Bring Down the Stars

by Scott, Emma

  Connor looked about to say more, but we’d arrived at his Hellcat and Paul’s silver sedan.

  “There’s four of us,” Ma said. “Let’s all ride together. Weston, go up front with Paul. Connor, you come sit by this old lady.”

  Paul and I exchanged glances over the hood of his car as we climbed in. He offered a smile I didn’t take or return.

  Hannigan’s was hopping and we crowded into a small booth.

  “Connor, that Ruby seems like a nice young girl,” Ma said, after the waitress took our order. “You say she’s your girlfriend’s roommate?”

  “I did,” Connor said. “Ruby’s all kinds of fun.”

  “She’s a hoot,” Ma said. “But where is your girlfriend again? Nebraska?”

  “Family emergency,” Connor said. “Her dad had a heart attack.”

  “Oh no, that’s awful,” Paul said quietly. “Any word on his prognosis?”

  “Not yet,” Connor said. “But I’m supposed to hear from her again tonight.”

  “Well, give her our best,” Ma said. “Too bad, I’d like to meet her. And too bad about your race,” she said to me. “I’ve been telling Paul about how fast you are. It was his idea to come watch the meet, since you won’t take the hour drive to come visit your mother.”

  “I’ve been busy, Ma,” I said.

  “Busy,” she said. “Where’s your girlfriend? How come you don’t got a girlfriend? With your face and your brain, they should be falling all over themselves for you. I’ll tell you what it is—you don’t smile enough.”

  “Jesus, Ma.”

  She nudged Paul with her elbow. “For years, I’ve been telling Wes he’s a sweet, handsome guy, but he don’t smile. How can you attract pretty girls if you look like you’ve got a stick up your ass all the time?”

  “Miranda, leave him be,” Paul said mildly.

  Beside me, Connor was laughing into his napkin, shoulders shuddering silently.

  “Look at Connor,” Ma said. “Always smiling, showing those beautiful teeth. And let me tell you, Wes.” She started counting off on her fingers. “You’re a beautiful boy. You’re the fastest runner out there when you’re not falling on your face. And you’re a brilliant writer. Paul, did I tell you he’s a brilliant writer?”

  “Once or twice.” Paul smiled at me. “I heard you wrote a winning essay for a scholarship to a very prestigious prep school in Boston.”

  “It’s all true,” Ma said. “That’s how he met this one.” She patted Connor on the shoulder. “This one…” She shook her head, her lips pursed to hold back a sudden rush of emotion as she took Connor’s face in both of her hands. “I don’t know what we would’ve done without him. And his family. They took care of me. Took care of us…”

  I clenched my teeth. That was my dad’s job. And since he’s fucking gone, it’s my job…

  “Come on, Miranda,” Connor said, hugging Ma’s shoulders.

  “Times are tough and I just feel so grateful to have these beautiful boys.” She turned to Paul. “And now you. I’m surrounded by good men. How did I get so lucky?”

  The waitress appeared with a tray, laden with plates of pancakes, eggs, and bacon. After she sorted out who got what—with Ma’s loud assistance—we dug in.

  I glanced at Paul beside me as we ate, still searching for the scumbag that lurked within his mild-mannered, nice guy act.

  “What do you do for a living, Paul?” I asked.

  Are you ‘between opportunities’? Taking some time off? Crashing with Ma until you get back on your feet?

  Paul opened his mouth to answer but Ma swooped in with a proud smile.

  “He’s a regional sales manager for a lumber distribution company. How about that? The buildings you see going up all over? That lumber gets there because of him.”

  That lumbah gets they-ah cuzza him. Ma’s accent seemed stronger every time I saw her, and listening to her drew mine out of me against my will, when I worked so hard to kill it.

  Paul chuckled. “Miranda makes my job sound loftier than it is.”

  “Don’t minimize yourself,” she scolded. “And I’m so happy you took time off to drive out here to see my son. Wish it was a better performance.”

  “Thanks, Ma,” I said over my coffee cup, just as Connor dropped his gaze toward his plate and Paul mumbled, “Miranda…”

  “Well? Am I wrong?” she said. “You’re always the best one out there. What happened today?”

