by KL Donn
I go back to swimming my laps until I see a beautiful pair of legs enter the water in my peripheral vision. I stop and remove my goggles. She walks over and stands next to the big, white unicorn float.
“Just don’t fall asleep out here,” she says.
His small voice replies, “Yes, Mommy.” She turns to leave him be then swims to the far end of the pool.
I dive under the water and swim to join her. I pop up a few feet away from her and walk to where she stands. Her eyes are closed, and she’s leaning against one of the underwater jets, letting it massage her lower back. “I see you’ve found one of my best-kept secrets.”
“Ooohh, this is amazing. I may have to sneak over here late at night and use this.” She rolls her head left to peek at me with one eye open. “Of course, I’d ask in advance. I wouldn’t want to freak you out by just appearing in your yard.”
“Yeah, I don’t want to have you arrested as an intruder or worse…break a glass by tripping over a blanket and knocking my table over.” I pull the sea turtle float over and hop onto it, anchoring myself to the pool wall with my foot.
“Hey,” she laughs, splashing me with water. “I never claimed to be graceful. I was in the moment and ready to strike if you presented as a danger to myself or my child. I didn’t have a weapon…well, I had mace, but it was on the table that I knocked over. Do I not get credit for a good bluff?”
“Yes, you do. Shattering glass all around you as a protective second layer to the initial mace threat was bold and smart. I’m glad I didn’t call your bluff.” She laughs heartily at my version of last night’s events.
“You give me too much credit for my klutzy nature.”
“Honestly, you were very brave. Chicago can be rough, and its suburbs even rougher. Even if I would’ve had a weapon, you disarmed me with those eyes. They’re mesmerizing.”
She rolls her ocean blue eyes at me. “Please don’t hit on me. Let’s not make it weird or anything between us.”
“Weird?” I shrug my shoulders at her. “It’s not normally considered weird when I flirt with a beautiful woman. So, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She looks up at me, squinting her eyes in the bright sun. “Number one, I’m your neighbor. That makes it weird. Number two, I’m a mom with a mom body. I’ve seen the women you date, and I’m nowhere near that caliber of woman, and number three…” She looks away from me and down at her bright red toes on the bottom of the pool.
I watch her for a moment. Her shoulders drop in sadness, giving off a momentary sense of defeat.
“Number three?” I ask. She takes a deep breath, and a small sigh escapes her lips. “C’mon. I really want to know. I’m taking mental notes so we can overcome these issues.”
She grins a small smile in my direction, but it disappears as fast as it showed itself. “Number three, I come with excessive emotional baggage and a closet full of secrets. I’m not worth the trouble.” She swims away from me but stops by the unicorn float to check on Dane. She turns back to me and motions that he’s asleep.
I roll off my float and swim to him, slowing pulling the unicorn to the pool entrance while she gathers her bag, stuffing their towels quickly inside. I motion for her to bring me my slides, and she does, dropping them at the edge of the pool.
I rise out of the water, lifting a giant, slippery unicorn, and set the float down on the grass under the large maple which overhangs from their yard into mine. I jam my feet into the slides and dry my trunks off quickly.
She throws his sandals in her bag and bends to pick him up, but I stop her. “I’ll get him. Just open the gate for me.” I gather him in my arms and carry him the short distance to the back alley and into their yard. At their back door, she opens her arms to accept him, but I keep my hold on him. “I’ve got him. Lead me to his room.” Her eyes flicker with worry, but I reassure her with a quick smile.
We pass through several rooms and finally up the narrow staircase to a large landing. She pushes his door open for me, and I squeeze through carefully, making sure not to hit his overhanging feet on the doorframe. I lay him on the towel that she’s spread out for his damp swimming trunks and turn to face…myself. I look around the room and see Chicago Fire everywhere.
I point to the Fathead wall sticker of myself and mimic the goal kick pose. “Wow, for being such a big fan, he certainly didn’t ‘fangirl’ about it,” I whisper teasingly.
