Playing It Safe

by Lisa B. Kamps

  "What the hell is going on?" His voice was low and controlled, each word precisely spoken between clenched teeth. Savannah wondered how long it would be before the anger she felt rolling off him in crashing waves erupted. Minutes? Not minutes—seconds.

  She glanced at Tessa, made a small motion with her head, silently asking her to leave. Tessa frowned, started to shake her head. But she must have seen the urgent plea in Savannah's eyes because she slowly, reluctantly, moved back through the kitchen and outside.

  Savannah turned back to Aaron, infusing her voice with as much calm as she could find. It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. "Aaron, don't. Let me explain—"

  "Explain?" He stepped closer, stopping a foot away. He looked down at Brooke, studying her glassy eyes and sweaty, tear-streaked face. Noticing how she weaved and stumbled even though Savannah was trying to hold her upright.

  Then he turned to Savannah, his eyes so cold, so flat, so…so empty, that she took a step back in surprise. "Aaron—"

  "She's drunk."

  "It's not—" Savannah stopped, the rest of the words stuck in her throat. It's not what you think. That's what she had been ready to say.

  Except it was exactly what he thought. Only worse, so much worse.

  "She's. Drunk." The volume of his voice rose, not a shout, but hovering on the verge. And then the explosion she'd been fearing finally erupted. Anger colored his face a deep red, flashing in eyes that she no longer recognized. He stepped back, ran an angry hand through his hair, stepped closer and stopped. "Are you going to explain why the fuck my daughter is drunk?"

  "Aaron—"

  "No!" He turned to Brooke, flung his arm to the side, pointing to the stairs. "Upstairs. Now!"

  "Daddy—"

  "Now!"

  Brooke pulled away from Savannah, stumbled and nearly fell before hurrying to the stairs. She braced a hand against the wall, almost fell again.

  "Aaron, I don't think that's a good idea. She needs—"

  "Don't tell me what she needs! You're not her mother. You don't know anything about being a parent."

  The words hit her with the force of a physical blow. Savannah jerked back, her shoulder hitting the kitchen door frame. Aaron was angry, furious. She knew that. She even understood it. But the words…oh, God, they hurt.

  They hurt more than she could have ever imagined.

  She stood there, her gaze locked with his, his anger washing over her. It was a living thing, burning her, drowning her. "Aaron—"

  "No." He shook his head, stepped away from her. "Don't say anything. Just…get out."

  Savannah stared at him, shock rooting her in place. It wasn't the words, not entirely. It was the expression on his face. In his eyes. Like he'd found her guilty of a crime she didn't even know she'd been accused of.

  Like he was already turning his back on her.

  She stepped back, collided with the doorframe, stepped to the side and kept walking, her eyes never leaving his. She closed her mouth against the words she wanted to say, forced herself to keep moving backward.

  Moving away from him.

  She felt the sliding door behind her, reached for the handle with shaking hands, then turned and walked out.

  And kept walking.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Aaron sat at the table, his eyes burning from strain as he tried to concentrate on the small print of the classifieds spread out before him. Seeing, but not reading. He couldn't focus, couldn't make sense of the blurred words.

  The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that clung to a room where death had occurred, dark and oppressive, suffocating.

  The kind of quiet that made a man think too much, think too hard.

  He shoved the paper away then ran his hands over his face, over and over, scrubbing the skin with his palms. Trying to scrub away every single doubt and fear. Every single regret.

  But there were too many. A lifetime of regrets.

  The crashing of a pan against the stove broke the deathly silence. Aaron didn't jump in surprise, didn't bother to turn his head in the direction of the noises that followed.

  The refrigerator door opening then banging shut.

  A pot slamming against the counter.

  Water running, followed by the hollow clank of the plumbing when it was abruptly—forcefully—turned off.

  His mother's voice, clipped and impatient. "You owe that woman an apology."

  And fuck, there it was. Again. How many times over the last few days had she said those exact same words? A dozen? A hundred? More?

