If It's Only Love

by Ryan, Lexi

  When he reaches me, it’s not the memory of three weeks ago that makes my knees weak but the emotion in those sea-green eyes. I’ve been so focused on Dad and being there for my family the past few weeks that I haven’t had time to talk to Easton, let alone consider how this loss would affect him. How could I be so selfish and forget what my dad meant to Easton? Dad was always there when Easton’s own should have been.

  Easton doesn’t say anything. He pulls me into his arms and buries his face into my neck. His body trembles slightly. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice thick.

  I stroke down his back over and over, and when he finally pulls away, the tears I heard in his voice are streaming down his cheeks.

  “Easton,” Mom says, grabbing his forearm. “Thank you so much for coming.”

  Easton’s gaze stays glued to me for a long beat before he finally turns to her. “Your husband was an incredible man. I’m so grateful he was part of my life.”

  “Come on,” Jake says, taking my hand. “Let’s go back to the house and get something to eat.”

  I swallow and give one last look to Easton, like I’m drowning and he’s my life raft. Mom’s taken him over to the casket and is telling him the story about when she bought Dad the suit he’s wearing. He thought it was too expensive and a waste of money, but Mom insisted that with his build, he needed something custom-fitted to him. Dad declared that at the price they paid, the damn thing better fit him till the day he died and make him look as handsome as George Clooney when he was laid to rest.

  Jake tugs my hand. “Mom will be okay,” he says. “Unless you needed to talk to Easton again?”

  What is there to talk about, really? Do I want to use my father’s funeral as the opportunity to confess that part of me has always waited for him? That I’d probably wait for him forever? “No. Let’s go.”

  Easton came to the house, and it was like old times. There was so much laughter and food and reminiscing that it felt more like another holiday than a wake. That’s just how Dad would want it, but I kept catching myself waiting for my father to walk into the kitchen.

  It’s strange how our brains work, because the dad I had for the past few years was sick more often than not. Thin and weak. Bald. But when I imagine him walking into the kitchen, I imagine the tall and strong father from my childhood. The pre-cancer dad. Even at the end, the reality of his condition only hit me in blips. Most of the time my brain didn’t process the changes. Couldn’t.

  If he were here, he’d follow the sound of our voices into the kitchen. Dad always chased the crowd—loved the house to be full and was happier in the middle of chaos than alone with a good book, like me. He’d go straight to Mom, like always, as if he needed to touch her and convince himself she was real, because a lifetime together would never be enough. Then he’d sit down at the table and listen. That was what he liked best about big groups. He didn’t want to be the center of attention or talk constantly, but he loved hearing everyone’s stories. And when he did speak, you listened, because you knew whatever he gave you would be good.

  “Are you okay?”

  I didn’t even realize I was staring into space, but I blink away from the alternate reality and turn toward Easton. His eyes are so gentle, his hand warm as it cups my shoulder. I nod. “I think it might take me ten years to accept that he’s gone.” I say it softly, knowing the words might send any number of people into another crying jag if they overheard them.

  “I get that.” He points to the back doors. “Some fresh air?”

  “I’d like that.” I grab a couple of beers from the fridge and follow Easton outside. It’s dark, well past sunset, but we don’t bother with the lights. He stops on the patio, but I shake my head and lead the way to the treehouse, climbing the old ladder one-handed until I reach the privacy of the fort my father built for us.

  I’m sinking to the floor and pulling the bottle opener from my pocket when I hear Easton’s feet scraping against the rungs and spot his head poking into the tiny wooden house.

  “I don’t think I’ve been up here since I was ten,” he says, pulling himself inside. He’s too tall to stand, so he stays on his knees and crawls to the wall opposite me, extending his long legs so they’re next to mine.

  “You probably haven’t fit since then,” I say, squinting at him through the dark and smiling. I grab the battery-operated lantern from the wall and click it on. It’s not much, but it’s enough to cast a warm glow around us—enough so I can see his face. “You hardly fit now.”

