Sweet Dreams

by Kristen Ashley

  Finally, Tate spoke.

  “All your memories come with food?” he asked.

  “Dad makes the best cocktail sauce for shrimp you ever tasted. Carrie concocted this homemade macaroni and cheese that’s out of this world. And Mom got all the good of Grams and Gramma and put her own spin on it. Everything she makes will knock your socks off but her chocolate pecan pie is unbelievable.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Tate mumbled.

  “Food is love,” I replied.

  “No, babe, it ain’t, but makin’ it for the ones you love so they can brag about it is,” Tate returned.

  He had a point.

  “You have a point,” I told him.

  His arm shot out, his hand tagged me at the neck and he leaned forward as he pulled me to him. Then he touched his mouth to mine.

  When his head moved away two inches, I asked softly, “Do you want cake?”

  A smile spread on his face, a face that, at my question, grew soft and warm like earlier and since he was so close all I could do was stare.

  Finally, he answered, “Yeah,” and let me go.

  I grabbed my plate and beer bottle, Tate grabbed his and we took them into the house going through the backdoor into the mudroom. As we walked through the mudroom, I heard Tate’s cell phone on the kitchen counter ring.

  When we hit the kitchen, I took his plate from him and walked to the sink while he walked to his phone.

  I heard him answer, “Pop?”

  I started to rinse the dishes.

  “Yeah?” Tate asked and then there was a long silence. So long I had the plates and cutlery rinsed and in the dishwasher, I’d grabbed a knife and was cutting into the cake that was sitting on a plate on the island (homemade yellow cake, homemade chocolate butter cream frosting) when Tate spoke again. “Tell her, when I show, I don’t see that jackass.”

  My eyes went from the cake to Tate. He had a hand on his hip, the other one holding his phone to his ear, his bottle of beer was on the counter and his head was bent, eyes studying his boots.

  “Right… and Pop?” he said then finished with a quiet but intense. “Thanks. Owe you big.”

  I stopped cutting and Tate flipped his phone closed, set it on the counter and started to me.

  “Um…” I hesitated, “what was that?”

  I held my breath for his response because his face was as intense as his voice had been and I didn’t get it. He also was coming to me in a way that was strangely purposeful and aggressive and I didn’t get that either. I let go of the knife still stuck in the cake and started to take a step back when he caught me and yanked me forward so hard I collided with his body.

  I looked up at him as his arms wound around me. “Tate –”

  “Pop ran interference with Neeta. Wood told him that I told her I was gettin’ Jonas this weekend and Pop stepped in, had a few words, calmed her ass down and I get him Friday at noon, takin’ him back Sunday by five.”

  I still didn’t get why this made him look and act like he was.

  “That’s… good,” I said searchingly.

  “It’s fuckin’ great.” His arms around me gave me a squeeze. “Miss my kid, babe.”

  Finally, I kind of got it. My body automatically melted into his and my arms went around his neck.

  “Then that’s great,” I said quietly. “But, you haven’t seen him in awhile. I know that scene last night was intense but don’t you have visitation rights? Was it in question that you’d get a visit?”

  “No tellin’ how they’d jack me over. Even when things are steady, I’m not on the road and need to change a visit, she fucks with me. I get him after school on my Fridays but sometimes he’s not at home when I come to pick him up. She’s made me wait an hour, two, once they dragged in at ten at night.”

  “You’re joking,” I whispered, stunned at this news.

  I had not come from a broken home. My parents stayed married and in love and my grandparents had stayed married and in love. Even my aunts and uncle all stayed married and in love. None of them left town so I grew up with all of them and all of my cousins and they were – we were – always together. A big family in each other’s business. Thanksgiving was a madhouse and, whoever’s house we had it in, it took hours to do the dishes because of the amount of food that needed to be cooked.

  I’d always had family, a together family. I couldn’t fathom the consequences of a broken home but I really couldn’t wrap my head around the concept of using a child to screw with that child’s father.

  He shook his head. “Nope. And when I gotta make a change ‘cause of work, she makes me pay. She likes her chance to fuck with me so she makes it tough, gives me shit, tells me I gotta renege and not make up a weekend.”

