Tomás was raised in a strict Catholic, working class household. His family often moved to wherever his parents could find work, always bringing with them a small stone statue of Mary displayed on their front lawn. They attended Sunday mass each week, and occasionally prayed the rosary on a weeknight. His grandmother, who lived with them, went to daily mass. They instilled in him a charitable heart, though they never had much; they always found something to give -- even if it was a warm meal. In his early twenties, Tomás worried whether and when to come out to his family, concerned how they would take it, and whether they would cut off all contact with him. He gathered the courage after mass one Sunday. To his relief, his parents accepted him with open arms, and so did his grandmother.
Tomás and Emory heard footsteps and froze as Wesley came into the kitchen. “Thick as thieves.” He grabbed some juice and a biscuit from the counter and took a seat next to Tomás and Emory, both looking down, slightly embarrassed to be caught talking behind his back. Wesley opened his biscuit with a knife. “So, little miss, want to fess up to what you were doing yesterday?”
“Well, it depends,” she said. “Before or after, I threw my half-naked body at Mason?”
Wesley dropped the knife. “Excuse me?”
Tomás raised his eyebrows and gave her a smile. “It was just for a little while,” she said playfully.
“How little?” Wesley munched on his biscuit.
“Not too long.”
“How naked?”
“I told you -- about half.”
“Which half?”
“A little of both.”
“Both breasts?”
“No. Top and bottom.”
“Is that so?” Wesley took a sip of his drink, thoughtfully considering what she’d said, like he was some kind of philosopher. “Any action?”
“I tried.”
“How hard?”
“Pretty hard.”
“Was he?” Wesley grinned at Tomás and took another bite of his biscuit.
“Shut up,” she said blushing. “We decided it was best to take things slow.”
“That’s too bad,” Wesley said, and Tomás slapped his arm. “In all seriousness, I’m happy for you.”
“Me too,” Emory said, rising from the table with her and Tomás’ plates.
Wesley grabbed her shoulder and whispered in her ear, “Did you tell him?” Emory shook her head walking to the sink, and Wesley shot her a disapproving look. Tomás eyed them both curiously. “He deserves to know!”
Tomás mouthed to Wesley, “Know what?” Wesley shook his head that it was none of his business.
“No lectures, Wesley.” She scrubbed the plates. “Let me enjoy myself and Mason before I ruin it.”
“You need to stop running,” Wesley said.
“I’ll stop when you stop.”
Tomás had no idea what they were bickering about, but whatever it was, he knew that was a great response. Emory wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, then walked towards her bedroom, yelling back to Wesley, “That means go to your sister’s wedding!”
* * *
Mason was not a high profile NFL player and never carried himself that way. He never flaunted his money, which was relatively modest by NFL standards. He was not one to drive fancy cars or buy expensive jewelry or live in a huge mansion on acres of land. Sure, he could afford some of those luxuries, and liked them, but found no pleasure in sharing those things with Alexis. When she complained, as she often did, that he was too cheap, it made him happy. As much as he could, Mason didn’t want her to overly enjoy the trappings of an NFL lifestyle.
His flight to Seattle from Charlotte, while ridiculously long, was a treat. The Seahawks had put Mason in first class. He sat in an aisle seat, on the left side of the cabin, the sling holding his right arm slightly extending into the aisle. The leather seat was nice, and so were the drinks and extra room. Still, he had to contort his long muscular legs to squeeze within the confines of his area.
A young flight attendant with a cute smile and tight uniform worked the first class section, paying Mason special attention each time she brought him a drink. He was pleasant to her, but his mind was filled with visions of Emory in a red lace bra and panties on a pool table. When will I get that chance again? He hated she left at midnight, and that he was now flying across the country. They had so much more to catch up on after six years. He missed her already.