  He didn't know, had lost track. And he answered her now the same way he had answered her every other time—

  With silence.

  He pushed away from the table, headed to the refrigerator and yanked the door open. His hand reached in, automatically going to the shelf where he always kept a few beers.

  Only the beer was gone, along with every other ounce of alcohol in the house. The contents poured down the drain, the empty bottles tossed into the trash.

  Because Brooke had been drunk. Falling down drunk, in the middle of the afternoon, while he'd been at practice.

  When she should have been at school.

  He slammed the refrigerator door closed then leaned his forehead against it, welcoming the cool smoothness of stainless steel against his skin. What the hell was he going to do? He had thought things were getting better with Brooke, that she was finally adjusting to her new life here.

  That he was finally figuring out how to be a father.

  It had been nothing more than an illusion, a false calm that only emphasized his failure.

  "Did you hear me?"

  Aaron sighed, turned and leaned against the refrigerator, crossed his arms in front of him. "Yeah, Mom. I heard you."

  "Then what are you going to do about it?"

  "The same thing I did the last twenty times you said it: nothing."

  Silence, followed by the hollow ring of another pot being slammed against the stovetop. "You are the most stubborn, infuriating, maddening…man…I have ever known."

  Aaron winced at the way she said man, like it was the worst kind of crime there was. He glanced at his mother, ready to apologize, then promptly snapped his mouth closed. She stood next to him, her petite frame stiff and tense, her brown eyes shining with anger.

  "You need to make things right, Aaron."

  "I'm trying."

  "Really? How? By moping? By demanding everyone walk on eggshells, afraid to so much as sneeze?"

  "I told you, I'm looking for a nanny—"

  His mother snorted, the sound filled with the weight of her disdain. "The girls don't need a nanny. They need you."

  "Yeah, except I haven't done a very good job, have I?"

  "There's nothing wrong with what you've been doing. Are you perfect? No. But I don't know of any parent who is."

  "Brooke was drunk, Mom. In the middle of the day. When she was supposed to be in school. I obviously screwed up somewhere for that to happen."

  "I guess you're forgetting the first time you got drunk. If I remember correctly, you were about her age. You skipped school and—"

  "That's not the same thing."

  "Isn't it?" She looked away, reached over and turned the burner on low, then looked back. "Don't be a hypocrite, son. I raised you better than that. You should just be glad Savannah was here."

  It wasn't the first time his mother had said that, and every time she did, he couldn't help feeling like he was missing something. "I don't even know what she was doing here."

  "Maybe you should ask her."

  "I'm asking you. You obviously know something I don't."

  "It's not my place to say."

  What the hell did that even mean? He started to ask her, changed his mind at the last minute. She wouldn't tell him, no matter how many times he asked.

  He wasn't even sure if he wanted to know.

  "You need to apologize to her, Aaron. Make things right."

  "Make things rig
ht?"

  "Yes. Before things go too far and it's too late."

  He wanted to tell her it was already too late—he had seen the expression on Savannah's face. The surprise. The hurt his words had caused. He closed his eyes against the memory and kept his mouth shut, knowing there was nothing he could say.

  Another pot slammed against the stovetop, harder this time. He jumped, opened his eyes and took a step back at the disappointment in his mother's eyes.

  "Just once, I would like to see you fight for something besides hockey. To see you go after something with the same passion you show for the game instead of sitting on the bench, playing it safe."

  He blinked, his mind struggling to make sense of the words. "What are you talking about?"

  "You heard me."

  "I heard you, but I have no idea what you mean."

  "I know you don't. That's what worries me."

  He pushed away from the refrigerator, started to move back to the table. "Mom, I don't have time—"

  "How long were you married to Amy?"

  He stumbled to a halt, swirled around as dread washed over him. This was a taboo subject, his mother knew that. "I'm not talking about this now."

  "Did you ever stop to think that might be your problem?"

  "Mom—"

  "Answer the question, Aaron. How long?"

  "You know the answer to that."

