CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Wesley sat on a swing in a playground in Freedom Park, a handful of children playing on monkey bars and slides while their parents looked on. He’d hoped some fresh Saturday morning air would provide some clarity and courage to make the call. He’d tried for an hour, alone in the confines of his apartment, but couldn’t do it. He thought a change of scenery would propel him, but now, sitting on a swing surrounded by children, he thought he probably just looked like a creep.
He offered a smile to a woman, then saw she watched her child more carefully. Maybe I shouldn’t be smiling? Wesley cleared his throat and dialed.
“Wesley?” His mother stood alone in her kitchen, grabbing the edge of the counter to brace herself. “Oh my God!”
Wesley hadn’t heard his mother’s voice in years -- he’d lost count how many. “Yes, Mom, it’s me,” he said cautiously.
“I can’t believe you called,” she said, tears filling the crevices on her worn face.
“I’m a bit surprised, too, Mom.” He looked down at the ground and kicked some dirt, his hand shaking slightly on the swing.
“I can’t believe you’re calling me ‘Mom.’” She reached into a cabinet for a hand towel and wiped her face.
“Should I call you something else?” Wesley looked up and saw a child hanging upside from a monkey bar.
“I can think of several things,” she said, with a small chuckle, looking over at a photo of her son on the kitchen counter, his strawberry-blond hair the same as hers.
“I think I’ve called you all those things -- at least to myself.”
“I expect you have,” she said, sniffling, “and with good reason.” She took a seat at her kitchen table, all quiet in the house. It seemed it had been quiet since Wesley left, or rather the day she and her husband had thrown him out. He was always such a vibrant, funny presence, and now all that remained was a coldness and dreariness, hanging alongside the gray walls and brown furniture, infecting her soul.
“Yeah, well, it didn’t make me feel any better about myself. It didn’t make me hate you, either. It just made me sad.” Wesley wiped a tear from his cheek. “And I don’t want to be sad anymore.”
“Wesley. . . .” Her chest heaved, as she broke down, barely able to speak. “Wesley, I. . . . Wesley, I am so sorry. For everything.”
“I know, Mom,” he said, choking up himself, doing his best to keep up with his own tears. “I’m sorry, too.” He noticed the parents around the playground watching him even more closely. They think I’m a sad pervert. If they only knew what I’m dealing with here!
“You have absolutely nothing to be sorry about, baby.”
“I could have called sooner. . . .”
“We gave you no reason to.”
“. . . .or if I wasn’t gay.”
She sighed. “Being gay isn’t something you need to apologize for.”
Wesley looked into the sky, the sun gaping through the clouds. “I’ve been waiting for you to say that for years, Mom.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. “You have no idea.”
“I was ready to say that years ago, but I was too ashamed to call you. I was afraid you wouldn’t want to talk to me ever again. And I wouldn’t have blamed you.”
Wesley kicked some dirt. “What about Dad?”
“I am working on him, believe me. He’s a stubborn old mule. He loves you but just doesn’t understand. He may never understand.”
“I’m happy to have you, for now.”
* * *
On the flight back to Charlotte, Mason gave Emory his wallet and asked her to order a beer from the flight attendant making her way down the aisle, then excused himself to the restroom. She reached in the wallet for some cash to pay for the beer and noticed a condom stashed inside. Is that for us? We never used those. Her mind raced, wondering why he was carrying that around.
The attendant returned with the drinks, and a moment later, so did Mason. He opened the beer, taking a sip, as Emory pulled out the condom, dangling it in front of his face. He gagged. “Jesus Christ, Em!” He lowered her arm and took the condom. “We’re on a plane.” He looked around nervously to make sure no one was looking.
“Why do you have that?” she asked, her jaw set.
“I forgot it was even in there.”
“But why do you even have it? You told me you’d only been with me and Alexis.”
“Keep your voice down. Can we talk about this later, in private, please?”
“No, why do you have it?”
“Be quiet,” Mason whispered, running his fingers through his hair. “I always used one with Alexis, OK?”