  I remained silent and this was because I was expending a great deal of effort at keeping my body still and my mouth from screeching.

  “So,” Tate continued, “goes without sayin’, us breakin’ it off permanent, me bein’ gone awhile then you bein’ here, she’s chompin’ at the bit to fuck with me.”

  “Will Jonas be there on Friday?” I asked and he shrugged but grinned.

  “Lucky for me, I’m a bounty hunter and I’m done with her shit. He isn’t, I’ll find him.”

  “You put up with it before?” I asked and his grin turned into a smile.

  “Babe, have you not got that I’ve put up with a lot of her shit before?”

  “Why?” I blurted a very important question that I realized just then I’d wanted to ask for ages then I snapped my mouth shut because I didn’t want my question to come out as questioning him.

  Tate didn’t have a problem with my question and I knew this because he answered it immediately.

  “She was Neet. She was close to her Mom, I knew that. Everyone did. Thick as thieves. When Brenda died, Neeta unraveled. I was eight and I still remember it, still felt it, her pain was so absolute, it was physical. You got anywhere near her, you felt it. We were family, my Dad and Pop best friends since they were kids. Neeta feeling that kind of pain, losin’ Brenda myself, the only Mom I knew, Kyle losin’ her, Wood… it marked me. We all recovered but Neeta never did. And we all spent years puttin’ up with her shit in a variety of ways because we hoped she eventually would.” He took in a heavy breath and finished, “I told you she was always like she is ‘cause that was most of what I remember. But when she was a kid, before Brenda died, she wasn’t like that, Laurie. Sweet kid, the image of Brenda in every way. All of us hoped she’d come back to her. She just never did.”

  “Brenda was the only Mom you knew?” I asked softly, cautiously, not wanting to push.

  “Yeah,” he replied instantly. “My Mom left us when I was three. She’d come back, still does. Not often, though, and not long. Not then, not now. She doesn’t come back to stay, she comes back to visit. Even when I was a kid, it was like she was distant family, checking in, touching base, then she was gone again.”

  My hand slid into his hair and I whispered, “I’m so sorry, Tate.”

  His arms gave me a squeeze. “Babe, don’t be. Dad was a good dad, the best. She was no loss.”

  My body jerked in surprise at his words. “But –”

  “Flighty,” he cut me off, “fuck, she was flighty, self-absorbed. Not like Neeta. Different. She wasn’t lookin’ right at you, swear to God, she’d forget you existed.”

  “That’s terrible.” I was still whispering.

  “That’s my Mom. She ain’t a bitch, she’s just her.”

  “So it was just you and your Dad?” I asked carefully.

  “Yeah, and Pop, Wood, Neeta, Brenda then Stella. Stella’s about ten years younger than Pop. She was a kid but she pitched in when Brenda died. We were tight.”

  “You still tight with Pop and Stella?”

  “Yep.”

  “Just not Wood and Neeta,” I murmured.

  He moved, twisting so his hips were resting against the counter, I was in front of him and my body was resting against his. My hands slid to
his chest and he spoke.

  “Neeta, you get. Wood…” He stopped, I waited and he started again. “Wood and Dad were fishin’. Not like Bubba, they fished. Liked it. Did it together all the time. Pop and me, we weren’t into it but Wood and Dad would go out as often as they could. They were comin’ home, it was late, fuck knows what was in his head ‘cause it was too late. Wood fell asleep at the wheel, veered, truck hit somethin’, it rolled. He musta been goin’ fast, wantin’ to get home. The roll was bad. They came to rest against a tree. They were both belted, both of them shoulda made it but they went through a barricade. Jagged edge of the barricade cut through the truck and cut through Dad.”

  Tears instantly filled my eyes. “No,” I breathed while working to keep the tears at bay.

  Tate’s eyes held mine. “Yeah, baby,” he said quietly.

  “Oh honey.”

  He didn’t reply at first.