  He glances up at the ceiling, way too close to his head, even seated. “Eh, there’s plenty of room.” He nods to the two beers beside me. “Is one of those for me?”

  “If you want.” I open them both and hand one to him.

  His sigh fills the space a beat before his sadness. “This is the first time since I was drafted that I’ve had more than a single drink during the season.”

  “Your body is a multimillion-dollar temple.”

  “This temple is all I have. Without this, I don’t have shit.” His words are slightly slurred, and I wonder how many he’s had. I know he was drinking while talking to my brothers. I had a few too. I’m tempted to get sloppy drunk, but Mom’s here and she wouldn’t like that.

  “You always thought you were nothing without football,” I say. “I never believed that.”

  He gives a small smile and sighs. “Thanks.” He traces the lip of his beer with his index finger, and I can tell he’s trying to work up to say something important. Something I probably don’t really want to talk about right now. “Mom’s sorry she couldn’t come. She wanted to be here.”

  I smile. I can handle talking about Ms. Connor. Easton may have grown up without a dad around, but his mom did everything in her power to make up for it. “How is she?”

  “Busy. Happy. Finally pursuing her passions instead of just trying to get by.”

  “Art, right?”

  He nods. “She’s obsessed with watercolors. She’s really talented and doesn’t give herself enough credit.” He lifts those sad eyes to me. “A lot like you, I guess.”

  He’s so close to me up here, but with our legs stretched out between us, he feels so far away, so I roll to my knees and scoot across the plywood floor to sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder. “I love the way you take care of her—the way you didn’t question it when you joined the league. You just did it.” When I tilt my face up to look at him, I catch him studying me, his gaze glued to my mouth. “You’re a good son. I bet you’re a good dad too.”

  He blinks away. “We need to talk about what happened in Chicago.”

  “I’d rather not right now,” I whisper, focusing on the frogs in the distance, the cicadas singing in the trees.

  “I need to.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders and kisses the top of my head. “I want to be a good dad more than I want anything. I’ll never be like your dad—I travel too fucking much, for one—but I want to try to be as close to that as I can manage. Everything I know about being a good father came from him.”

  I take a deep breath before rising to my knees and turning to straddle him. His eyes go wide and his jaw slackens, and for a moment, the look of wonder in his eyes is worth all the years of longing—of wanting and feeling like he was so far beyond my reach.

  He grips my hips and slides his rough thumbs under my shirt, rubbing absent circles there. His eyes are glassy and his cheeks are flushed. “Shay, I’m serious. I need to explain.”

  I shake my head and bring my mouth to his. I know this is complicated. I’m in grad school; he’s in the NFL. I’m just an average girl, and he has models knocking down his door. And never mind how my family will react . . . I brush my lips over his. “Not tonight,” I say. His mouth is soft against mine, but his hands tighten at my waist. “I know we have things to figure out, but we can do that another time.” I tug his bottom lip between my teeth.

  He groans, then shoves me away—and not gently. “Shit. I’m sorry. We can’t.”

 
I scramble to the opposite wall, my pride stinging.

  “Fuck. So sorry, Shay.” He rubs at his mouth with the back of his hand, and he might as well have slapped me. Is he rubbing away my kiss? “Shit, shit, shit.”

  My own apology sits on my tongue, but I trap it there. When he said we needed to talk, he didn’t mean figuring out the details of us—he meant he needed to explain that there isn’t going to be an us. I’m such an idiot. Why did I expect anything else?

  I draw my knees into my chest and close my eyes.

  “Shay,” he whispers. “God, I screwed this all up.”

  “Don’t.”

  “You’re fucking amazing. And if things were different . . .”

  “Please stop.”

  “Do you know what I admire most about your father?”

  I press my forehead to my knees. I can’t handle this right now—this conversation, this rejection. And if he tries to bring Dad into it, I’m going to fall apart.

  “He was there. For all of his kids. For his wife.”