Emory loosened her seatbelt and turned to face him. “Why?”
“Later, please.”
“No, now.”
Mason loved Emory, but she could be stubborn when she wanted something. He knew it was hopeless to get her to back off, so he slugged the rest of the beer for patience. “I never trusted her. She said she was on birth control, but I didn’t want any accidents.” Emory felt her stomach clench. “So I always used one, OK?” Mason squirmed, cocking his head from side to side to try to loosen up. He explained Alexis had wanted a child, and asked several times, but Mason always refused, putting her off for various reasons -- a hectic regular season or a busy offseason. The time, and the woman herself, never seemed right, so he resigned himself to wear a condom each time, never trusting she would handle the protection.
“Always?” Emory asked, leaning towards him in disbelief.
Mason closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. “Yes. Can we drop this now?”
“No!”
“Em, can you understand how difficult this is for me to discuss with you? And on a plane?”
“Not one time, never, did you ever . . . .”
He stopped her. “No!” Emory smiled broadly and leaned back in her seat, tightening her belt. “This makes you happy?”
She bit her bottom lip. “It makes me happy to know that I’m the only woman who’s ever felt you.”
* * *
Wesley heard the key hit the door and stood up, dressed in black, form-fitted pants, with a lavender button-down shirt. Emory held her bag, walking into the den, as he gave her a dazzling smile. “Hot date?” Emory asked, hoping he’d reconciled with Tomás.
Wesley took her bag. “Yep, going dancing with my best girl. Get ready. The band starts in thirty minutes.”
Emory needed some sleep. She also needed a shower. But apparently there was no time for either, and she wasn’t about to delay Wesley’s plans. It was good to see him happy, and his enthusiasm was infectious. She walked into her bedroom and slipped off her clothes. Wearing only her black lace panties and matching bra, she freshened up her make-up and hair in the bathroom.
Wesley approached, holding two pair of shoes. “Which of these works better with my shirt?” He saw her from behind. “Damn, girl, did Mason see you in those?”
Emory applied some mascara and eyed him through the mirror. “Nope. He was a perfect gentleman.” She picked a pair.
“Really?” Wesley quipped. “Did the doctor put both his arms in a sling?”
Emory put on a dash of lip gloss and smacked her lips. “I told you we are taking things slow.” She held up a tight red dress. “What do you think?”
“Hell yes! You look sexy in that dress!”
Emory rolled her eyes and stepped into it, Wesley zipping it up behind her. “Did you talk to Tomás when I was in Atlanta?”
“No.” He stuck out his lower lip.
“Dammit.” She pulled her hair up into a high ponytail. “What did you do while I was gone?”
“Well, not too much. I taught class, watched a bunch of Bond movies, and . . . .”
“And?”
“And called my mom this morning.”
“You did?” she shrieked, running to him.
“Yep.” Wesley smiled. “She said she was sorry, and that she loved me.”
Emory threw her arms around him. “Did you make plan
s to see each other?”
“Yes, at the wedding.”
Emory excitedly clapped her hands. “Now let’s go shake our booties.”
* * *
The club was shaped like a circle with dark windows on all sides. A young, hip crowd sipped drinks at bistro tables around the dance floor, while others, as the small band played, gave their best impressions of swing and jazz dance from decades past. Wesley led Emory inside and made a beeline for the dance floor, twirling and spinning each other, laughing and smiling together. Her dress moved with her and came dangerously close now and again to swinging too high to reveal her lace panties. But Emory didn’t care -- not on this night. She was happy for Wesley and his mother and didn’t know anyone at the club anyway. They all seemed so young, like they should still be in high school.
The band shifted to slow jazz. Slightly out of breath, Wesley and Emory went their separate ways -- Wesley went to get some drinks, and Emory hustled to get the last empty table. She sat idly for a minute until a young guy in a flannel shirt and jeans, with blond bangs hanging over his eyebrows, strutted towards her and and sat down.
“You looked good out there,” he said, flashing a cheesy smile and making himself comfortable. “Can I get you a drink?”