Her face and neck turn flame red. She covers her torrid face and leaves the room quickly.
I follow her a few short doors down to the bathroom where she’s splashing water on her face. I raise my arms, holding onto the doorframe and lean in.
“I never wanted you to see that,” she says.
“Why not? I know of ten kids who have me on their wall. I’m flattered by it. Didn’t you ever have heroes or heroines hanging on your wall as a kid?”
She dries her face with a hand towel and hangs it back up, squaring it evenly, before pushing past me and walking toward the end of the hall. I follow her since she doesn’t dismiss me.
“Why are you running from me?”
“I’m not running from you,” she says, exasperated as she pulls soft cotton shorts and a tank top from her closet and bends to look for shoes.
“Then what are you running from?” She turns around. The fear on her face sends chills down my spine.
She tosses the outfit on the bed and goes to her dresser, pulling the top drawer open. She digs through pastel-colored panties and finally settles on a pair, wadding them up in her palm. When she comes back to the bed, she steps behind me and pushes me toward the door with all of her might. “I need to change out of these wet clothes, please wait downstairs. Or leave. It’s your choice.”
I turn to face her at the threshold and look directly into her stormy eyes. “I’ll wait.”
6
Neenah
“Jesus, give me strength,” I mutter to myself. That man is stubborn and doesn’t know when to take a hint. The surest way to dive bomb your professional career is to date a murderer. Self-defense won’t matter to the news media. Or his sponsors. “What a mess.”
I push my wet bathing suit down over my body and catch my reflection in the mirror. I turn in a full circle. The bruises are all healed. The scars are nearly invisible at this distance. The worthlessness and self-loathing can’t be seen but are still felt. They’re as strong and vivid as the sun shining through the windows, mocking me.
What am I doing?
I slide my panties and shorts up my legs. Realizing I forgot to grab a bra from the dresser, I walk over and sort through them, pulling a nude colored one out to match the panties I chose. I put on my favorite orange T-shirt and twist my damp hair into a loose French twist.
There. No make-up. No filter. Just me, as raw as anyone can be. Deep breathes, Neenah. You can do this.
The problem is, I don’t want to.
I take my time walking down the stairs, sliding my hand slowly down the railing, feeling every knot and dent nicked into it from wear and tear over the years. My feet feel like they’re sloshing through hardening cement. I have to tell him to stop flirting with me. We’ll never go on a date or be a couple. We probably shouldn’t even be neighbors who talk about the weather, let alone be friends with the way the media likes to stalk him.
I wish I didn’t have to tell him anything at all, but I can’t do that to him. He deserves to know my resistance has nothing to do with him. I’m sure he’s a nice guy. I already know he’s a gentleman, but even they need to know when there are lines in the sand that spell BEWARE.
My fingertips glide over the heavily, carved newel post at the bottom of the staircase until there’s nothing else left to touch. No more stairs to descend. No more railing to hold onto. No more reasons to delay the inevitable. I check myself in the mirror and instantly recognize the sad woman peering back at me. She’s lonely. She’s tired. And she’s a little depressed, but she’s strong. She’s a fighter and a survivor.
I round my shoulders and hold my head up high. I have nothing to be ashamed of in letting him down easy. With resolute steps, I walk into the kitchen only to find it empty. I look across into the den, and he’s not there either. I circle back around into the front parlor—nothing. Finally, I cross into the dining room and find it’s also vacant. He’s gone, without a word.
Crap. I want to set things right between us before he comes back here tonight after his game. Half of me hopes he forgets or chooses not to show up, but the other half of me prays he does because Dane doesn’t need another man in his life reneging on promises made. Maybe he’ll be back later, and we’ll talk then. And while I’d hoped to get this done and over with while Dane can’t hear, I know life isn’t fair.
