I'll Be Yours

by Jenny B. Jones

  “Pretty funny that Harper’s gonna be the first one with a record.” Michael gave a snort so obnoxious, I wanted to kick a shin.

  “Too bad serial dating bimbos isn’t illegal,” I said.

  “Nothing criminal about my dating practices. It’s my gift to the ladies of—”

  “No one in this family is going to get arrested.” Mom turned those eagle eyes to me. “Ever. The first kid to get a mug shot gets disowned.”

  “And not inherit Daddy’s trophy collection?” I leaned my head against my dad’s shoulders. “Tragic.”

  He pulled me to him and planted a kiss atop my head. “I’m sure Harper heard us loud and clear last week when we talked grounding and car removal. If she said she didn't take those two dogs, then she didn’t.” He lowered his voice for my ears only. “This animal stealing career of yours is over. Those two spaniels are smelling up my shed. You have twenty-four hours to move them.”

  Dad’s words put the lid on any more quick remarks I had to fire. What did I cherish above innocent cats, malnourished dogs, and the occasional disrespected chicken? My desire to lock heart and lips to one Andrew Levin.

  “Speaking of trouble—” Dad’s voice went all coachy as he gave his attention to Michael, and I was relieved to be off the hook. “I’m sure Ridley Estes told you we made an offer for him last Wednesday.”

  Michael shrugged. “I dunno. He might’ve mentioned it. Who can keep up with that stuff?”

  “The NCAA?” Dad had that tick thing going in his jaw. “He can’t be hanging around here until he’s signed.”

  “Signing isn’t ’til spring.”

  “Then we get a waiver for now.”

  “Then do that because he’s going to be coming around. He’s my friend.”

  “Since when?” I asked. My brother typically hung out with the other basketball players.

  “He’s been helping me with my workouts. Dude is cut. Unlike your dork crush.”

  “Who has more brains than you and Estes put together.”

  “Ridley is really trying to get it together,” Michael said. “He knows he has a lot on the line. Harper, I told him you tutor some of the Eagles. Since he’s as good as one of them now, you should offer your tutoring services to him.”

  “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.” I didn’t have time to take on any more tutoring. I had a job at the shelter, a boyfriend to snare, and one more dog out on a county road that was desperately waiting for a rescue.

  “Just watch it.” Dad grabbed his keys off the kitchen counter. “I’m putting my neck out there by bringing that kid on. He’s a risk. And I don’t want that to blow up in my face for any reason.” His cell phone vibrated and he gave it a quick check. “I gotta go.”

  “Now?” Mom put her bowl down. “John, you can’t leave now.” Sunday night was our only night of the week to be together during the craziness of the football season. It was sacred time. “We were going to watch a movie.”

  “Yeah, Dad, you bailed on us last weekend too.” Cole consoled himself with more hot fudge.

  “I’m sorry.” Dad shoved his phone into the pocket of his Eagles polo. “One of the boys got in trouble last night, and I need to go talk to him.”

  I hoped it wasn’t one that I tutored. “Who is it?”

  Dad gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be back in a few hours.” And with a ruffle to Cole’s hair, he left the four of us standing in the kitchen.

  Mom sighed.

  Michael rolled his eyes.

  I grabbed the container of Blue Bell. “Dibs on the couch. Oh, and Michael, about reading my diary?”

  “Yeah?”

  “That’s going to be amateur hour.” I took a bite of ice cream. “Compared to my revenge.”

  * * *

  “So tell me about this boy.”

  My mom posed this question about halfway into a movie about zombies and aliens duking it out for control of the universe. When you lived with two brothers, your suggestions of rom-coms and animal-friendly documentaries got vetoed in favor of mind-numbing cinematic disasters every time.

  Mom sat next to me on the couch with her laptop. I took a peek at the article she was reading. “Making Moments Count: When the Team Sees Coach More Than You Do.” Ouch. But what did she expect? It was the height of football season, and Dad had a solid team this year. It was basically like this every fall. Sharing our dad was all we’d ever known.

