Sweeper

by Amy Daws

Me: Perfect. I’ll pick you up.

  Daphney

  It’s Tuesday at 3:50 when I hear a light knock on my door. “Keep going,” I tell my niece Marisa as she sits at my keyboard, playing through the lesson I assigned her last week.

  I tiptoe behind her and hurry to the door. “You’re early,” I say to Zander as I peer through my cracked door.

  He frowns. “Who’s playing your piano?”

  “My niece. She has ten minutes left for her lesson. Just go back to yours, and I’ll come get you when we’re done.”

  I move to close the door, and he holds his hand out to stop me. “Can I watch?”

  “Watch me give my seven-year-old niece a piano lesson? No!” I hiss.

  “Come on,” he whispers as his eyes dance with interest. “I can already hear her through the wall. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”

  “Too soon for mouse references,” I grumble under my breath because I still haven’t caught that vile creature. He’s leaving signs of his existence in the building, too. I roll my eyes and open the door. “You can come in but don’t say a word. I don’t want her distracted.”

  He smiles victoriously and walks quietly behind me. I point at the sofa for him to sit, grateful that Marisa is still focusing on her music. We don’t need to waste time with introductions. She already talked to me for the first ten minutes of her lesson about her difficulty with pooing at school. I honestly sympathized with the poor girl.

  I sit back down on the chair next to the piano bench and cringe when Marisa accidentally hits two notes beside each other. “Okay, Marisa, look at your hands. What’s wrong with them?”

  She exhales heavily and blows a strand of her auburn hair off her face. “I don’t know, Auntie D.”

  “Yes, you do. Remember you should curve your hands like a little old lady, right?” I crook my voice up into the best impression I can muster of my grandmother. “Show me your granny hands, and be sure to add in a proper granny voice, too.”

  Marisa giggles and holds her hands up to me. “How’s this, my pretty?”

  “That’s a little Wicked Witch of the West, but it’s close enough! Let’s try again.”

  Marisa smiles as she resumes the sheet music in front of her, and I can’t help but glance over my shoulder at Zander. The expression on his face isn’t exactly what I’d call amusement. I’m not sure what I’d call it, but it’s making the hairs on the back of my neck stand.

  When Marisa finishes, I tap her on the shoulder and point my thumb behind me. “Did you know you had a professional footballer watching you play just now?”

  Marisa’s green eyes go wide as she turns around on the piano bench to see Zander. She blinks curiously at him. “He doesn’t look like a footballer.”

  I laugh at that very candid response. “What does he look like?”

  Her nose wrinkles. “He looks like he could be a house cleaner? It is quite messy in here, so if he is your cleaner, I don’t think he’s doing a very good job.”

  “Oh, you cheeky rascal!” I reach out to tickle her sides, and her giggles are music to my ears. “My flat is clean enough.”

  When I’ve finally finished attacking her, she walks over to Zander and holds her hand out.

  “Nice playing.” He slaps it in a high five.

  “Don’t you owe me money?” She tilts her head with an adorable furrow to her brow.

  “Do I?” Zander asks, glancing at me. “What for exactly?”

  “For listening to my performance, of course. Paper only, please. No coins.” Marisa holds her chubby hand out to Zander again, and he looks so shook, I bark out an incredulous laugh.

  “Okay then.” Zander digs into his pocket and pulls out a twenty-pound note. “I don’t suppose you have change?”

  Marisa sighs heavily. “If you’re really a footballer, you can afford it.”

  A voice clears in the doorway, and I glance over to see my brother Theo. “Oi, where did you get that?” He points at the note in his daughter’s hand.

  “From this man who claims he’s a footballer.” Marisa points a finger at Zander. “Daddy, isn’t he a bit small to be a footballer?”

  “I’m not small!” Zander whines and stands up to prove it. Marisa looks unimpressed at Zander’s six-foot-plus stature, and I have to clap my hand over my mouth to conceal my laughter.

  Finally, I pull myself together and walk over to my brother. “Theo, this is my neighbor, Zander.”