  Then he said, still speaking quietly, “Stell’s right. I should let it go. But I can’t. Dad was all I had and Wood actin’ stupid took that all away. It was about a year after that tackle took out my knee. I was fit, but the knee… it healed right but it didn’t heal right enough for me to play pro ball. My life was fucked. I had no clue where I was goin’ because I was certain where my life was leadin’ me and it sure as fuck wasn’t back to Carnal. I was back with Neeta and those times were good ‘cause I was on her road, I could see the good in bein’ aimless, not givin’ a shit, we had a fuckin’ blast. Not proud of it because it was stupid but at the time, I didn’t care. Gettin’ drunk, gettin’ laid, doin’ whatever the fuck I wanted when I wanted and screw the consequences, that was the place I needed to be. That’s the last my Dad ever knew of me.”

  “Tate –” I murmured.

  “He didn’t see me get my shit together. Go into the Academy,” Tate said. “He didn’t see Neeta and me do one thing good together, makin’ Jonas.”

  “Tate –”

  “He was worried about me. Died worried about me. He was thinkin’ I’d end up like Blake, Neeta’s old man. Sittin’ in front of the TV with a beer in my hand gettin’ smashed every night and the only gumption I’d get was to cart my ass to a poker game.”

  “Tate –”

  “He was tryin’ to get me to get my shit together. He was also failing.”

  “Captain, honey, listen to –”

  “Took him dyin’ for me to sort my shit out.”

  “Honey –”

  “Still, didn’t manage it until years after that.”

  “Tate, honey –”

  “I wanted to play ball,” he stated in a way that my body got very still and my eyes, already locked to his, became glued there. “It wasn’t the money. It wasn’t the fame. It was the game. The goddamned game. I didn’t feel like I was breathin’ right if I wasn’t playin’ or practicin’. Felt like life was still, someone hit pause, then I’d put on my pads and jersey and walk on the field and then everything would come alive. Dad and I were Eagles fans since I could remember. Puttin’ that fuckin’ jersey on, Christ, Laurie… Christ.”

  His last word seemed ripped from his throat and when he released it and it went through the air, its razor-sharp edge cut clean through me.

  My hands went to his neck and I held on. “Baby –”

  “Can you imagine, babe, can you fuckin’ imagine what it feels like, gettin’ a taste of your dream then losin’ it,” his hand came up and his fingers made a loud snap, “gone.”

  “The eagle on your back,” I said gently.

  “Got it my junior year at Penn State, the first year I made the All-America team. When I knew I had a shot at it. When I knew I’d be wearin’ green.”

  I dropped my head, my forehead falling to his chest and my arms slid around, ducking under his to wrap him tight. I turned my head, pressed my cheek in and held him even tighter.

  “Can’t absorb the pain, babe,” he whispered, his lips at the hair on top of my head, “lives in me.”

  “You haven’t let it go?” I asked.

  “Don’t know how,” he answered.

  “You had a taste of something special,” I stated. “But you lost it.”

  “No babe, that’s the problem. I haven’t lost it, even after all these years, I can still taste it.”

  Oh God.

  “I don’t know how to help,” I whispered and his body started moving.

  It took me several moments to realize that, bizarrely, he was laughing.

  I left my arms where they were and tipped my head up to look at him.

  “Are you laughing?” I asked even though I could tell by his face that he was.

  “Babe,” he said, his deep voice also trembling with laughter, “you did my laundry.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You vacuumed,” he went on.

  My head jerked and I asked, “What?”

  “You bought me sheets.”

  “I don’t –”

  His arms gave me a squeeze.

  “Ace, I never had a Mom.”

  “A Mom?” I asked, confused.

  “Neeta sure as fuck never cleaned. She made more of a mess than me, one reason, when she’d make a promise she didn’t intend to keep, I started meetin’ her at the hotel. Not a big fan of cleanin’ up my own shit, much less when Neeta’d tear through. And she never gave me one thing. Not a birthday gift, not a Christmas gift, not somethin’ just because. Only thing she ever gave me was an orgasm.”

  “She gave you a son,” I told him.

  “I kinda had a hand in that, babe. Didn’t do the term or push him out but been fightin’ for him to have a decent life ever since.”

  He was right about that.

  “What does vacuuming have to do with –?” I started.