  The house phone rang, and I started to get up. “I should probably answer that.”

  “Leave it,” Mom said, petting a purring Laz, who was curled up beside her. “What you should do is answer my question.” From the kitchen came the garbled sound of a message being left and ignored.

  “Andrew is. . .” I tugged on the sleeve of my shirt, pulling it toward my wrist. Fall had hit my town of Maple Grove hard, but I sported long sleeves year-round. “He’s just a guy at school. In band.”

  Mom smiled and nudged me with her shoulder. “What does he look like?”

  “A Greek god.”

  Michael laughed from across the room. “Yeah, minus all the muscles and the pretty face and good personality.”

  I grabbed the remote and punched up the volume. Michael’s dating bar was set so low, I’m surprised it didn’t trip him. So I definitely did not want his input. “He’s gorgeous,” I said to Mom. “He’s very musical. And he has this laugh . . .”

  “Have you talked to him much? Does he know you’re interested?”

  “He doesn’t even know she’s alive.”

  “Shut up, Michael!” I threw a pillow and nailed him in the head. “At least he hasn’t made out with half the school population, unlike your current girlfriend who—”

  My phone blasted, interrupting my rant and my brothers’ hearty chuckles. If I had a dollar for every time I’d begged my parents to send my brothers to boarding school . . .

  I looked down at my phone and saw it was my BFF, Molly. I also saw that I’d missed ten texts.

  Breaking a rule of movie night, I got up and stepped into the hall. “What’s up, Mol?”

  “Turn your TV on.”

  “It is on. We’re watching Zombies and—”

  “Harper, now. Channel 7.”

  “Molly, what is it?” I walked back into the living room.

  “It’s your dad.”

  I dropped the phone and lunged for the remote. With a few buttons, I turned off the movie and brought up Channel 7.

  There on the screen was Chevy Moncrief, the university’s athletic director.

  “. . . confirm there was an accident tonight involving Coach O’Malley.”

  My mom jumped from the couch. “Where’s my phone?”

  In my head I began a litany of pleas to God. Let him be okay. Let my dad be okay.

  “. . . was driving his motorcycle without a helmet . . .”

  My dad never rode without his helmet.

  “He apparently lost control of the motorcycle on a curve, and it flew out from under him.”

  My pulse hammered in my head. I was dimly aware of Michael standing beside me, my shoulder pressed to him. My arms pulled Cole to me, holding him close.

  “I can confirm that Coach O’Malley is pretty banged up.”

  Dad was alive. Thank God.

  “He’s in stable condition and currently being treated at St. Vincent’s Hospital. Coach O’Malley’s suffered a broken arm, a concussion, quite a few lacerations, and some other minor injuries. He’s a very lucky man to be alive.”

  The blood began to move in my body again. My dad was going to be okay. “Was Coach alone?” a reporter asked.

  Chevy Moncrief took a visible breath. “I’m giving you all the information I have at this time. Thank you. That’s all.”

  Mom burst into the living room. “I’ve got to go to the hospital. Your dad—” She froze mid-stride as her eyes locked on the TV. “Turn it off.”

  “But—”

  “Turn it off!” She ripped the remote from my shaking fingers and the T
V went dark. Cole sniffled beside me, and I patted his back.

  “What’s going on, Mom?” I asked.

  “Your dad was in an accident.”

  Michael nodded toward the TV. “We know.”

  Mom pulled Cole into her arms and pressed her lips to his head. “He’s going to be okay, sweetie. Your dad is okay.”

  My ice cream did a somersault in my stomach. “We want to see Dad. I want to talk to him.”

  “No.” Mom looked at Michael and me. “I’ve got to go. People have been trying to reach me for hours. I need to go see him myself. Then I’ll call when I know the situation.”

  “Is he gonna die?” Cole’s voice was small and younger than his ten years.

  “No, baby.” Mom smoothed back his hair and gave a tight smile. “You listen to your brother and sister. I’ll call when I get there and get an update.” My phone rang as Michael’s buzzed. “Talk to no one,” Mom said. “I mean it. You speak to no one but me. I don’t want anything we say funneled to the media. Am I clear? And keep that TV off.”

