“You don’t get to explain.” My voice came out higher than I wanted. It bounced off the metal shelves. “You don’t get to stand there in your little uniform and explain anything to me. Sam. Bag. Car.”
Sam stood up. He set the skate carefully on the workbench, like it mattered to him that it didn’t fall. He picked up his hockey bag. He walked past me without looking at me, and I heard his sneakers squeak down the hallway.
Greg and I stood there and looked at each other.
“He asked me to wait,” Greg said quietly. “I told him he had to tell you. I’ve been telling him for weeks. He kept saying, one more week.”
“You should have called me.”
“I know.”
“You should have called me the first day.”
“I know.” He swallowed. “I didn’t think you’d pick up.”
He was right. I wouldn’t have. I hated that he was right.
