by Ginger Scott
She needs to hire more help. Hell, we can afford it. We’re not lavish—that’s never been our thing. We don’t spend on garages filled with cars, or trips to Europe, or clothes. For us, the goal has always just been to live the life we want and to have a cushion there to let us do it.
Noles tips her head back with a laugh as one of the girls covers her face, blocking the stench from the horse poop. The scene draws me out onto the back porch, and soon, I find myself walking over. Nolan’s eyes catch mine, and her smile softens as her laugh quiets.
Goddamn is she beautiful. Her long brown hair is twisted from day-old curls she probably put in last night. Her skin is soft like cotton, sprinkled with cinnamon freckles that travel across the bridge of her nose.
“We used to call those apples,” I say as I step up next to a boy who looks like he’s about Peyton’s age. He’s wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans, the dirt from the ring muddying up what looks like a pretty expensive pair of basketball shoes.
“I got boots you can borrow,” I say, expecting him to rush back to the house in relief that his sneakers can be saved. Instead, he simply shrugs.
“It’s just a little dirt is all,” he says, running the back of his hand over his forehead. It’s barely fall in Arizona, which means it’s still hot as hell outside.
“Nick loves coming to watch his sister. He’s a good brother,” says a woman I’m assuming is both kids’ mom. She leans in front of her son and stretches her hand to me. “I’m Wendy. My husband’s a huge fan, and he’s going to be so mad he didn’t come to therapy today.”
I give out a short laugh and take her hand in a firm shake.
“She’s way more impressive than I am,” I say, nodding toward Nolan. She’s been watching us talk while one of her assistants walks along the side of the horse with the little girl.
“She’s amazing with Lily.”
Wendy looks back at her daughter, and I follow her lead, watching as Nolan kneels next to Lily and talks softly for a while until the little girl willingly gives Nolan her hand to press against the horse’s side. They freeze like that for a moment, and I feel both mom and brother pause their breath beside me, waiting for Lily to react. Where most kids might light up and cheer or laugh, though, Lily’s experience with the horse is different. With Nolan’s hand on hers, she moves slowly along the horse’s side, stretching her arm up the neck until her body is close enough for her to press her ear against the animal. Her weight shifts, and her other hand comes up, this time on its own—without Nolan’s help—and a few seconds later, she’s standing, holding the beast, completely on her own.
“She’s making such great progress,” Nolan whispers at us with her head turned to the side. She stands slowly, backing away until she’s with us and Lily is alone with only the therapist and Soldier, our oldest horse.
We watch in silence, all of us completely rapt as this little girl—with her hair pulled back tightly into a ponytail and her clothes draping on her skinny arms and legs—gives herself over to the love of this animal. At one point, Wendy runs the butt of her palm under her right eye, drying up tears.
“Is she on the autism spectrum?” I keep my voice down because I’ve learned that some families prefer not to talk about it in front of the child. This doesn’t seem to be the case here, though, and Wendy nods rapidly, smiling when her eyes reach mine.
“She was diagnosed late—at five. She has such a hard time making friends, and being…just calm, I guess,” Wendy says.
“She sure looks calm now.” Nolan glances to Wendy first, then to me. My mouth stretches proudly, and my eyes blink slowly—a silent “Good job, Babe.”
We all watch as Lily spends several minutes touching the horse with her small fingers. It’s such a brave thing to do, and it makes me think of the men I’ve faced off with over the years who have stared me down with hot breath and juice in their legs, ready to tear my head from my shoulders whether it was part of the game or not.
This life here, the one Nolan’s made…it should be enough. But somehow, I can’t accept that.
“I bargained you some free labor,” I say to my wife as she leans against the fence on the opposite side of me.
“Oh yeah? How so?” She turns to make eye contact, and I cock my head and lift a brow.
“It’s the least our daughter can do,” I say.
Nolan’s lips get tight and a smirk starts to form slowly.