  The three of us nodded. We stood there for several minutes after Mom left. The ceiling fan overhead whirred in the otherwise silent living room.

  I looked at Michael’s pale face. “So . . . Mom said we had to stay here.”

  “Right.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “We’d get in major trouble if we went to the hospital.”

  Cole sniffed. “So which one of you is driving?”

  Chapter Three

  I drove my Honda Civic like it was the front-runner in the Indianapolis 500.

  I navigated a turn a little too sharply, and in the rearview mirror I saw Cole’s head bobble to the left.

  “Mom seemed mad,” I said. Dad’s hurt, and she’s angry?

  “She’s just upset,” Michael said. “She probably feels guilty for not answering her phone.”

  Pulling into the emergency room lot, I wheeled into the nearest parking spot. The three of us jumped out. I wrapped my arm around Cole’s thin shoulders and let Michael lead the way.

  The sun sank in the distance, and at eight thirty, the November air carried a sharp chill. The doors swished open, emptying us into a waiting room of people holding their stories of distress. A mother rocking her feverish baby. An old woman sitting alone, trembling in a wheelchair. A wife pressing an ice pack to her husband’s head.

  Michael walked to the front desk and leaned close to the man behind it. His badge declared his name was Bob. “We’re here to see John O’Malley.” Michael showed him his license, proving he and Dad shared the same last name.

  “No visitors for the coach.”

  “Please,” I whispered. “He’s our father.”

  Bob shook his head. “I’m sorry. Strict orders.”

  We expected this. For the last five years, my dad had been coach of one of the top college football teams in the nation. He’d rescued the Eagles from years of neglect and losses. John O’Malley had put USK back on the map. And John O’Malley had made himself famous.

  I nudged Cole. He knew what to do.

  My brother stepped forward, locked eyes on the man behind the desk, and let his bottom lip quiver. “Please . . . please, sir. My daddy . . . we’re so scared.” He swiped at his tears. “I just need to see him. To know he’s okay. To tell him I love him.” Cole’s tortured eyes met mine. “I didn’t even get to tell him I loved him today.” With one last parting look to Bob and a tiny little whimper, Cole lowered his head to the counter and cried into his hands.

  I patted Cole’s back. “It’s okay. If anything happens to dad . . . we still have our memories.” I sniffed twice.

  Bob heaved a deep breath and glanced behind him. “You swear you’re the coach’s kids?”

  I nodded.

  He scribbled a number on a Post-it. “He’s already been admitted. Go through those double doors, then take the elevator. Fourth floor.”

  No one said a word in the elevator. A sign on the wall invited us to a class for breast-feeding moms. The woman on the poster smiled as if there was nothing that could make her happier. On the other wall, a colorful poster asked if my STD had me down.

  The doors opened, and the blue-tiled hallway stretched before us.

  “Hold up.” Cole came to a stop as we passed the bathrooms. “I gotta go.”

  “Now?” I hissed.

  “This is what stress does to me.” He clutched his stomach.

  “Stress?” Michael lifted a brow. “Or the beef jerky you were eating in the backseat?”

  “Give me two minutes.”

  “I’m going to see Dad,” I said to Michael. “You can deal with this one.”

  I left my brothers standing in the dust of my anxiety and runaway fears. I just wanted to see for myself that my dad was okay. A week didn’t go by that I didn’t have a nightmare about losing one of the O’Malleys. Or them kicking me out of the family. I wasn’t the same shell of a scared girl they’d adopted years ago, but some of the old fears still lurked and taunted.

  Room 407.

  Outside the door stood two burly men I recognized as security from the university.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  “Hey, Harper,” said the one in a USK cap.

  The other held up his large hand. “Let me get your mom.”

  “No need.” I stepped past them and opened the door.

  And stood in the entry. Behind the pulled curtain.

  When I heard my dad’s voice, my feet locked to the floor.