  "Tell me."

  "Twelve years."

  "And how long were you married before you first talked about getting a divorce?"

  "Mom—"

  "A year. Not even a year. But you never did, did you?"

  "Because Brooke came along. You know that."

  "What about later? When Brooke was older?"

  "There was Isabelle—"

  "And after that? When you were both so miserable? What about then?"

  "It wasn't that simple—"

  "No. Divorce never is, especially when children are involved. But that wasn't the reason why, was it?"

  Aaron looked away, no longer able to meet his mother's knowing gaze. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "You know exactly what I'm talking about. It was easier for you to just stay. To be miserable. To settle. To play it safe and just accept the way things were instead of fighting for an ounce of happiness. You did the same thing when Amy moved the kids away."

  Aaron swallowed the burst of anger. "That's not true. Don't even say that."

  "It is true, Aaron. You just let her move them across the country—"

  "Because that's what was best! I couldn't be home with them, you know that. What kind of life would they have had, with me on the road all the time? Being bounced from team to team, city to city? Being left with a babysitter or a nanny. I couldn't have—"

  "Then how is now any different?"

  "It is."

  "Tell me how. You're still playing hockey. Still on the road. Still playing nights and weekends. What's different now, when you could have just left them with Amy's parents?"

  Aaron ran a shaking hand over his face, swallowed against the thickness filling his throat. "Mom, don't. I can't—"

  "Tell me, Aaron. Why is now any different?"

  He slammed a hand against the counter. "Because they're my daughters, dammit! Because I love them and they belong with me!"

  A slow smile crossed his mother's face. She moved toward him and placed her hand on his arm, squeezing. "Exactly. They're your daughters. And because you decided to fight for them instead of just sitting back and letting life unfold around you."

  "Yeah, for all the good it's doing. I'm making a mess of things, Mom. I don't know what I'm doing."

  "You're not making a mess, Aaron. The girls love you, and you love them. Will you make mistakes? Of course you will. It's part of being a parent. But you're not making a mess."

  Aaron glanced down at his mother's hand, placed his own over it and squeezed. "Thanks. I think I needed to hear that—"

  "Don't thank me yet. I'm not done."

  "But—"

  "You're not making a mess of things with the girls. But with Savannah?" His mother stepped back and shook her head. "That's a different story."

  "Mom—"

  "No. Don't settle, Aaron. Don't sit back and let life happen like you've done in the past. Because this time? Life isn't going to wait for you to catch up—it's going to run right over you and leave you behind."

  "Mom, it's not—"

  "Grammy's right, Dad."

  He spun around, surprised to see Brooke standing in the doorway, Isabelle standing behind her. Both of them looked miserable, uncertain, like they weren't sure they should be there.

  But it was Brooke who looked like she wanted to cry. She took a tentative step closer, stopped and twisted her hands in front of her. She glanced at his mother, some kind of silent message passing between them.

  His mother turned off the stove and walked out of the kitchen, stopping to give Brooke a quick hug before taking Isabelle's hand. "Come on, Isabelle. You can show me that new game you were talking about."

  Aaron almost called out, almost begged his mother to stay. Something was going on, something he was positive he didn't want to know.

  Especially when Brooke took another step into the kitchen and looked at him, tears in her eyes.

  "Daddy, I need to tell you something."

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Daddy, I need to tell you something.

  The words slammed into him, robbing him of breath. He reached out, closed his hand around the back of the chair, forced air into his lungs. He tried to smile but he couldn't, he was paralyzed with fear.

  Brooke kept standing there, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes, her hands twisting together. Around and around, her fingers almost white.

  He didn't want to hear whatever she was going to say, he knew that. Knew it with a bone-chilling certainty that frightened him.

  He pulled the chair out, dropped into it, then pointed to the chair next to him. Trying to sound calm and encouraging, even as his voice shook with fear. With doubt. "Um, okay. What, uh, what did you want to tell me?"