“You’re such a sucker,” she says, and my face draws in.
“Hey, I thought that was a pretty good sentence. She wrecks my Jeep and has to work off the cost.” I fold my arms as Nolan snorts a laugh.
“She’s terrible at helping out here, and it’s probably going to end up being more work for me. I was thinking maybe something like she has to wait an extra six months or a year to get her license.” Nolan twists to face me and mimics my stance, her arms folded, too.
I laugh out once.
“A year! That’s…well…oooof, that’s just…”
Honestly, that’s probably a way better punishment, but Nolan’s right—I’m a sucker. I got to drive so young, and in this family, getting your license was such a big deal, and I have a car picked out for her already, and I don’t want that all ruined because she got a little excited about a party. It’s high school.
“See?” Nolan says, reaching forward and patting my shoulder. “Sucker.”
It’s like she heard my thoughts in my head. I hold my ground for maybe five seconds, staring into her wide brown eyes that I know are functioning because of that tumbler full of coffee she downed.
“Fine, okay? I’m a sucker.” I hold up my open palms and her judgmental stare softens into that sweet look she gets when I let her know she’s right but she feels bad about it.
She turns around and leans into the fence again. Her hair is blowing in the breeze, so I catch a strand with my fingers now that she isn’t looking. I miss this hair. It slips from my fragile hold in seconds and I start to drop my hand away, but she scrunches her shoulders up in a sign I should rub them. I’m not sure if she knew I wanted more time or if her shoulders just hurt. Given how little it feels like we touch anymore, I jump at the chance, first gathering her hair in one twist and then sweeping it to the side before running my thumbs along that perfect curve the back of her neck makes into her shoulders. She tenses at first, but her muscles relax under my hands. It’s easier like this—with other people here, with something to distract us. We play the part of NFL couple who have their shit under control. No one would know how shark-infested the water is that we tread, or how close we’ve come to drowning in it.
We stay like this until Lily’s session is done. Wendy’s husband, Patrick, has rushed to the ranch to meet me. After a few photos and some reliving of my best and most heartbreaking games with him, we walk them back to the driveway. Nolan and I hold hands until their car disappears around the line of trees. When her pinky falls from mine, it feels like a rope giving way, and life comes tumbling down.
“You really didn’t punish her?” Her question comes out with a yawn.
“Look at how exhausted you are. You could use the help. And make her earn it—make her really do the work. It’d be good for that girl to learn how to earn something,” I say. Such a hypocrite. Nolan doesn’t call bullshit on me out loud, but she does squint her eyes just a little bit and glare.
Behind us, my brother’s voice bellows over some touchdown I’m sure he’ll tell me about the minute I step inside. For as much as I love this game and it gives me life, I really hate talking about it like a fan, though. It’s like seeing behind the scenes at Disneyland—magic gets lost.
I know Nolan won’t want to talk about the Sunday games.
“You wanna go for a walk?” I say without giving my brain a chance to stop my mouth from asking.
Nolan laughs at first, but when she sees I’m serious, she glances over her shoulder then looks back to me.
“All right,” she smirks.
I nod toward the
driveway, and we both step at the same time. As much as the area has grown, our family’s place is still set off from most of the rest of town. That won’t be the case when we sell off the back acreage, but it’s the right developer and the right time. Still—I’m going to miss the lonely feeling of our main road one day. Lonely isn’t always a bad thing. Sometimes, it clears the head.
“Please say this wasn’t the tattoo boy that made her go to the desert party,” I say, feeling my fist tighten in my pocket just at the mention of him.
Nolan laughs lightly.
“No, Reed. You’ll be glad to know that this boy is a quarterback,” she says.
“Ah, hell,” I roll my eyes and look up at karma.
“Yep. He’s fifteen. Sophomore.”
I want to finish her sentence with “…and he’s dead,” but that’s just my daddy blood boiling.