  “Ah yes, the new defender from America.” Theo adjusts his glasses and walks over to shake Zander’s hand. “Sorry about my daughter. She has no filter just like her mother.”

  “And possibly her aunt,” Zander adds with a wink to me.

  “Marisa is lucky to have Leslie and me as star influencers in her life. It means she knows her own mind, doesn’t it, Mar?”

  “Yes, it does,” Marisa insists, crossing her arms and giving Zander a punishing glower that positively tickles me.

  My eyes connect with Zander’s, and there’s a certain twinkle in his gaze that wasn’t there earlier. It’s causing a bit of a carnal reaction in me, which is a bit awkward to be happening in front of my niece and my brother.

  I look up and notice that Theo’s brows are furrowed as he registers the flirtatious exchange. He clears his throat. “Right, well, we’ve got to run. Footy practice starts in thirty. I’ll Venmo you, Daphney.”

  “No rush,” I reply and reach down to hug Marisa. “I’ll see you later, okay? Don’t forget to practice this week.”

  “With my granny hands,” Marisa says as she runs over to grab her lesson book off the keyboard.

  I smile fondly as I watch Theo take Marisa’s hand and hurry out. Once they’re gone, I turn to Zander and rub his arm. “Are you okay? Do you need a bit of a cuddle after getting so properly schooled by a seven-year-old?”

  “I might,” Zander responds, his face crestfallen. “She’s a savage little thing.”

  “She really does take after me.” I stick my tongue out and walk over to my wardrobe to grab my coat. “And you deserved it for showing up early. I told you 4:05 and not a minute sooner.”

  “Who chooses time increments of five minutes?” Zander scoffs.

  I prop my hands on my hips. “Your alarm clock, apparently.”

  Zander shoots me a sheepish smile. “Well, you didn’t mention you taught piano to your niece.”

  “Why would I?” I volley back. He shrugs and hits me with a curious expression I still can’t quite read.

  He clears his throat. “So, are you still game for the bus tour? If you’re tired from working, I understand.”

  “I’m actually looking forward to this. I’ve never done a proper bus tour. Well, not as an adult at least.”

  “Then how are you such a British expert?” he mocks.

  I level him with a glare. “Don’t be cheeky.”

  The bus is touristy and corny and all the things I thought it would be, but it was also loads of fun. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve laughed this much in ages. Zander’s silly Americanisms always catch me off guard. And the way he asks questions to the tour guide like the man is here solely for us really amuses me. But I am, in fact, learning some things I never knew before. When we were kids, we often did field trips into London, but I guess I was too young to really absorb anything useful back then. This has been a nice refresher, and the fact that I’m sitting next to a professional footballer for the entire thing is a memory I never thought I’d have in my life.

  “Do you think at some point you’ll start getting recognized by people on the street?” I ask as I zip my coat up to my chin to try to stay warm. It’s February in London, so of course it’s brass monkeys out, but Zander begged me to sit on the top deck of the bus so he could have the proper tourist experience. And honestly, with those puppy dog eyes of his, it’s nearly impossible to say no. “You are Premier League now.”

  Zander notices my shivering and wraps his arm around me like he’s done it a hundred times before. “Doubt it. I’m defense, a
nd fans usually fawn over the strikers. Plus, I’m still way too new for anyone to care about. It’s the legacy players who get stopped on the streets. Ones with lots of sponsor deals and TV ads. I have none of that happening.”

  “Did you have any sponsor deals in the States?” I inquire, tucking my hands into my pockets.

  “A couple back in Boston that my dad set up.” Zander flinches like he said something he didn’t mean to say.

  “Do you need to find an agent over here? Or is your dad still able to manage you from the States?”

  The muscle in Zander’s jaw tics nervously as he removes his arm from around me and glances down from the top level of the bus to the street below. His voice is clipped when he replies, “He passed away last year.”

  My lips part as I register what he just said. “Oh my God, I had no idea.”

  “How would you?” He huffs out a dry laugh and tries to offer me a smile, but it’s strained.