  I squeeze my knees tighter, trying to tune him out because his words are bringing the tears back, coaxing them from the pit of my stomach and into my chest where there’s nothing but chaos. I feel myself shaking and pray he can’t see it. Why did I kiss him? Why did I think he’d choose me?

  “And when things were falling apart between them, he stayed.”

  I whip my head up. My eyes burn and my stomach aches, but those words. “What? What do you mean?”

  “You think he and your mom were always happy? You think they didn’t have tough times? They’re human, Shay, and they both made mistakes. And when he thought he was in love with someone else, he didn’t let that keep him from doing the right thing.”

  “Dad was never in love with anyone else.”

  “Ann, his administrative assistant at the construction company. She was my mom’s best friend and told Mom everything. They were in love, but your dad didn’t want to tear apart your family. He sold the whole company to prove to your mom he wanted to start over.”

  “No. You misunderstood.” I shake my head and scoot toward the ladder. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “He wanted you all to stay together. Frank knew his kids needed to have both of their parents all the time. That’s what I want for Abi.”

  “Shut up.” I don’t bother to wipe away my tears. I have to get away from here—away from his poisonous words—as fast as I can. I race down and slip on the last rung. Pain is a hot spike driving up my leg and radiating out around my ankle.

  I fall to the ground, clutching my ankle, and roll to the side.

  Easton is next to me in a flash. “Shay, look at me. Tell me what hurts.”

  I must have screamed when I landed, because I hear the soft thud of feet coming across grass from the house. “Is she okay?” It’s Carter. “Shay, what’s wrong? Is it your ankle?”

  It’s my heart. “I landed wrong,” I say, avoiding Easton’s gaze, even though I feel it on me so intensely it burns.

  “Here, let me help you up.” Carter slides a hand under my shoulder and hauls me to my feet. I gasp the second I try to put weight on the bad ankle. “Do we need to go to the hospital?”

  “No. I just need ice. I’m fine.”

  Easton goes to the side opposite Carter. I don’t want Carter to ask questions, so I don’t deny his help.

  Carter asks anyway. “What were you two doing up there?” Ever the protective big brother.

  “Just talking,” Easton says. He reaches forward to open the door, and I hobble inside, letting them half carry me to the couch. “I’ll grab some ice,” he says when I sit, then he disappears in a rush to the kitchen.

  Carter reaches around me to pull the lever on the reclining sofa to elevate my feet.

  “What happened?” Jake asks.

  “She fell out of the treehouse,” Carter says.

  I smack my brother’s arm. “I didn’t fall out. I missed a couple of rungs on the ladder and landed wrong.” The sharp pain has subsided to a dull, throbbing ache. “It’s just twisted. I’ll be fine.”

  Easton returns with a bag of ice and apology all over his face. His eyes are hazy. He’s drunk. He probably didn’t have any idea what he was talking about before. My dad has never loved anyone but my mom. He wouldn’t—

  My stomach lurches. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Jake grabs an empty popcorn bowl off the end table and shoves it in front of me before the three beers I’ve had tonight rise from my throat and splash into the bowl in a nasty cocktail of alcohol and stomach acid.

  “I’m so sorry, Shay,” Easton says. I can’t look at him.

  Carter tenses beside me and throws an angry glare in his direction. “What did you do? You made a pass at her up there, didn’t you? You fucker. Didn’t you just tell me that you’re trying to work things out with Scarlett?”

  “Stop it,” I say, but the words are wrapped in a sob I can’t hold back. He’s working things out with his wife. And dear God, that hurts, but nothing feels right in a world where what he said about Dad is true. “When he fell in love with someone else . . .”

  “Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t need to go to the ER?” Carter asks.

  I’m not okay. But there’s nothing in the emergency room that can fix me.

  Scarlett Lashenta is sitting on my front porch.

  No. Pretty sure that can’t be right.

  I drag my hand over my eyes, trying to rub the sleep out of them. But when I open them, she’s still there—sitting on the front porch of the off-campus two-bedroom I’m renting with friends for the summer. “Can I help you?”

