Until It Fades

by K. A. Tucker

  My and Rick Daly’s eyebrows pop up in unison. That bitter old secretary remembered that day?

  “Plus, there’s the arrest report. Tell me, Rick, what was a flirty thirty­year-old teacher doing texting his student, telling her she’s beautiful? That wasn’t the only text he ever sent her, either. He sent her many others that the police recovered.”

  “No smoking gun, though.”

  “No. He was careful. And how about the night Catherine Wright’s mother followed her out and found him waiting in his car outside. He claims he was just ‘in the neighborhood.’ ”

  Rick shakes his head. “It definitely raises questions.”

  “Our culture sensationalizes this fantasy of students and their older, attractive teachers falling in love,” Kate says. “Girls develop crushes on their teachers all the time. I know I did! His name was Mr. Smith and he was twenty-seven years old. He taught me science my sophomore year. Mr. Smith, if you’re watching”—Kate holds her hands up to the camera in a calming gesture—“don’t be creeped out, but you were a hottie when I was fifteen. My point is, a lot of girls develop crushes on their teachers. And what do teenage girls do when they have crushes? They giggle, they flirt, they raise their hands to answer questions, they ask for extra help after class. Their hormones are raging, their curiosity is at its peak. But there is no valid excuse for a teacher to take that to the next level, if that is in fact what happened here. I guess we’ll never be able to let the justice system determine that, though. Not after Catherine Wright was influenced to recant her statement by her school principal—Scott’s father—and then the DA decided not to pursue the charges. The district attorney who was part of the same college fraternity as Scott Philips’s father, by the way. That took my little team of investigators only two hours to uncover. That makes me want to ask more questions. You too, Rick?”

  Rick heaves a sigh. “And now Scott Philips is teaching at a Memphis private school?”

  “For now. Since this story aired and his identity and past has been made known, we’ve received reports of a similar situation with another female student. Hopefully the Memphis police department will investigate.” She shakes her head. “This is a case of a privileged man taking advantage of a teenage girl, probably because he figured he wouldn’t be punished. His father was the principal, his uncle was the superintendent, his mother owns a successful real estate brokerage here in town. Her family founded Balsam. And you all heard how Catherine was treated, how her family was treated. The job losses, bricks through windows, the name-calling, the spitting—”

  Rick sounds genuinely surprised. “Girls, spitting at each other?”

  “I’ve seen that happen, too. And in this case, it was bad enough that Catherine dropped out of school just to get away from it all, making her life even harder. Thank God there are good people in that community, like the owner of that diner, which I’m definitely going to be eating at the next chance I get.” Kate levels the camera with a hard gaze. “Was Catherine capable of saying no to her teacher? Sure. She wasn’t a child. But she was in love, and when you’re a teenage girl in love, you aren’t capable of truly appreciating the consequences to your life. This is not a woman who should ever have been villainized, and I can certainly tell you that after the way she risked her life, she should be honored and celebrated as the hero she is. Brett Madden has a guardian angel and her name is Catherine Wright.”

  I release a lung’s worth of air. Kate Wethers has just earned a fan for life.

  “I don’t know, Kate. I’m thinking he has more than a guardian angel there.” Rick flashes the camera with a newsworthy smile and an eyebrow waggle. “I think we all just saw the way they were looking at each other.”

  “Oh, believe me . . . I felt it the moment I walked into that house.” She’s a pretty young lady and, well . . . Brett Madden . . .” She shoots the camera a knowing look.

  “Yeah, tell me about it. Handsome and talented? I think that the rest of the male population got the short end of the stick.” Rick gripes.

  Are they actually saying this on air? Is this actually happening on a reputable show like The Weekly? My cheeks begin to burn.

  “Let me just say that if we see the two of them walking down the street hand in hand soon, I won’t be the least bit surprised. I’m definitely hopeful.”

  My mouth drops open as I feel five sets of eyes—Brenna’s still in her room, laughing at something on Keith’s phone, thank God—shift to me. I can’t believe Kate Wethers just insinuated that Brett and I might become a couple. On a national broadcast!