“She’s a freshman, and she’s not allowed to date,” I say instead, knowing that’s not true and won’t be enforced. Nolan lets my rant go without acknowledgement, so we walk a little longer in silence, our legs turning on instinct to head into town.
“Is he good at least?” I grumble my question, and when she doesn’t answer me right away, I glance to my right to catch her grin.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she says, teasingly. “It’s just…he might have broken your freshman record for passing yards. And he maybe wears your number. And his name might be Ryan.”
I stop walking and she takes a few more steps away from me before turning and walking backward to face me.
“I’m kidding…” She points at me and laughs. All I can do is shake my head. My relief is short, though, because she’s only kidding about that last part.
“His name’s Bryce. He’s a nice kid. Just a little…misguided.” Her eyes dance on mine with that word—the same one her mom used to say about me when we were in high school.
“I’m going to hate him,” I say, catching back up to her stride.
“Nah…” she says.
“I disagree.” I’m firm about it. I don’t care if the kid ends up winning state. I won’t like him. Wait… How’d they do at state last year?” I ask.
She doesn’t say it out loud. It’s in the expression she wears, mouth higher on one side and eyes lifted. My daughter is dating a mini me. Dammit all to hell.
The sun is getting higher, and I know Nolan’s starting to feel the heat on our walk, so I offer to turn around, but she insists we keep going. I don’t fight her on it; these roads have a healing power to them. It’s why Nolan wouldn’t let my dad sell everything and move into a care place, why she moved in and why she and I both agreed this was where we wanted Peyton to go to high school. We can afford for my dad to be anywhere, which means we can also afford to bring therapists and doctors to us. This little piece of our history is too important.
The press box comes into view and the scent of barbecue hits my nose at the same time, making me salivate.
“Fundraiser?” I ask.
“It’s homecoming week.” Noles flits her gaze to me for a few seconds, and a thousand memories flood in. I’d give anything to get a redo on some of our school dances. On homecoming, especially.
That’s why she was all right with the heat. She knew this destination would scratch at my soul. It does the job.
“Come here,” I say, slowing down my walk as she gets a few paces ahead. She turns to face me and I reach out my hand.
Bashful eyes haven’t aged a day, I swear to God. Her mouth curves in suspicion—as it should. I curl my fingers, gesturing for her to take my hand, and my head tilts to the side.
“Come on, I won’t bite,” I say, and her head turns a fraction to the right as her eyes dim.
We stay in this standoff for a few seconds, eyes locked and every chase in our past flowing through our minds. I don’t mask it well, and when I reach for her, she squeals and takes off in a sprint toward the field.
“You know I’m going to catch you!” I call after her as she rounds the fence and swings the gate closed behind her in an effort to slow me down.
I grab the top and swing my legs over in a jump, a little impressed with myself when I don’t biff the landing or get hurt. Noles glances over her shoulder, her long hair a twisted mess that covers most of her eyes, but she still sees me. Her laughter gets wild, this giggle that’s so damned reminiscent of the school girl I fell for two decades ago.
We make it to the track and she slows up, giving in for my arms to lift her up over my shoulder and walk her the rest of the way into the end zone. I spin her a few times until I’m dizzy and then I let her body slide back down to the damp grass, my arms still around her.
This feels good.
It won’t last.
“Why can’t we be kids like this, huh?” I say, my hands roaming down until they find her hips. I loop my thumbs in the belt loops of her denim shorts and sway her side to side. Her hands flatten against my chest, starting up high and sliding down to my stomach where she grabs two handfuls of my shirt in her fists. Her lips tighten as she fights saying all of the things running through her mind behind those eyes.
One neck surgery. A few—more than a few—concussions. Two agonizing minutes lying unconscious on the field while she held her breath more than a thousand miles away, her phone clutched in her hand waiting for my brother to call and say everything was fine.