The plane touched down. After a few moments on the runway, the cute attendant grabbed the intercom, giving permission to the passengers to use their electronic devices. Mason reached for his phone in his pocket, and the plane jerked as it made a turn towards the gate, causing Mason to fumble his phone into the aisle. He had no chance to reach it, with his right arm in the sling. The cute attendant rushed to his aid and bent down in the aisle, holding her position to give Mason a clear view of her assets. After a moment, she came up smiling, handing the phone to him. Mason politely thanked her, and she glided back to her seat.
But Mason had no time for her. He wanted to find out quickly whether Emory had responded to his text. He pressed the power button on his phone, seeming to take an eternity to come on. The plane continued towards the gate, as his phone came to life. The plane stopped at the gate, and the seatbelt light turned off. He saw he had a message. I recall you like slow SUCKS... Text me when you land.
Mason unbuckled and stood up from his seat, smiling widely, then walked past the cute attendant to exit the plane. She smiled, too, but Mason ignored her, reading Emory’s text over and over again. As he walked down the jetway, he typed his response. Naughty girl. Just landed. Mason strolled into the gate, still smiling and looking at his phone, walking right by Steven, as he hit send.
“Hey, dumb ass,” Steven said, grabbing Mason’s good arm to slow him down.
Mason looked up. “Sorry, didn’t see you there.” He gave his older brother a sideways hug, then they walked through the Seattle airport together.
“What’s so interesting about your phone?”
“None of your fucking business.”
“Her name wouldn’t happen to be Emory, would it?”
Mason shrugged, but couldn’t hold back a huge grin, giving himself away.
“This is a business trip,” Steven said. “We need to get serious.”
“OK.” Mason chuckled, then veered into Steven’s path, bumping into him.
Steven shoved his brother away. “Dude, what the hell?”
“I’m sorry, man.” Mason steadied himself, then tried to walk straight.
“Have you been drinking?”
“Just a little. It was a long flight. And it’s been stressful the last few days. Fun, too -- don’t get me wrong.”
“Jesus Christ!” Steven quickened his pace. “Better straighten shit out. You’ve got a medical evaluation in a few hours.”
“I’ll be fine.” Mason walked faster to try to keep up.
“I hope so. If you act like a clown and fuck things up with the doc today, we’re not even going to have a chance to meet with the GM tomorrow.”
* * *
Emory looked around her bedroom, sorting through her past. Thankfully, there was rather little to sort. It surprised her -- she had spent years with Eric -- but he’d never left much at her apartment.Were we really together for almost two years? Eric preferred to keep his stuff at his house, in the order and places he liked them. She saw her phone and a picture of them on her dresser. She stared at it, but couldn’t remember where or when the picture was taken. She grabbed it and put it in a box. She picked up her phone, biting her lip upon reading Mason’s text.
She returned to the business at hand. She picked up Eric’s toothbrush and a few other toiletry items in the bathroom. She put them next to the picture in the box. She walked into the den and grabbed a wedding magazine from the bookshelf; Eric had given it to her weeks ago, but she never opened it. She rested it on top of the photo and toiletries, burying them below.
She drove to Eric’s hou
se, knowing he would be in surgery for the day. It was the perfect time to return his items and collect hers, without any more awkward conversation or fighting. She didn’t have the energy for any of that. She entered Eric’s house with the box under her arm, and her purse over her shoulder, placing them both on a table in the foyer. She removed his key from her keychain and put it on top of the box.
Emory looked around for anything she may have left in the house, going from room to room. There was little there, except for some pictures of them in the den. She decided she had no use for those and moved towards the master bedroom and bathroom. She had a few toiletry items to gather, and thought she may have left a shirt or two in Eric’s closet. She entered the bedroom and saw a light on in the bathroom through the cracked door. Shit! Is he here?
“Eric?” Emory gently pushed open the bathroom door. “Oh my God!” She covered her eyes, hiding the horrible vision of Eric in the shower with some woman. She fled to the foyer and quickly grabbed her purse, but in her rush, spilled the contents on the floor -- her lipgloss, spare change, a black-and-white photo, everything.