  I remain silent, feeling the full effects of what he’s just revealed. I purposely never googled Zander because I didn’t want any preconceived notions about him before he moved in next door to me. Though, in all honesty, I was already stereotyping him before we met. And then when he made a pass at me in the pub, he seemingly confirmed those thoughts I already had.

  Now I’m seriously regretting not looking into him because I would have treated him differently had I known he’s just lost his dad. Been less harsh, less demanding. I certainly would have been more forgiving of his struggle to transition to a new city. My stomach swirls with regret.

  I swallow the painful knot in my throat. “Can I ask how he died?”

  Zander scratches his jaw and sits back in his bus seat. “Car accident. He lost control on an icy freeway and flipped his vehicle. Died instantly, or so they said.”

  “That’s awful.” I blink away the burning sensation in my eyes. “Were you two quite close?”

  “Yeah, you could say that.” A half-smile lifts the corner of Zander’s mouth. “I was an only child, so I was kind of my parents’ whole world. With that said, I was always a little too much of my mom’s whole world. We butted heads a lot. Dad was always the one to come in and calm the storm. He was a total peacemaker.”

  That comment brings a smile to my face. “He sounds lovely.”

  “He was.” Zander nods, licking his lips thoughtfully. “We talked a lot. Never about anything deep or profound…just…stuff. I miss that.”

  His eyes fix off into the distance, and I wonder if I’m interrupting a memory when I ask, “Are you close with your mum?”

  Zander’s demeanor shifts instantly at that question, and I see the muscle in his jaw tic before he answers, “Not as much, no.”

  My lips thin at that answer because I know how important being close to family is after a loss. “She must feel very lonely now that you’ve moved so far away.”

  Zander huffs out a dry laugh. “She didn’t want me to come.”

  “Really?” I say, feeling both shocked and empathetic over that admission. I’m sure she didn’t want Zander so far away, but she must know that an American getting recruited to a Premier League team is a tremendous opportunity.

  Zander gets a pensive look in his eyes. “She’s the reason I delayed my transfer six months ago. She was in pretty tough shape after my dad died. Still is, honestly. Not many people know this, but she came upon the accident shortly after it happened. The traffic was at a standstill on the freeway, and she had a strange feeling, so she got out of her car and approached the ambulance. They had just put him on a stretcher, and…well…it was bad, I guess.”

  My body shivers with that image. “I can’t even imagine.”

  “I wish I couldn’t.” Zander’s nose wrinkles. “My mom was pretty descriptive after I flew home to be with her.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He shrugs. “She’s doing the best she can.”

  “Will she come out for a visit?” I ask. “I bet she’d love a bus tour like this.”

  He shakes his head, a sad look fleeting across his face. “Nah…it’s not likely. My dad always kind of had to drag my mom to my soccer matches. With him gone, I just don’t see her being brave enough to do it alone. Especially in a foreign country.”

  A moment of silence grows between us, and I feel at a loss for words. I learned long ago that when it comes to loss, sometimes the less you say, the better.

  Finally, I say, “My niece is named after my sister, Marisa, who passed away about ten years ago now.”

  Zander’s eyes snap up to meet mine. “Jesus, really?”

  I purse my lips and shrug. “I was sixteen at the time. She was twenty-six. It was a freak accident at my parents’ home. My two brothers and my sister and I were all riding quads on my parents’ property, and Marisa was tossed and died instantly.” I cringe because I’m certain I’m oversharing right now. Then again, he started it.

  Zander blinks slowly back at me. “Did you see it happen?”

  I shake my head. “No, my brother Theo shielded me from everything. Hayden was right there, though. And while I couldn’t see much, my mother’s screams told me it was really bad.”

  “Fuck.” Zander huffs, leaning forward and shaking his head as he processes what I’ve just unloaded on him.

  “She was the same age I am now.” I rub my lips together. “It’s kind of sad to think about that. Our family was messed up for years.”