In the quiet of the early afternoon, I take advantage of Dane napping and decide to get some work done. I hunt for a few stock photos online for premade book cover designs and get lucky. Finding a few great ones, I go about creating some paranormal romance covers with a few potential clients in mind. The hard part is coming up with potential book titles, but I upload them to my website and social media, tagging the clients I think would be most interested. That’s the great thing about social media—it’s just social enough for me to hide behind anonymity for my personal life. No one needs to know the checkered past of the owner of Beryl Grafix.
While I have some down time, I search the internet for local soccer clubs for seven to ten year-olds for Dane to join. Might as well get him meeting kids his own age before school starts. With any luck, he’ll find a good friend before classes start. I find a few clubs and click on the links provided. Two of them have already started, but there are plenty to choose from with Chicago being a major league soccer franchise.
There is one that has a ‘Breaking News’ announcement flashing on the screen with a picture of Ian in his Chicago Fire jersey. He’s standing in a typical soccer pose with a ball resting on his hip. Man, he looks so…so…so sexy. He’s got those smoldering bedroom eyes.
I shake my head to free the dirty thoughts creeping in and scroll down further for a link to click. There, found it. Hmm, says he’ll be hosting a summer camp on Tuesdays and Thursdays each week starting next week and running until Labor Day weekend. Yes! It’s through the local Boys & Girls Club of America. We participated in their programs back in Minnesota.
This could be fate. Dane is going to freak out when he finds out. I do a little dance in my chair, while reminding myself this is for Dane. There should be minimal reasons needed to converse with Ian while he’s coaching Dane. It’ll be a typical drop off and pick up situation. Right? Of course, I’m right. I mean, of course, it will be.
I click the link and complete the form, making sure my email address is entered correctly and hit submit. Well, there goes something.
With the internet bots following my every click, other articles about Ian pop up on the webpage while I’m browsing around it. I ignore them at first, knowing they’re clickbait and more than likely gossip, but not having found anything else that looks remotely interesting, I cave and click one of the articles showing a picture of Ian with a hot blonde. They’re at some sports reception, posing on a red carpet. His arm is possessively draped around her and resting comfortably on the lower side of her hip, like it’s been there intimately a thousand times.
I read the article attached and see it has nothing to do with Ian whatsoever. He’s just the enticement to get me to read the article, so I close out of it. Now my curiosity is running in overdrive.
I click on the main Google homepage and type in his name, choosing images instead of articles. Whoa. There are over sixty-eight thousand images. Most of them are on the soccer field, followed by him posing with supermodels or other glorious babes hanging on his arm. The newest ones are from his sponsorship of different athletic products—mainly sports recovery drinks, but a few of them have nothing to do with soccer at all. There’s a watchmaker, and a Hugo Boss cologne ad campaign. Funny, I’ve seen him twice now and neither time was he wearing a watch. I didn’t get close enough to smell for cologne.
“Mommy, I’m hungry,” Dane’s sleepy voice calls to me from the other side of the kitchen cabinets. I close out of the browser and go to him. He’s standing next to the refrigerator, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“What would you like, Mr. Sleepyhead?” I open the door for him to decide, but he quickly points to the cheese then goes to grab the bread from the counter.
“All right. Grilled or toasted?”
He climbs on the stool and pushes the toaster closer to me.
He slides back off the stool and runs into the den, turning on the television. Great. More SpongeBob Squarepants. It’s his version of caffeine to help him wake up.
I slice an apple and place a dollop of peanut butter on a plate while waiting for his toast to brown. He gets a handful of carrots for some veggies in his belly, and I assemble his cheese sandwich, cutting it in half. Lunch is served. I pour him some milk and grab a napkin, taking the meal into the den to him.
He grabs for a triangle of his sandwich while I set the plate down in front of him.
“Guess what I did today?”
He shrugs his shoulders and turns all of his attention to what Squidward is complaining about.
“I signed you up for soccer camp. It starts next week.”