  “I tripped on a hurdle, Ma,” I said. “It happens.”

  She shook her head, clucking her tongue. “Such a shame.”

  “I thought you were terrific in your first race,” Paul said.

  “He came in second,” Ma said. “He never comes in second. That’s how he got the NCAA scholarship, for being so fast.” She ripped open a packet of Sweet & Low and dumped it into her coffee. “Speaking of which, baby, what are you going to do about next year?”

  “What happens next year?” Paul asked.

  “No more scholarship, that’s what happens.”

  I exchanged glances with Connor and shook my head slightly. If I told her the NCAA people had been there on the same afternoon I DQ’d a race, her head would explode.

  “You know my friend Gilly?” Ma said. “Her son’s about your age. He was on the verge of jailbird city. Well, this recruiter comes from the Army Reserves and signs him up. Now he’s got a few grand coming in per month, health bennies and they’ll pay for his college.”

  “You want me to join the Army, Ma?”

  She shrugged and stirred her coffee with a spoon. “I’m just saying the Army Reserves is only one weekend a month.”

  “Things are heating up in Syria,” Paul said to his oatmeal.

  Ma waved her hand. “Things blow over. They always do.”

  “What if that weekend per month interferes with track?” I asked.

  “Track’s not paying for your college anymore.” She pointed her spoon at me. “You still got to pay for college.” She tilted her head and half-shrugged and said in a lower voice, “And the monthly pay wouldn’t be so terrible, would it?”

  “You don’t need it,” Paul said to her. He put his hand on my arm. “Keep running, Wes.”

  I glanced down at his hand, smattered with dark hair and pudgy at the knuckles. A dad’s hand. It patted me, then retreated back toward oatmeal and coffee. And it wasn’t so bad.

  “So tell me, Connor,” Paul said brightly. “What’s your sport? You look like a baseball man to me.”

  We said our goodbyes in the parking lot. Ma took my face in her hands and smacked a kiss on my cheek.

  “You did good. Not your best show, but I’m still proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Ma,” I said.

  She turned to hug Connor, leaving Paul and me face to face.

  “Good to meet you, Weston.” He put out his hand for a shake, then grimaced. “Keep forgetting you’re bearing war wounds.”

  I wouldn’t have minded shaking his hand. “Good to meet you, too,” I said, with the most honest smile I could find.

  “We’ll see you soon, I hope,” Ma said. “Thanksgiving? Can you manage to haul your butt out east for Thanksgiving?”

  “He’ll be there,” Connor said. “My mother is looking forward to seeing you. Felicia and Kimberly, too.” He turned to Paul, and they shook hands. “You as well, Mr. Winfield. Please come. We’d love to have you.”

  “My God, is he not a treasure?” Ma took Connor’s face too, kissed his cheek. “Good bye, my angels.”

  “Drive safe,” Connor called as she and Paul climbed into his sedan.

  A huge sigh gusted out of me as the car drove away.

  “I heard that.” Connor’s hand dropped. “I love your mother, but I’m exhausted.”

  “Try living with her,” I said. “Paul must be a glutton for punishment.”

  “Or he really likes her,” Connor said. “Your mom’s really likable, you know that? You’re really likable when you’re not so busy being a dickhead.” Con
nor reached to pinch my cheek and said in a high falsetto, “Weston, you sweet, handsome boy. You’d get all the girls if you just smiled more.”

  I laughed and knocked his hand away. “You and your beautiful teeth can fuck off.”

  He gave me a lift to the backlot where my car was parked at the stadium. Before I could get out he killed the engine and turned to look at me.

  “Listen, I know you don’t want to hear this, but if you need help paying next year’s tuition—”

  “Forget it.”

  “My parents can help you. They would want to help you.”

  “I’ll figure it out, Connor,” I said.

  “It’s not a big deal—”

  “It’s a big deal to me, okay? I take enough from you. I need to figure my own shit out, and take care of Ma.”

  “How? The Army?”

  “If I have to.”