  What must Brett think? He must be cringing.

  This is humiliating.

  “It sure would be one heck of a way to end that story.” Rick chuckles. “Young, single mom saves life of hockey star and celebrity son and then wins his heart? It sounds like a fairy tale.”

  Kate turns to the camera. “America? What do you think? How many of you would love to see a budding romance between Brett Madden and his rescuer, Catherine Wright?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Oh, my God. She did not just ask that.

  “Thank you for that inspiring interview, Kate. It’s not our usual story, but it honestly made me smile, watching it. I think we all needed that, especially in light of what’s happening in the rest of the world right now. We’ll be back to discuss the recent bombings in the Middle East and what they may mean for our country.”

  For ten long seconds, the only voices in my tiny house are coming from the car ad on TV and Brenna’s prattling from her room.

  “That was a really good interview, Cath,” my dad finally offers, clearing his throat. “And he seems like a decent enough guy.”

  My face is burning. “Yeah. He is.” Who is probably regretting ever stepping foot on my front porch right now.

  Brenna comes trotting out and over to us, diving onto the couch, oblivious of the lingering awkwardness. “Is the show over?”

  I pat her head. “Yes. Say good night and go brush your teeth for me, please?”

  “Can Uncle Jack read me a book tonight?”

  “Yeah, Uncle Jack can read you a book tonight,” Jack answers, tickling her. She breaks free of his grip to skip around the room, doling out her usual hugs, then takes off for the bathroom.

  “I gotta head to work,” Keith says, standing by the door, jangling his keys in his fingers, his face holding an odd expression.

  “Are you driving past Brown Street?” Emma asks, oblivious.

  Keith shrugs. “I can. Why? You need a ride?”

  She’s already pulling on her jacket. “I’m heading over to Rhonda’s for a few hours. See you guys in the morning. Cath, see you soon?”

  “Sure. How long are you in town?”

  “Just until tomorrow.” She hesitates. “Did Mom and Dad tell you?”

  “Tell me what?” I look to my dad, who’s tipping his beer back to finish his bottle.

  She takes a deep breath, her excited smile telling me this is good news. “I got into Yale!”

  “Wow. That’s . . . amazing.” First Columbia for undergrad, now Yale for law school. “Congratulations.” I’m happy for her, though my smile does feel a little bit forced. As much as I love seeing my siblings, my ego takes a hit every time they succeed. Here they are, Jack on a sports scholarship, Emma going to Ivy League schools, and I’m still at Diamonds, serving fries and pancakes, with no end in sight.

  “Cha-ching.” Jack stretches as he stands.

  “Don’t worry about that. We’ll figure it out,” my mother briskly answers, collecting the dirty dishes from the coffee table.

  Emma shoots Jack a dirty look. “Anyway, I have an internship that starts on Monday and I’m moving in with a friend this weekend, so I’m driving back in the morning.”

  So, she clearly came home just for me. “Thanks for being here.” This will probably be the only time I see her before fall. She doesn’t come back to Balsam often anymore. My mother complains about it nonstop.

  She nods and then, after a
moment’s hesitation, reaches out to wrap her arms around my shoulders in a slightly awkward hug, whispering in my ear, “We’re always here for you, Cath, if you’ll let us.”

  She releases me and I shift my gaze to Keith, who’s waiting by the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow?”

  “Not too early.”

  “Right.” My phone chirps in my pocket. My heart skips a beat at the thought that it could be Brett, but the second chirp, and the third, and the fourth, in quick, almost inhuman succession, tell me that it’s Misty and she was watching the broadcast at Diamonds. And she’s freaking out.

  I can’t deal with that right now. I quickly type out, “tomorrow,” followed by a heart.

  My dad eases out of the La-Z-Boy. “Well, Hildy? I guess we should be heading home now, too.”

  “Yeah, you’ve gotta start putting in those overtime shifts to pay for our little lawyer,” Jack mutters, earning a glare from my mother this time.

