished. I hear something bang in the background; then he curses under his breath.
    “What is it, Slade?”
    He ignores the question. “I’m coming. Just promise you won’t go anywhere, okay? Just be there when I get there.”
    A surge of grateful relief floods through me. “I will, I promise. Thank you so much.”
    We met at a football game when I was in eighth grade. I’d never been to a high-school game before, and my friends and I thought it would be daring and exciting to sit in the stands with the older kids.
    At one point my best friend, Jeanie, and I decided to go get something to drink. Neither she nor I was a big football fan, and thus far, we’d been underwhelmed by what we’d seen. The snack bar was across the field and Jeanie suggested we cut across rather than walk all the way around.
    “I don’t think we should,” I said.
    “Oh, come on, don’t be a wanker,” she said, using one of her funny British words. “They’re all the way down at the other end. Everyone’s looking that way. They probably wouldn’t even notice us.”
    I agreed reluctantly, but no sooner did we set foot on the field than a blond guy standing with some people near an EMS truck waved and shouted at us: “Hey! Get off the field!” While I hesitated, Jeanie, who had been experimenting lately with bold rebelliousness, said to ignore him and keep going. Meanwhile, the guy started jogging toward us, still waving his arms.
    “Hey! You can’t just walk on the field!” he called.
    “Yes, we can,” Jeanie called back. “They’re all down the other way.”
    “One loose ball and they could be on top of you in an instant,” he yelled.
    I started to jog off the field. Jeanie made a big show of rolling her eyes and then began strolling slowly, clearly letting him know that she was going to take her time. Just then a loud roar came from the crowd and we turned to see a horde of brutes in helmets and jerseys stampeding toward us. The one in the lead had the ball cradled in his arms.
    In a flash, Jeanie and I were running for our lives. We’d just gotten off the field when the roar turned to cheers and the ball carrier crossed the goal line not ten feet behind us.
    “See?” The blond guy chuckled and grinned. He had nice teeth and a thin but athletic build. “What are you, like fifth graders or something?”
    Jeanie was medium-size and slender. But I knew that