Her fists swing with my shirt, tapping against my body a few times before she lets go and moves from my arms. Our old high school band is blaring out in the distance, the songs the same. Nolan’s hands reach for the curve of her lower back and she slides her palms into her back pockets as she paces a few steps away, back to the dry track. Small bits of grass stick to her ankles. I breathe in deep, staring at her back, her hair flapping in the breeze.
“Jeep probably won’t be done for a few days. I got the week. Maybe…I stay home until it’s ready? Catch homecoming, visit the team—see coach.” I chuckle nervously.
Nolan turns until our eyes meet, her smile still stretched and flat, hiding problems—our problems.
“You know how I feel about that. Of course, I want you home.” What she doesn’t say is “for good.” It’s there though. And I should give it to her, but it scares the hell out of me. Me and that field have unfinished business, and I know pretty soon the game is going to decide for me. Maybe it already has—it’s not like I’m taking snaps anywhere that matters.
It’s just…I’ve seen what leaving the game did to Trig. He’s so lost, I don’t know if he’ll ever be found. It’s hard to be around him, his nervous behavior and messed-up emotions. He’s so depressed, but he won’t get help. His kids hate him.
I don’t ever want Peyton to hate me. I like playing good cop.
“You’re gorgeous, you know that?” Her mouth curves and her cheeks round where they grow pink.
“You always did know just the right thing to say, didn’t you Reed Johnson.” Nolan walks backward a few more steps but I catch up and pull her arms loose from where they wrap around her midriff.
I don’t want to mess up this little slice of peace we have going on because Nolan’s wrong; I don’t always say the right thing. I have learned, however, when to shut up. I do that now, tugging my girl’s hands toward me until she’s close enough to kiss. I spend a full breath remembering every little nuance to her face and noticing the tiny things that have changed in the twenty-three days it’s been since I saw her last.
I vow to kiss each change, starting with the small worry line that’s started to form between her brows. That one’s my fault anyhow.
Chapter Four
Nolan
Four Years Earlier
The irony is not lost on me that my only child likes to cheer. I’ve actually gotten into it, at least the competition aspect of it all. I don’t think I will ever get into the music. This sport, for whatever reason, breeds horrible musical scores of mashed-up, knockoff pop hits fused with techno-whiz that sounds like it’s pulled right from
an electric piano sold at the toy store. And they blast it so loud!
I reach into my purse to dig around for the two stray Advil I know I threw in there. My head is pounding, and my claustrophobia is being tested. Peyton’s team is up in fifteen minutes, so I just have to hold out until she sticks the full twist and they leave the stage.
My fingers finally locate the two pills, and I pop them in my mouth quickly, ignoring the dust and dirt stuck on them so I can dry-swallow them down. If I could mainline them into my forehead by pushing them through my ears, I’d go that route.
“Anissa said Peyton’s hungry.” Morgan, Anissa’s mom, is stuck against my right shoulder. She flips her phone to the side to show me her daughter’s text. I roll my eyes.
“Tell her we’re all hungry. Get over it,” I say, feeling my own stomach roll at the thought of lunch.
Morgan types my response, and as she does, I fish into my bag again to get my phone out and ready to film the girls’ routine. My entire body sways and my head goes light when I see seventy missed calls.
Seventy is a big number. It’s not an “I’ll just catch you later” kind of number of calls. It’s incessant and means that someone needs to reach me now. I instantly think about Buck, and I’m expecting all of the missed calls to be from Rose. Those expectations make what I see even harder to grasp.
Jason’s calling. He’s calling right now. Seventy-one.
My hand vibrates with the buzz of my phone, and I wobble my way backward until I can find a small enough space to work my way out of the thickest part of the crowd. I shove one finger in my left ear and press the phone against my right.
“Jason. What is it? What’s wrong?” My heart is slapping inside my body, beating its way out. I don’t hear him at first. By the time my feet get into the hallway, my body instinctively slides down a wall until I’m sitting on the floor. He’s already well into his message.