  “Not any more than the overtime shifts I had to put in for our little hockey player, you ungrateful little—” Dad cuts off and glances over to see Brenna standing in the doorway with her book. He ends with “—darling son.”

  Jack throws him a wink and a full-dimpled smile, before chasing Brenna into her room, calling out over his shoulder, “I’m going to Billy’s after. Don’t wait up.”

  My mom has always been big on not sending her kids out in the world with a massive student debt, so I’m guessing they expect to pay for at least part of Yale. I don’t know what “figuring it out” would mean, though, short of taking out a second mortgage on their house. I wonder if Dad knew about this before they offered to buy my SUV? Even if he did, I can’t in good conscience let him work himself into an early grave for me, not when I do have the money.

  “Wait a minute.” I run to my room and fish out the envelope from the loose floorboard where I hid it. Turns out my ballpark estimate of six thousand dollars was way off. I count out $7,750—the “deal” Gord gave us—and tuck the rest away, but not before snagging the tickets.

  My parents are already at the door when I emerge. “Brett left an envelope of cash in my cupboard. I was going to make him take it back, but I have a feeling that’s going to be impossible.” I hold out the money. “This is for the Escape. So now we’re square.”

  Dad shares a glance with my mom. “Cath, that wasn’t a loan. We wanted—”

  “And I appreciate it. Really, I do. It means a lot to me that you helped me when I needed it. But you have Yale to pay for now, and I can pay this back, so take it. Please. I know you don’t have money just lying around. You’d have to work a lot of hours for this and you’re not getting any younger.”

  He purses his lips, hesitating for another brief minute before he quietly accepts it.

  “Also . . . Brett left these. I figured you’d want to go.”

  My dad’s eyes widen as he studies them. “Tickets to game six?”

  “If it happens, right?” They have to win tomorrow’s game first.

  “These are some good seats.” He pauses. “Does Jack know?”

  “I haven’t said anything yet.”

  My dad grins. “Don’t. Let me break it to him.”

  What that means exactly, I can’t be sure, but it will no doubt involve some level of torture-in-jest.

  “When do you plan on going back to work?” my mom asks, coiling a silk scarf around her neck.

  “Tomorrow.”

  Surprise touches her face. “You should wait a few more days.”

  “I’m good. I’ll probably pick up a Sunday night dinner shift, too.” I don’t normally work Sundays, but I need to be busy right now, not sitting around here, stewing over this interview, driving myself insane.

  “Can you not afford to wait? How much did Brett leave you?”

  I brush the inappropriate question off with “More than enough.”

  “Well, then—”

  “If you could take Brenna tomorrow . . .”

  My mom heaves a sigh, but thankfully doesn’t push any harder. “We could take her right now, so you’re not dragging her over so early.”

  “That’s okay.” I don’t think I want to be alone tonight, anyway.

  “Don’t forget, if you ever want a Friday night free . . . you know, if you want to go out for any reason. On a date or something.” Dad’s gaze drifts to the television.

  “That was all camera tricks.”

  My mother opens her mouth, hesitating for only a moment. “You saved his life, Cath. It makes sense that he would feel something deep for you because of that.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s still in shock over it all. It’ll be a while before his emotions settle to something more . . . normal.”

  Until he’s thinking straight again. He used those exact words. No wonder he bolted for Toronto last minute. I’m beginning to think that whispered conversation between Meryl Price and him, over by my sink, was about this very issue. She saw the looks, and she panicked. Maybe she saw Kate Wethers’s mind churning. It’s one thing to appreciate the woman who saved her son’s life. It’s entirely another to allow a poor single mother to become the female lead in this conjured fairy tale.

  “You two live very different lives that wouldn’t mesh well. I’d advise you to—”

  “I know my reality, Mom.” I don’t mean to snap, but it comes out as such, anyway. Why does she insist on “advising” on everything? As if I’m not capable of thinking for myself?