His whole body turns away from the television as he starts jumping up and down. “Really?” He takes another, even bigger, bite of his sandwich. His mouth is full of dry bread and cheese when he asks, “Can we go look there now?”
“Dane, it doesn’t start until next week,” I remind him. I crisscross my legs and sit back in the chair, keeping him company while he dips his apple into the peanut butter and crams a whole apple slice into his mouth. “Dane. C’mon. Eat with manners. I don’t want you to choke.”
“I want to see the park.” A bit of mushy, chewed-up apple falls from his mouth onto the end table. He swipes it up with his fingers and chucks it back into his mouth, sucking the last bit of peanut butter from his fingertip.
“Yuck. Dane, don’t do that. I know it’s clean, but you won’t always be at a clean table. It’s a bad habit to start.”
He bobs his head toward me and dramatically rolls his eyes. “We eat almost six pounds of dirt in our lifetime. I’ll be fine.”
“Is that so? And how do you know this, Mr. Smartypants?” I lean forward in the chair and fluff the pillows behind me.
“Aunt Julia told me.”
Good Lord. I don’t even want to know the scenario where that conversation was started. I bite my tongue and deliver the rest of my good news. “I think you’re going to really like this team. We’ll go out this weekend and get you some new shoes and shin guards. Do you want to know who the coach is?”
He ignores me, totally glued to the TV. I pull a small, decorative pillow from behind me and toss it across the room, directly through his line of sight to the screen.
“Hey, Dane. Did you hear me? Do you want to know who your coach is going to be?” Again. I’m talking to a brick wall.
He continues crunching on his carrots, but I’ve learned my lesson from this morning. I will not reach for that remote. He’s no different than when I’m trying to read a book. This apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but like Maggie always says…’not all battles need a victory’.
“Just let me know when you’re ready to find out who your coach is.” I unfold my legs and stand, walking into the kitchen with his plate in my hand. After washing it by hand and putting it away, I head outside to water the plants. Maybe Ian will come back through on his way to his car, wherever it’s parked.
7
Ian
Today fucking sucks.
Andy, my sports agent, calls while I’m waiting for Neenah to come back downstairs and breaks the news that Bodyarmor Superdrink is pulling my ads.
I push the back door open and step outside. “You’re fucking kidding me?”
“Man, I may joke a
bout a lot of shit, but losing endorsements isn’t one of them,” he says matter-of-factly. “And my contract talks with Champion sports gear are now stalled. That little press junket the Fire front office put out the other day is creating smoke now that everyone has met with their board of directors. It’s only a matter of time before this becomes a raging inferno.”
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” I pace Neenah’s backyard a few times, trying to control my anger.
“Ian, calm down here, man. Don’t go flying off and doing something reckless. We’re bleeding, but we aren’t gutted. Just bide your time, and this will blow over. Focus on your mandatory court stuff and prove to them that you’re working toward improving yourself.”
“I was hoping everyone would see the good in the end result of what I did, not the actions that I took to save her. You know? Now everyone’s going to jump on this bandwagon. What’s next?”
“I feel you, and I swear I’ve got your back. Look, I have to go. My other lines are ringing. Weather the storm, Ian. Grab a poncho or an umbrella because here comes the lightning and thunder. The sun will shine again. I promise. Later, buddy.”
I leave her yard immediately and go home to call my therapist. I feel like such a pussy doing that, but I said I would call when things don't go my way. It’s my one court-ordered promise I was forced to make. Unfortunately, I get Dr. Baker’s call service and have to wait, but she calls me back quickly enough.
“You’re going to survive this,” she says easily. Yeah, too easily. That must be the number one phrase they teach in therapy school: ‘Don’t forget to tell them they’ll survive life’s little setbacks.’ Ha! What a joke. Of course, I’ll survive. Losing a two-million-dollar contract isn’t going to kill me, but will the fans think less of me? I guess I should’ve thought about that while I was gnashing my fist into that motherfucker’s face.
“Ian, take three calming breaths and release them long and slow.”