  “My memories don’t come attached with shit like makin’ cookies with my grandma, Ace. My father was a man and he expected his son to be a man. I’ve never worn a piece of clothing in my goddamned life that I haven’t washed myself.”

  “Oh,” I breathed.

  Apparently Wanda at Deluxe Home Store was right. You tell a man early on you’re going to take care of him, it’s going to suck him deep.

  Tate carried on. “Don’t even know when I learned to do laundry, just know, I wanted clean clothes, I had to do it.”

  “Tate –”

  “Leave you in my house once, babe, come home and the whole fuckin’ place is cleaned, the fridge is packed full, a sweet, girlie pitcher in the fridge filled with Kool-Aid and I got soft, fancy sheets on my bed.”

  “I was worried that I –”

  His head bent and his lips touched mine, stopping my words.

  When his face moved away he replied in a very firm way to my unanswered statement, “Nope.”

  “Then who planted those plants in your yard?”

  “Mom,” he replied. “Came home, don’t know, five years ago. Stayed awhile. Got a wild hair, did some gardening. Unlike Mom, the plants took root.”

  “Who bought your dining room table?” I asked.

  “What?” he asked back.

  “Your dining room table. It’s –”

  “It’s Dad’s. I grew up in this house, Laurie. Bought a new bed when I took over Dad’s room, made Jonas some space. Other than that, everything here is what he left me.”

  “Oh,” I whispered, my mind turning all of this over, all he’d said and all it meant.

  “Yeah,” he grinned. “Oh.”

  “You’re stuck,” I blurted, his grin died and he blinked.

  “Come again?”

  I swallowed, sucked in breath and forged ahead.

  “I was lost but you… Tate, you got stuck,” I told him.

  He stared at me and it took a lot but I braved his stare.

  Then he asked, “You up for the job of pullin’ me out?”

  “I…” I swallowed again. “No,” I answered truthfully.

  “No?” he asked, his eyebrows lifting, his face getting dark, his arms growing tighter.

  “I…” I pulle
d in breath then whispered, “I kinda like it here.”

  With a sudden change that made me jump, he threw his head back and burst out laughing, pulling me into a close hug when he did it.

  My cheek was smushed to his chest and it was going to stay where it was since his big hand was crushing my head there so I mumbled a smothered, “Tate –”

  “Keepin’ you stuck with me,” he said over my head.

  “Okay,” I replied.

  “Okay?” he asked and his tone had changed again, now sounding slightly surprised.

  My arms gave him a squeeze and I answered, “Yeah, honey. Okay.”

  He was silent for awhile then I felt his lips against the hair at the top of my head.

  Then he stated, “Baby, you know the worst about me.”

  I tried to pull my head from his chest but he kept it pressed there so I gave up and whispered, “Tate.”

  “Keepin’ you stuck with me, Ace,” he repeated in a murmur against my hair and I shivered because his tone had changed.

  This wasn’t just a statement. It was a vow.

  “Honey –”

  “Bet Jonas likes grape Kool-Aid,” he whispered and I shivered again.

  “He doesn’t, I’ll get him the flavor he likes,” I promised.

  He let my head go and I tilted it back as his hand slid to my cheek.

  “I know you will, baby,” he said gently.

  I felt a nervous flutter in my belly.

  “You’re sure he’ll like me?”

  “Yeah,” Tate answered immediately.

  “How can you be sure? Maybe he’ll –”

  Tate cut me off. “He’s just like his old man.”

  “How like his old man?” I asked and his hand moved to my jaw, his thumb there tipping my head further back as his head bent.

  “Exactly like his old man,” he said softly.

  “I’m in trouble,” I whispered.

  His mouth came to mine and I felt his lips smile.

  “Oh yeah,” he muttered then he kissed me.

  The knife stayed stuck in the cake for awhile and Tate and I didn’t test out Moist Factor Five Hundred until it was dark. Tate sat on the island wearing nothing but his jeans only half buttoned up. I stood between his legs wearing nothing but his t-shirt. We ate a huge slice he held in his big hand, using our fingers to feed each other. This meant frosting got all over our fingers but cleaning it up was just a bonus to an already delicious activity.