  Dad clears his throat and gives her a high-browed stare. A warning, I think.

  I watch them leave, her caution lingering in my mind and souring my mood as I wash the dishes to distract myself, Jack’s deep voice carrying from Brenna’s room.

  I know Brett’s still in shock. I know he lives a very different life. I know I wouldn’t fit anywhere in it.

  I know all of this.

  And yet hearing my mother say it out loud felt like a pinprick to this subconscious hope that’s been flourishing, as I’ve allowed myself to get lost in thoughts of his body’s warmth against mine, the strength of his arms wrapped around mine. Of that fleeting kiss.

  Kate Wethers may very well be right. Maybe Brett does feel something for me beyond gratitude. But my mother is also right. It won’t last. The shock will wear off and his body will heal, and he’ll be back to chasing pucks and enjoying the perks of his celebrity status.

  That’s just how life is. A person can tell you he loves you one day and tell you that you need to move on the next. He can be everything to you, and then a mere memory.

  I’ve already learned that the hard way.

  “Night, little monster.” Jack pulls Brenna’s bedroom door mostly shut behind him. “She’s gotten so big.”

  “So have you, you gym rat.” I eye him as he strolls toward the kitchen counter, collecting Dad’s empty beer bottle on his way by. He’ll always be my little brother, but he looks like a man now. The baby face is gone, replaced by a hard jawline and stubble.

  He chuckles, giving my shoulder a playful push. “I’m not the one pulling guys out of burning cars, Sis.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “But seriously, can you call me the next time he’s here? I wanna get on the ice with him.”

  “I don’t think he’s going to be ‘on the ice’ anytime soon. Definitely not while you’re here.”

  Jack yawns and stretches his arms over his head again. The sleeve of his T-shirt falls down and I catch something black on his biceps. “No way!” Pushing the sleeve up farther, I take in the number eighteen tattooed on his skin. “Mom is gonna freak out!” I can’t help but laugh. Of all the things I did do that my parents hated, getting a tattoo was not one of them. “When’d you get that done?”

  He grins. “January, right after Madden broke two NHL records in the same game.”

  “Wait a minute, you had Brett’s number tattooed onto your body? Obsessed much?”

  Jack shrugs. “I told you, he’s my idol.”

  “Oh, my God. W
ait until I tell him. Actually, no, I’m not sure if I want to. That’s a little bit weird.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “Whatever. I’m headin’ out. Let me know if you need help with Brenna. I’m done work every day at five.”

  “For the record, I still think you’re nuts for taking that job at Hansen’s.” He’s going to be working with my mom all day, every day.

  “For the record, I agree with you, and I’ll probably want to slit my wrists by the end of next week, but there’s not exactly a lot of choices for summer gigs around here.”

  “They never called you for that bartending job at the resort?”

  “Nope. So it’s basically Target, with Mom, or Diamonds.”

  “You could bus my tables.”

  “No, thanks. But maybe you can get me a job guarding your house. I’m as big as that goon out there.”

  “But he has a gun.”

  “I could have a gun.”

  “No, you could not have a gun.” My brother loses his house keys at least three times a week.

  “You’re probably right. Oh, and I might crash here next Friday night.”

  “So Mom doesn’t have to see you stumbling in from somewhere?”

  “Something like that. See you later.” A thick arm ropes around my neck, and he pulls me into a hug, his throat growing a little husky as he whispers, “Proud of you, Sis.”

  I sigh. “You just want tickets to the game.”

  “Lower level, if possible, but I’m not too picky.” His face splits into a wide grin.

  The urge to tell him that Dad has them in his back pocket is overwhelming. Instead, I smile at his broad back as he strolls to the door, his navy boxer briefs exposed at his waist. “Pull up your pants!”

  I get a middle finger in answer. “Oh, and just so you know, Dad wouldn’t mind at all if you were bangin’ Madden.”

  “Oh, my God. Good night!” I hiss, throwing the dish towel at his head, missing him completely. He ducks out the door with a laugh.