  Connor shook his head and blew out his cheeks. “You’re really fucking smart, Wes. But sometimes you’re really fucking stupid.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You think this is all one-sided? You think you don’t help me out? You write my damn papers. You got me through the SATs. Hell, the only reason I’m here is because of you.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is true, and that’s why you’re fucking stupid. Because you can’t see what kind of talent you have. A brain and…fucking soul like yours is majoring in Economics? Why aren’t you writing a book? Why aren’t you taking your running seriously? Maybe I don’t have the balls to open my own sports bar yet, but at least I know what I want.”

  “Where the hell is this coming from?”

  Connor shrugged, his trademark smile all but vanished. “I don’t know. Thanksgiving. I feel like I have to brace myself for battle against my parents while they slobber all over you and you don’t even know why.”

  “They don’t slobber on me.”

  “You and Autumn are my secret weapons. But she hasn’t even said yes to the invite yet.” He sighed. “I’m just going to fuck it up with her anyway. If we make it to Thanksgiving, it’ll be a miracle.”

  I shifted in my seat, glanced down at my raw, scraped palms. “You’re not going to fuck up with Autumn. She cares about you. What you did for her last night was a lot.”

  Connor smirked and wore an expression I’d never seen him wear before. “That’s just money.”

  I started to protest but he cut me off.

  “I know you wrote those texts to her last night, Wes.”

  I froze. “I…”

  “You said you wouldn’t help me and then you did. Why?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I couldn’t sleep. I heard your phone. It made you look good and made her happy. Win-win.”

  Connor nodded, absorbing this. “You know… It never occurred to me to check in with her. I care about her but it never occurred to me. But it did to you.” He looked at me. “Does this mean you’re helping me again?”

  “I guess so. If you need me.”

  If she needs me. She deserves to be happy.

  “I mean…you don’t need my help,” I said. “It’s all there, man. You just need to—”

  “Put in the effort?” Connor asked with the rueful smile. “Go on, get out of here before they tow your piece of shit to the junkyard.”

  I nodded. “Yep, okay. I’ll see you at home.”

  “See ya.”

  I climbed out of Connor’s $80,000 sports car and into my junker. The contrast between our lives had never been more obvious. Connor was wrong—sometimes money counted for a lot. Sometimes it was the difference between watching the girl you cared about worry over her dad, and getting her on a plane to be with him.

  I turned the key in the ignition, but the car was dead.

  I rested my forehead on the steering wheel, feeling as if I spilled out on the track again in front of hundreds of people, and I didn’t want to get up again.

  Connor was still parked across from me. Connor might not have thought to call Autumn in her hour of need, but he’d never miss one of my meets. He’d never let me be alone on Thanksgiving. And he’d never drive out of the parking lot until he heard my engine turn over.

  He deserves to be happy too.

  Connor smiled, waved me over, and gave me a lift home.

  Autumn

  I sat in the ICU waiting room, slumped against my brother’s shoulder. My mother sat on my other side, our hands clasped tight. Mom’s red hair was graying at the temples. Her face, always weathered, now showed signs of worry that seemed to have aged her another ten years.

  My father said if he were the grease that kept the engine of our family going, Lynette Caldwell was the nuts and bolts that held it all together. I hadn’t seen her shed any tears since I’d arrived. Her blue eyes stayed sharp, vigilant, and dry as she watched the nurses come and go. I inherited my red hair and pragmatism from Mom, but I had my father’s hard work ethic and his soft heart.

  The heart that almost gave out.

  The doctor said Dad’s arterial blockage was 97% and it was a miracle he was still alive. But he was alive and any second now—thanks to Connor—I would see him.

  My eyes fell shut and my head lolled against my brother’s shoulder. Travis, at eighteen, was a carbon copy of my father in both looks and soul. Kind and hard-working. But Mom said Travis had so many clouds in his head, she was surprised he didn’t float away. He was content to be a farmer. The love of the land ran simple and true in his blood. Growing up, he spent summer nights in our front-yard hammock, drinking lemonade and watching the fireflies, while I sat at the porch table with my schoolwork.