“Damn!” Emory knelt down, hurrying to get everything back in her purse. She then reached for her keys in her pockets, but couldn’t find them. She panicked, fumbling around in her purse, then hunting around on the floor for them. She saw bare feet and looked up.
Eric stared down at her, only a towel around his waist. “See anything you like?”
She stood up from the floor, his question making her sick. “I thought you had surgeries today. I told you I was coming.”
“Change of plans,” he said flatly.
Emory sensed this was a set-up. “Is this some attempt to make me jealous?”
“Is it working?”
“No.” Emory shook her head, and laughed. “It’s pathetic.”
“Like you sleeping with that jerk the day after we broke up?”
Emory put her hands on her hips, expecting better of Eric, never thinking he’d try to hurt her. She figured that seeing Mason had put him over the edge, but she was in no mood to be sympathetic. “Eric, I’m not sleeping with Mason.” She looked him up and down. “And I don’t see anything I like. But think what you want -- I don’t give a shit.”
Emory turned back to her purse in search of her keys and headed for the front door. She then heard a familiar high-pitched, squeaky voice. “Eric, come back to the shower.”
She stopped in her tracks and twirled around, staring daggers at Eric. “Her?”
“Yeah, she’s not afraid of marriage.”
Emory raised her eyebrows. “You’re going to marry Molly now? That was fast.”
“Who knows?”
“Well, if everything works out,” Emory said, with a slight laugh, “she can plan you guys a destination wedding.”
Her words -- the mention of marriage -- stung Eric, realizing he should have just kept his surgery schedule, and none of this would have happened. His plan to shock Emory in the hopes of getting her back had gone horribly wrong. Emory again headed towards the front door, but Eric had one final effort in him. He ran between her and the door, and placed his hands on her shoulders, then lowered his hands to her arms, stroking them tenderly. “Emory, I’m so sorry. You’re right. This was childish and vindictive, and. . . .” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her forcefully, pinning her against the wall.
Emory tried to pull away, swatting at him. “Stop, stop!”
Molly entered the foyer, wearing only a towel that barely covered her large breasts, and saw Eric and Emory wiggling around together. “Well, well, well,” she squeaked. “This is awkward.”
Startled, Eric released her, and Emory quickly slipped out the door, slamming it behind her. He opened it, calling after her, with his voice shaking, as Emory continued to run to her car, searching her pockets for her keys as she ran and luckily finding them.
Eric closed the door and leaned his head against it, defeated. “Want to get back in the shower?” Molly asked, dropping her towel.
CHAPTER NINE
Emory arrived home with her chest pounding, knowing only one thing could settle her. She threw on a leotard and went down to Wesley’s dance studio. It was dark and empty. She flicked on the lights and stood at the ballet barre, trying to calm down. Breathe, first position. She prepared and stretched with her eyes closed, feeling her body relax and mind lift from the day’s drama. Ballet was her therapy and expression, a means for balance and control. When life failed her, the barre never did. It had been there since she was four, when her mother died and her father enrolled her in dance. Mom, I need you.
Emory and her mother, as they did every Friday night in the fall, drove towards the high school stadium to cheer on her father, John and his team. High school football in Georgia was serious business, as important to the faithful as Sunday service. John took pride that his little daughter often paced the sidelines with him, both before and during games. Sometimes Emory chose to stay in the stands with her mother, cheering with the crowd, enjoying the band and dance team, and stuffing her face with snacks and soda. On those nights, Emory went down to the field when the game ended to have round of catch with her dad.
One night, Emory didn’t show up on the sidelines during the game. John assumed they were in the stands. But Emory was still in her car seat, her mother slumped over the steering wheel, their car twisted around a telephone pole, the work of a drunk driver who plowed into their car on a poorly-lit backroad near the stadium, killing himself and her mother instantly. Secured by her car seat, Emory didn’t suffer a scratch but couldn’t unhook herself, ripping at the buckles with her little hands to free herself. But as hard as she tried, she couldn’t get out. She began screaming and crying for her mother to talk or move, furiously kicking her mother’s seat in front of her, hoping to stir her mother to life. Emory kicked and kicked and kicked, until the game ended and help arrived. Her mother was dead at twenty-eight.