  “I can imagine.” Zander looks back at me over his shoulder. “I hope it doesn’t take my mom years to come around. I feel like I’ve dealt with it. Now I want that for her.”

  My lips purse together in curiosity. “I’m still not sure I’ve dealt with the loss of Marisa. Grief feels like a forever kind of thing to me. It’s just varying degrees at different stages in your life. I think it’s even harder to cope with when it’s an accident with no sign of it coming.”

  Zander nods slowly as he sits up and turns to look out the top of the double-decker bus again. His brow is furrowed, his mind clearly deep in thought. It’s interesting how you can look at someone and have no idea what’s going on in their mind. I had no idea how much my brother Hayden struggled with Marisa’s loss back when I was a teenager. He hid his pain from me, and my parents and Theo never let on how much they were dealing with him and the blame he put on himself.

  They were all struggling but felt I was too young to burden with their pain. In many ways, I felt like a voyeur, watching from the outside as everyone grieved the loss of Marisa. It wasn’t until I was older that I truly felt the loss of her. My only sister. It’s been ten years, and I still find myself wishing I could talk to her about boys or my music or my work. Grief isn’t something you “deal with.” It’s something you live with. The fact that it’s only been a year since Zander lost his father makes me doubt that he’s realized that fact. Perhaps Zander needs more than just a neighbor with benefits. Perhaps he needs a proper friend who understands.

  I wince when the tour guide blares through the speaker, and we both shift our attention back to the announcer, grateful for the reprieve from a surprisingly serious conversation.

  We listen to the guide’s description of the next stop, but my eyes are drawn to Zander. I feel almost kindred to him now, which is never something I expected to feel with Zander Williams.

  Zander

  “Hey, Mom.” My voice is tense when I find myself calling her out of the blue after training the next day. After talking through the loss of my dad with Daphney yesterday, I knew I needed to put my ego aside and reconnect with her. It was time.

  “Zander?” My mom’s voice is hoarse, and I flinch when I realize it’s only six o’clock over there, and I probably woke her up.

  “Shit, sorry. I didn’t think about the time difference.”

  “No, it’s okay,” she murmurs, and I hear the rustling of her bed and the clicking of her bedside lamp. “I’m so glad you called.”

  “Just got done with training,” I offer because I’m not sure what else to say
.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, we go to Leicester on Saturday. Coach is going to start me as a sweeper, officially.”

  “Oh buddy, that’s so amazing,” my mom coos, and I’m surprised to hear she actually sounds happy for me.

  I struggle with what to say next. “One of my teammates told me that Leicester is where Walker’s crisps originated from.”

  “What?”

  “Crisps means chips here. They call fries chips. It’s hard to get the hang of. The Walker’s brand is like our Lay’s potato chips.”

  “Yes, I’m aware. I lived there, remember?” She laughs, but it’s strained.

  I bite my lip nervously. “You good?”

  “Oh, you know me.” She huffs into the line, but her voice sounds weak.

  I rub my lips together, waiting for her to ask me how I am, but she doesn’t.

  “Are you still seeing that doctor?”

  “Yes,” she replies but doesn’t sound happy. “I’m starting a new medication again.”

  I flinch at that response. It seems like she’s always starting a new med, which basically feels like she’s always starting over. “I hope it helps.”

  “Me too,” she says quietly. “Oh, I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you want these old baseball cards of your father’s?”

  “What?” I ask, my brows furrowing in confusion.

  She inhales sharply, and her voice is garbled when she responds, “Your father’s baseball cards are still sitting in his office, and I can’t stand to look at them every day, so I need to get rid of them.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously,” she blubbers into the phone line. “I know I should be stronger by now, and I am trying, Zander. I just can’t keep looking at these things because I picture him looking at them with that stupid magnifying light mounted to the wall. My therapist said I should remove items that trigger me. If you don’t want them, I’m going to sell them.”

  “Mom, of course I want them,” I cry, my hand gripping the phone tightly. A knot forms in my throat because I have countless memories of my dad making me wear white gloves before he’d let me even touch one. He was nutty for those things.