  My dream was to go to college and get out into the world. Travis felt the world was already there in his backyard.

  We all sat up together as a nurse emerged from the hallway and headed straight for us. “You can see him now.”

  We followed her down the hallway toward the ICU. At Room 2014, the nurse opened the door. Tears sprang immediately to my eyes. If Mom looked ten years older, Dad had time-traveled twenty years into the future. His tanned, weathered face was now gaunt and pale. His hair had been salt-and-pepper when I saw him over the summer. Now it lay thin and white against his head, so small on the pillow. All of him looking so diminished, lying within a nest of tubes and wires and machines that breathed for him.

  But he was alive.

  “He may go in and out of consciousness,” the nurse said from the door. “I’ll leave you to visit for a little while, but then he must rest.”

  “Hello, Henry,” Mom said, and sank into a chair beside the bed, as if her vigil against death was over and she had won. For now.

  I went to the other side and slipped my hand in my father’s. Once a hearty and strong grip, now weak and limp.

  “Hi, Daddy,” I whispered. “I’m here.”

  “Hey, Dad,” Travis said from the foot of the bed.

  For a handful of seconds, there was only the steady push of oxygen from the machine, and then my father opened his eyes and looked right at me. A small, weak smile stretched his lips.

  He was too weak to do more than twitch his fingers against my hand. But he was there with me, and I was there with him. And I wouldn’t have traded that moment for anything in the world.

  After the nurses shooed us out to let Dad rest, we went down to the cafeteria to grab an early breakfast.

  “Tell me about this boy you’re seeing, Autumn,” Mom said, as we sat down with our trays of oatmeal, fruit, and coffee. She folded her napkin in her lap and nudged my brother’s elbows off the table as if we were back at home. “Connor, was it?”

  “He’s not like anyone I’ve dated before,” I said. “Certainly not like Mark.”

  My mother pursed her lips. “Good to hear.”

  “He’s really the son of a senator?” Travis asked. “And a billionaire?”

  “Yes, but that’s the least important thing about him,” I said, earning an approving nod from my mother. “Until last night, his money had no
bearing on how I felt about him. It still doesn’t, except that I’m grateful to him.”

  “As are we.” Mom took a bite of her sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. “So are things serious with him?”

  I had no idea how to answer that. “Yes and no,” I said. “Mostly yes, but…it’s complicated.”

  “Mm. How’s your Harvard application coming along?”

  “It’s not. I’ve been a little distracted. Honestly, I still don’t know where to put my focus.” I toyed with my spoon. “How are things with the farm?”

  Travis glanced at me, then Mom.

  “First things first,” Mom said, shooting him a look. “Your father’s health is the most important thing right now. Let’s concentrate our energies there.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Travis said.

  “Okay, Mom,” I said.

  My brother and I exchanged smiles. Lynette Caldwell, rain, shine, or tragedy, never changed.

  We spent the afternoon in Dad’s room, mostly holding his hand while he slept. He couldn’t speak with the breathing tube in place. So many tubes: in his chest, his neck, his stomach, plus an IV in his arm and an oxygen monitor on his finger. A thin white bandage poked up from his hospital gown, covering the seam where his chest had been cracked open.

  While he slept, Mom worked on her cross-stitch and Travis sat on the window ledge, scrolling his phone. I sat in one of the chairs beside Dad’s bed, eyes drooping. I hadn’t slept in more than twenty-four hours, and my thoughts became nonsensical. Breaking apart and reforming. Visions shifting and scattering until finally, I was in Connor’s arms, his beautiful green eyes gazing into mine.

  There’s so much I want to tell you, he said.

  Tell me, I whispered.

  He bent to kiss me instead. I got lost in the sensation of pure want that bloomed in my belly and the heat that swept through my veins. I clung to him as the kiss became urgent, deeper, my mouth opening wide to take everything he could give me. We kissed like breathing until finally, I broke away.

  Now it was ocean eyes holding my gaze. Blue-green and a million miles deep.

  It was Weston’s arms around me. Weston’s hard body pressed to mine. He held my face in his hands, his thumbs stroking my cheeks, and the way he looked at me…