John had no idea how to care for, or console, a four-year-old girl. He was a grizzled football coach with a knack for motivating boys on and off the football field and just couldn’t get through to his baby girl, who seldom spoke and seemed to have forgotten how to laugh. She preferred to cry, freely and often. He took a few weeks off from coaching -- for himself and Emory -- and returned for a game against a division rival. Emory sat alone on a bench on the sidelines with no interest in the game. John occasionally looked at her during the game, but she didn’t respond. She missed her mother.
There was a timeout on the field, and the school band struck up the school fight song. Emory looked into the crowd, the dance team capturing her attention, swaying and stomping and moving in unison in the bleachers. Her face lit up, a huge smile crossed her lips, and she began to dance, her blonde pigtails bouncing as she did. Players surrounded her on the sidelines and danced along with her, encouraging her, as the crowd roared with delight. John turned his attention from the field, wondering what was the fuss during the timeout. He looked along the sidelines, and saw his daughter dancing and smiling -- with his players and the crowd cheering her on. A tear came into his eye. The next day, he enrolled Emory in ballet, and she thrived.
A thin layer of sweat covered Emory as she danced in Wesley’s studio. Ballet had rescued her when she was four, and when her relationship with Mason ended, and at other times she preferred to forget. It would now cleanse her from Eric’s unwelcome touch. She was twenty-eight -- on the verge of out-living her mother -- and wondering where her life was going.
The studio door opened. “Emory, are you OK?” Wesley asked, knowing she only danced this intensely, and this long, when something was wrong.
Emory slowed her movement. “I’m good. Better now.”
“You’ve been down here for hours.”
“Really? I lost track.”
“I’ve got a class soon. Is your ankle OK?”
“Fine.” She grabbed a towel and patted her skin.
“What happened?” Emory told him about her encounter
with Eric, during which Wesley expressed some interest in the size and shape of Eric’s towel. Emory laughed, then assured Wesley she was fine, and would be even better after a shower and some dinner. She kissed his cheek and left.
* * *
Mason spent ten minutes which seemed like an hour trapped inside an MRI machine. He had to remain still, but his stomach churned. It wasn’t just the alcohol from the morning flight, or that his body was slightly off from the time change, or the tight, spinning space and intermittent clicking he heard as the machine spit out pictures. He was anxious to hear from Emory. He’d texted and called several times since landing in Seattle, but no response. Where is she? With Eric?
A female nurse entered the room with Steven close behind. “All done,” she said, pressing some buttons on a computer. Mason scooted out of the machine and reached for his phone.
“Everything go OK?” Steven asked her. Mason didn’t look up, his fingers moving quickly on his phone.
“Fine,” she said. “The doctor will take a look at the films this afternoon.” She picked up some supplies and left the room.
“Dude, give it a rest! She’s probably just banging a few guys while you’re out of town.”
“Fuck you,” Mason said, as Steven took out his phone.
“You calling Olivia again? What’s that, six times today?”
“She’s pregnant, stupid. Let me just check in, and then we can head to the hotel.”
* * *
After a shower and an early dinner, Emory needed to make some long overdue calls. She picked up her cell, which she’d forgotten that morning, and the battery was dead. She charged it in the den and used her land line in her room to tell several friends and family members about her break-up with Eric. They were sympathetic and sorry, but not really surprised. She decided not to mention Mason.
Emory had one last phone call to make. She put on a brave face and dialed, then paced around her room anxiously, hoping she could just leave a voicemail, not wanting to talk to her father about the break-up. Her father had been through enough in his life -- she never wanted to burden him with anything else. When Mason broke up with her, she didn’t talk to him for weeks because she knew he’d force the truth from her, and she didn’t want him to bear it. Let him enjoy his life without worrying about my drama.
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