  Scarlett tucks a lock of silky red hair behind her ear and gives me a weak smile. “You’re Shayleigh Jackson?”

  “I am.”

  “I’ve seen Easton’s pictures of you two in Paris together. You’re even prettier in person, though.” She bites her bottom lip. Her perfect bottom lip. If I tried to wear red lipstick like that, I’d look like a clown. This woman looks Photoshop-perfect in real life. “I was hoping we could talk? About Easton.”

  My stomach cramps. I haven’t seen him since he left Mom’s house the night of Dad’s funeral. He’s texted, saying he wants to talk. I’ve ignored him. “Is he okay?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s fine. Well, as fine as he gets. You know Easton. Every time there’s a major change in his life, he struggles a bit, so the new QB coach is getting to him.”

  I didn’t know he had a new coach. I guess we didn’t talk that much about his life, now that I think about it.

  “You seem like a really nice girl, Shayleigh. At least, that’s what I’ve come to believe from Easton’s stories.”

  “Thanks.” This is so surreal. Scarlett Lashenta is sitting on my front porch telling me I’m a nice girl. Two nights ago, I was climbing onto her husband’s lap and trying to seduce him.

  “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who’d set out to tear apart a family.” Her blue eyes fill with tears. “I don’t believe you’d want a little girl to be without her daddy. That’s why I’m here.”

  Maybe this is a dream. Or a nightmare. It was bad enough to have Easton push me away. I don’t need to hear it from Scarlett too. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I know what happened between you and Easton in Chicago.” She waves her phone as if this explains everything. “But when he slept with you, he didn’t know what he knows now.”

  “Okay?” Why is she here? Easton made his plans clear. He wants to stay with Scarlett because he seems to think I’m just like whatever woman he claims my dad fell in love with. He was drunk and talking crazy. Dad never loved anyone else.

  With a sigh, she cocks her head to the side. “He hasn’t told you, has he?”

  “My father just died.”

  “About Abigail.” She toys with her pearl necklace. “She has leukemia.”

  My stomach drops to my feet. “What?”

  She turns away, staring into the
overgrown rosebushes lining the front of the porch. The blooms are brown and dried, and the whole flowerbed looks atrocious. When she turns back to me, tears glisten in her eyes. “She needs us to be a family right now, and I’m here to ask you to stay out of his life.”

  The words are a knife to the gut. “That won’t be a problem.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Why are you here? Easton already told me he’s not going through with the divorce.”

  She wipes away a stream of fat tears. “Between you and me, I don’t think our marriage stands a chance if you’re in the picture, and I need it to work. Abi needs it to work.” She drops her gaze to her shoes and shakes her head. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m hoping for your mercy. I’m hoping you’ll understand why I’m asking you not to make it harder than it is for him, why I’m asking you to let him focus on his child.”

  Shay

  The first person a woman should want to see after she finds out she’s pregnant is the father of her baby. And yet I find myself on the steps of Easton’s beautiful home, the lulling sounds of the lake behind me.

  When I ring the doorbell, I’m not sure what I plan to say, but my body is locked up with worry. Whenever I get him, something pulls him away from me again, and it looks like this time isn’t going to be any different.

  The second Easton opens the door and he smiles, though? A strange sense of calm washes over me. He drags his eyes down my body and slowly back up before taking my hand and pulling me into the house.

  “Abi and Tori are spending the afternoon at the library,” he says with a grin. And just like that, his mouth is on mine. His hands are sliding up my shirt and mine up his. We don’t even make it past the foyer before we’re naked and on the floor—greedy hands and mouths and desperation the backdrop to the breathy sounds that fill the air.

  I’m not sure I could ever get used to the fact that Easton wants me like this—that I can have him anytime I want him. Or I could, before.

  I push the thought away and focus on the rough grip of his hands on my hips and the wet sweep of his tongue across my nipples.