“No.” Emory looked past him -- he looked like a child -- searching for Wesley in the crowd.
“Why not?” he pressed. “I mean, you lookhot in here.” He dragged out the word, leaving no doubt what he meant.
Emory rolled her eyes, knowing Mason would squash this boy. “The guy I came with is getting me one.” She had little hope that would stop his intentions. She thought to leave the table and find Wesley, but was tired and her feet hurt. And she had grabbed the last table, and didn’t want to lose it -- certainly not to this idiot.
“The guy you were dancing with?”
“Yeah.” Emory fanned herself with a napkin.
“My buddies and I thought he was gay.” He turned and pointed to a group of guys sitting at a table across the club, laughing and drinking amongst each other and watching his pursuit.
Emory looked at them, disgusted, and turned her eyes back to him. “You and your friends were right. You all are really smart.” Where the hell is Wesley? He turned to his friends, and with a loud chuckle, gave a thumbs-up that they got it right. Emory was in no mood for this bullshit. She’d promised Wesley a date and came out to celebrate with him, and she would be damned if some pretty boy and his loser friends were going to insult him and waste her time. He turned back to Emory in mid-chuckle, and she ambushed him. “But I still fuck him. I’ll probably fuck him tonight.”
The boy’s face dropped, his chuckle turning to nervous laughter. “Wait, what?”
She pointed in the direction of the bar. “He’s looking for a guy to bring back, too.” The boy was too shocked to speak, realizing he was in way over his head. “You surprised?” The boy moved his bangs out of his eyes. “You and your buddies are so fucking smart, I thought you would have figured it out.” He looked back to his friends for support and shrugged his shoulders, deeply confused and now sweating, the friends sensing something had gone very wrong. Emory was now in control. “We dance, and then we fuck. Sometimes with another guy he finds.”
The boy recoiled from the table, almost falling out of his chair. “Oh my God!”
“It’s a very mature relationship we have.” She pointed to his group and shooed him away. “Go back to your little friends.” The boy limped back to his table.
Emory renewed her search for Wesley but had no idea where he was, unable to spot him in the thick crowd. Growing concerned, she decided it was more important to find him than to keep the table. She weaved through the crowd, her tiny frame helping her squeeze her way to the bar. She spotted Wesley, with a drink in each hand, chatting up a dirty-blond haired man rubbing Wesley’s arm. She side-stepped a few more people, then saw the man run his fingers through Wesley’s hair. He’s getting hit on, too? She reached the bar, and stood between Wesley and the dirty-blond flirt. “What’s taking so long?” she asked, kissing him on the cheek, then rubbed off her lip gloss with her thumb, as Wesley gave her a strange look. She took one of the drinks and grabbed his hand. “Let’s go dance.”
Wesley gave a sympathetic smile to the flirt and offered a quick apology, Emory moving him away into the noisy crowd. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Saving you from a terrible mistake.”
“How so?” he asked, raising his voice, as they dodged a couple making out in front of them, then veered around a group of young women toasting each other.
“Tomás.”
“Butt out,” he snapped, leading her past some preppy college students. After a few more twists and turns, they reached the edge of the crowd, near the bistro tables, and by that point, Wesley had calmed himself. He was never able to stay angry at his roommate for long. She was usually right, and just too cute. “That guy looked good though, didn’t he?”
“Yes. So does Tomás.”
“You ready to go?”
Emory nodded, then flashed him a devilish look. “But I’ve got to do one thing first. Follow me.” They walked across the club towards the table with the boy in the flannel shirt, chatting up his rowdy friends, holding a beer in each hand, having seemingly recovered from the education she provided. Emory and Wesley walked close to him, holding hands, and she caught his eye, winking at him while pointing at Wesley. “It’s just me and him tonight.” The boy’s eyes bulged from his head.
Wesley gave Emory a confused look after they’d passed the table. “Just keep moving,” she said. “I’ll tell you in the car.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Steven and Olivia sat in a local eatery in downtown Charlotte, sipping water at a table for four, waiting on Mason and Emory. Steven’s mind raced about the Panthers press conference tomorrow; this was a business trip for him, but for Olivia, it was a chance to meet Emory and offer support for Mason.