  “Talk to me, Cristy,” he said.

  “What do you want me to say?” My mom’s tone was thin, strained. “You tell me what happened.”

  “I just did.”

  “Again, John.”

  “Don’t do this.”

  “Start at the beginning.”

  My heart beat three times until he answered. “I picked her up.”

  “Josie,” Mom added.

  Who?

  “Yes,” Dad said. “I picked Josie up and we went for a ride. I overshot the curve and lost control. The bike went out from under us. And then she—”

  “You’ve been riding your whole life. You don’t miss curves.”

  “I looked away for a second.”

  “At her?”

  Fear was a clammy hand that wrapped itself around my throat, cutting off my air, pulling me down. My dad had been on his bike with a woman. A woman who was not my mother.

  “Where was your helmet?” Mom demanded.

  “She was wearing it.” My dad’s voice broke. “I . . . could’ve killed her. Both of us, Cristy. I never meant for this to happen. The accident . . . this relationship. I don’t understand—”

  “I don’t understand how my husband was sleeping with another woman. How long has this been going on?”

  Hot nausea snaked through my gut as reality roared in my ears.

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” Dad said. “Then we can talk at home and—”

  “How long?” she yelled.

  “I’m sorry, Cris. I’m just so sorry.”

  I stepped into the room and rolled back the curtain, startling both my parents.

  “How could you do this to us?” I moved toward my dad. A navy sling covered his left arm, and a brace curled around his neck. One eye was swollen shut, there was some contraption on his leg, and dried blood and cuts covered the face I had grown to love so much.

  “Harper—” Dad reached for me, wincing as he sat up.

  “We were just leaving.” My mom grabbed me by the shoulder and pointed me to the door. “You were explicitly told to stay home.”

  I wrenched free just as my brothers stepped inside. “Tell me this isn’t true. I know you wouldn’t cheat on Mom. On us.”

  He opened his busted lips. Then clamped them shut.

  “Say it!” I cried.

  “Harper.” Dad shook his head, then looked at my mom. “I wish I could.”

  * * *

  It felt like someone was pulling stitches out of my heart, one jolting thr
ead tug at a time.

  Before tonight I was a Daddy’s girl. I was the daughter of two parents who still loved each other. Parents who held hands and laughed at each other’s corny jokes. Even when I didn’t like who I was, I liked who my family was—who we were together. When the nightmares came, the memories resurfaced, and I would rock myself back to sleep with the thought that I was an O’Malley. I was safe, loved, protected.

  Now who was I?

  What would happen to our family?

  What would happen to me?

  Upstairs, I lay on my bed, feverishly typing in my diary, Laz curled by my legs. After Mom kicked us out of the hospital room, my brother had driven us home, air conditioner running full blast and windows open to the night air. Like he had wanted to blow away all the evil of the day.

  But it had only messed up my hair and given me a runny nose.

  I absently rubbed one of Laz’s lopsided ears, my thoughts sliding to Josie Blevins.

  The other woman.

  It was now all over the news. The beloved Coach O’Malley had not been alone on his motorcycle. The story had been picked up by every news outlet, from the local journalists to CNN. The reporters had descended on the story like vultures on roadkill, and I knew they would pick it apart ’til nothing was left but the bones. My dad wasn’t just any coach. He had breathed life into the team, restored a college football legacy, made a name for himself. People in the South took their football as seriously as any religion. It was church, it was revered, it was holy. John O’Malley had come in four years ago, revived a dying program, and been exalted as a savior.

  But he’d just been dethroned.

  I found an online report that said this Josie was in critical condition. They hadn’t elaborated. But they had posted her staff photo.

  She was young, beautiful. Strawberry blonde and thin.

  Was she married?

  Did she love my dad?

  And . . . did my dad love her?

  Laz jumped down at the knock at my door. Mom walked in, my two brothers behind her. She looked tired. Older.

  The bed groaned as she sat down and pulled me into her arms. I inhaled her familiar perfume of lilacs and vanilla.