  Brooke hesitated, finally moved closer. But she didn't sit down, didn't even look at the chair. Her gaze was focused on her hands, still twisting. Always twisting.

  "Brookie? What is it?"

  "Dad, I—" She looked up at him, quickly looked away. "Please don't be mad at Miss Savannah. It's—it's not her fault."

  He released the breath he'd been holding, relief flowing over him. Is that what Brooke had been worried about? Did she think he blamed Savannah for what happened? That he thought Savannah had given her the alcohol? "I know it's not her fault, Brooke."

  "Then why are you mad at her?"

  "I'm not mad at her, Brookie. It's just—" Christ how was he supposed to explain that? To his daughter? He couldn't. Hell, he didn't even understand it himself. Even if he did, he wouldn't discuss it with a young girl.

  "It's my fault, isn't it?"

  "What? No. No, it's not your fault, Brooke. This has nothing to do—"

  "If I hadn't brought Kevin home, if he hadn't tried—" Her voice broke, the words ending in a strangled sob. Aaron froze, terror gripping him, choking him. He couldn't breathe, couldn't see past the dots flashing behind his eyes.

  He closed his eyes, squeezed them shut, forced himself to inhale. Slow, deep. To breathe. Just breathe. But Christ, he wasn't sure if he could, wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to breathe again, not when he opened his eyes and saw Brooke watching him, fat tears streaming from blue-green eyes that suddenly looked too old.

  Whatever she was going to tell him, whatever that look in her eyes meant—he didn't want to know. Didn't want to hear. He felt like he was standing in front of a closed door, his hand turning the knob against his will. Because if he opened that door, if he looked at what was inside—his world would change and there would be no going back.

  He ran his hand along Brooke's arm, surprised at the chill pebbling her skin. He closed h
is hand over hers, felt her fingers trembling. Small, so small. He wanted to do nothing more than shelter her. Protect her. Keep her safe from whatever was behind that door.

  But he couldn't because the door had already been opened, and there was no going back.

  "Brookie, what happened? Who's Kevin?"

  "He—he's Katie's brother. He's sixteen and goes to the high school."

  Aaron forced himself to take another deep breath, struggled to find a calm that no longer existed. "And?"

  "I—I had a crush on him. And he—he picked me up at the school and…" The words ended in another choked sob. The sound ripped through him, shredding his soul. He pulled Brooke into his arms, held her tight, squeezed his eyes closed.

  "Shh. It's okay, Brooke. It's okay."

  "I just wanted him to like me Dad but…but—"

  "Brooke, it's okay." But fuck, it wasn't okay, it would never be okay again. And he didn't want to hear this, any of it. All he wanted was to go back in time, to protect Brooke, lock her in a bubble.

  Then go find the little fucker and rip him apart with his bare hands.

  Brooke was still talking, the words mixed with deep sobs. "Miss Savannah came in and she…she made him stop and…she was so mad and…I thought she was going to kill him and…I'm sorry, Daddy. I'm sorry."

  "Shh. It's okay, Brooke. It's not your fault."

  "That's what Miss Savannah said but—"

  "And she was right. It's not your fault." He tightened his arms around her, reached up and pressed the heel of one hand against his eyes, swallowed against the thickness in his throat. Then he leaned back, searching his daughter's face through the fear that gripped him.

  "Did—did he hurt you, Brookie?" He forced the strangled words through his raw throat, felt the bile rise in his gut at the need to ask, at the thought of someone—anyone—touching his daughter. Hurting her.

  Brooke brushed her face against her shoulder, wiping away some of the tears, and shook her head. "N-no. Nothing happened. Miss Savannah made him leave."

  Aaron took another deep breath, felt himself nodding. "And…and you're okay?"

  Brooke nodded then quickly shook her head. "Please don't be mad, Dad. I didn't mean—"

  "I'm not mad. Not at you." He ran his hand along her arm, tried to smile, to reassure her. No, he wasn't mad—he was furious. Beyond furious. But not at Brooke. Never at Brooke.