Olivia tried to stretch herself out, flexing her feet and arching her back, the small, narrow seats on the three hour flight from Texas to Charlotte having done a number on her body. “Honey,” she said, laying on her sweet Southern charm, “next time, first class please, OK?”
“What for?” Steven looked at the menu, then his watch; Mason, as usual, was late. “It’s so much more money.”
Olivia pouted, sticking out her lower lip. “We can afford it.” She twirled her long, wavy red hair and rubbed his hand. “Plus, it would be nice to do that with you.”
Steven kept his eyes fixed on the menu. “It just doesn’t make sense. For like hundreds of dollars more, you get a few extra inches and a few more snacks.”
“I’ll take the inches,” she replied, “and you can take the snacks. Deal?”
He looked up from his menu. “I don’t need the snacks.”
“Honey, please,” she said, batting her eyes.
“What is this about?” Steven asked, irritated.
“I need the inches!” she barked, her charms vanishing.
“But it’s so few . . . .”
“I’m fat, and will take whatever few inches I can get!”
Frightened by his wife, Steven turned back to his menu to escape, hiding behind it, then heard a familiar voice. “Oh my God, Steven, what happened to your hair?” He looked up, finding Emory and Mason walking towards the table. Mason motioned for Olivia to stay seated, and kissed her on the cheek. “Mason didn’t tell me you were going bald!” Emory teased, giving Steven a strong hug and messing with what was left of his hair. She walked around the table to Olivia, greeting her with a hug. “I got confused and thought we were picking you guys up at the airport,” Emory said, digging in her purse. “I know plane food is crap, so . . . .“
“I hear that’s true even in first class,” Steven interrupted.
Olivia narrowed her eyes at him, and Steven looked away, regretting he’d opened his mouth. “You must ignore my husband, Emory. He’s not a very bright man.”
/> “I second that,” Mason said with a laugh, Emory taking a seat next to him.
“Third,” Emory teased, “and now balding. You poor thing, Olivia.”
“It is true. I do not lead an easy life.”
“Oh, because I think first class is too expensive?” Steven looked around the table for agreement, but there was none, only silence and stares.
“If your lady wants first class, you do it,” Mason said.
“Absolutely!” Emory agreed. “She’s carrying your child, for goodness sake.”
Steven rolled his eyes, and Emory again dug in her purse. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted by your husband, I thought we were getting you at the airport, so I brought a banana and water bottle for you -- and the baby.” Olivia’s face lit up, as Emory pulled them from her purse. “But now we are in a restaurant, so I feel a bit stupid giving you food and water.”
“I second that,” Steven chimed in, sucking on an ice cube.
“I love you already, Emory.” Olivia peeled the banana and savored a bite. “You better marry this girl, Mason.” Mason liked the sound of that, raising his eyebrows at Emory.
Steven choked on the ice cube. “That’s my Liv, never holds a thought back.”
Liv. Emory smiled slightly to herself that Steven shortened Olivia’s name, just as Mason did hers. Olivia polished off the banana, but was still hungry, motioning for a waiter to come to the table. The waiter poured water for Mason and Emory, then took all of their orders. Steven then launched into a discussion with Mason about the press conference, and the women talked pregnancy.
“I hear you are having a boy,” Emory said.
“Yes, God must think the world is ready for another Mason boy. I’m not so sure myself.”
“You should be concerned!” Emory laughed. “But what a thrill for you.”
“Yep, there’s nothing like it. At least that’s what everyone says.” Emory gave a polite smile, as the waiter brought their drinks. “And so far, they’re right. I’m fat. I pee on myself now and again. I feel disgusting.” Olivia rubbed her stomach and pulled her cheeks, but Emory shook her head in disagreement, assuring Olivia she looked great. It was her business to know. She worked with pregnant women and their children, and Olivia was one of the prettiest she’d ever seen. Olivia didn’t believe Emory at all, but appreciated hearing such nice lies from someone other than Steven.
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