Read Reality Check (2010) for Free Online Page A

future of good-byes suck, like some scene shrinking in a series of funhouse mirrors. And there he was in the scene, getting smaller and smaller, but still in Clea's life, standing between her and opportunity: the true picture--at that moment, he was sure--and it had come from his father, of all people. He backed away, let her go.
"I think we should break up," he said.
Clea's eyes opened wide, her mouth, too. "What did you say?"
Cody made himself repeat it.
"But--but why?" she said.
"I just think we should."
"You don't mean it."
"I do."
"Explain."
"I can't."
"You can't?" Clea said. "Are you saying you don't love me anymore? Because that's the only reason there could be for breaking up."
Cody shivered, couldn't help himself. "Yeah. I'm saying it."
"You don't love me anymore?"
"No."
"Then--" She started to cry. "Then what was yesterday all about?"
"I can't say," said Cody.
"You can't say?" Her tears dried up and anger caught fire. "What the fuck? You can't say what yesterday was all about?"
The only thought that came to him was this: Screw your courage to the sticking-place. He shook his head.
"And all the other times? Are you just a liar?"
A jumble of words got stuck in his throat, almost choked him. He shook his head again.
"Say something! Talk! Explain!"
Cody screwed his courage to the sticking-place. "I don't love you anymore."
"I don't believe you," she said.
That left him nothing but the biggest lie of all. It almost made him sick to say it. "And never did."
Clea slapped his face, good and hard. Then she whirled around and ran into her house, stumbling a little on the stairs. Cody kicked his car as strong and viciously as he could, leaving a big dent in the fender. Overhead the sky turned dark purple.
COACH HUFF HAD A SIGN over the locker-room door: RUN FASTER ,
    HIT HARDER , BE SMARTER . Right from the first practice, Cody knew he was running faster--the stopwatch told him that. And when they got the pads on and started hitting one-on-one, he knew he was hitting harder from the way some of the kids didn't seem to want to go up against him, shuffling to other places in the line. Not Junior Riggins, of course. Junior loved hitting anyone. He even did sound effects, like it was a video game. "Bam! Crunch! Kapow!" Coach Huff loved to watch Junior hit people.
"Tha's the way, campers, tha's the way."
    As for being smarter, Cody wasn't sure about that. But running the Rattlers' wing-T offense didn't require much intelligence. They had hardly any plays: counter, draw, dive, sweep, option, plus three passing plays of which two were hardly ever used. The third, blue three, a post to Dickie van Slyke, the wingback, off a play-action fake, was never used, never even practiced, but it was Cody's favorite because it kind of resembled a real NFL play. Once in a while Cody, Dickie, and Jamal Sayers, the tailback, would linger after practice, fool around a bit by themselves with blue three.
    "What we do, campers," Coach Huff liked to say, "we run it down their throats." Sometimes he said, "We run it down their fuckin' throats." If a teacher was around, he added, "Pardon my French." Back in freshman year--Cody and Junior had both made the varsity, Junior even starting most of the time--Junior had asked Cody if fuckin' really was French. Cody hadn't known. He'd looked it up, found that the derivation was complicated, uncertain. In fact, the whole history of the word, apparently thought of as a bad one from early times, was kind of interesting: He'd never thought about where words came from.
"Not French," he'd reported back to Junior.
    Junior had shaken his head. "Coach Huff don't know shit," he'd said.
The week before school started, the two-a-day practices began, so Cody's last day of work was the Saturday. Sue Beezon handed him his check. "A job's waiting for you anytime, Cody."
"Hey, thanks. Maybe next summer."
"See you then. Good luck on the field."
A heat wave moved in, stayed for the whole week, made Coach Huff very happy. "Just what