Let Love Live

by Melissa Collins

  “You remember Dean’s father, right?” Of course I do. He seemed to be the primary reason for Dean lashing out against Carlo. He was riding his son about being the best at everything, about being the star quarterback that he once was, way back in his glory days. Carlo, who did nothing but move into the district and want to try out for the football team, set things in motion for Dean and his father. Weeks of taunting progressed into actual physical fights. When it became too much for school officials to mediate, they called us in. I nod, responding to his question without losing my cool. From the moment both Reid and I heard about Dean’s father, we instantly thought about Reid’s father and the deadly effects he had on our childhood.

  “I talked to him and-” Reid’s confession nearly makes me fall out of my chair.

  “Wait,” needing clarification, I stop him mid-sentence. “You talked to Dean’s father?”

  Reid stands from his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “I know it breaks protocol. We’re just supposed to be there to help the kids figure it out and all, but Dean told me he tried talking to him, and there was just something there that reminded me so much of Shane that I had to talk to his dad.”

  A look of understanding passes between us and he carries on. “He was on the side line at one of Dean’s lacrosse games. I introduced myself and to say he was indifferent to talking to me would be an understatement.” Reid chuckles sarcastically. “But, he eventually gave me a few minutes of his time. Probably because it was half time and he wouldn’t miss a second of the action. Anyway, I told him about my dad, about Shane, about everything.” Reid stares silently out the large floor to ceiling window of my office. “When I spoke about how much I missed my brother, how much I wished he was still a part of my life, I think I broke through that first layer of ice. But when I told him that I heard echoes of Shane’s pain in his son’s words, saw bits of Shane’s brokenness in his son’s eyes, he thawed even more.”

  His raw and real emotion forces me from my desk and I walk over to him. My hand falls to his shoulder, clasping it gently. “I’m so proud of you.” Reid turns to face me, and unnamable look on his face. Realizing the strange look has more than likely been caused by the fact that he so very rarely hears that someone is proud of him makes me pull him in for a brotherly hug. “Shane would be proud, too.”

  “Of you, too, man.” His voice is muffled between our backslap-slash-hug. When he breaks it, I notice his eyes shining, but he turns away before I see too much more – before he sees the same thing in mine.

  Casually, and with a lighter step than usual, Reid strolls over to the chair where his suit jacket is draped and swings it over his shoulder. “You’re not allowed back for the rest of the week, now.” He leans up against the doorframe, pointing a stern finger at me.

  With a laugh and a look of mock-submission, I nod and agree. “See you later.”

  After work, I make my way to the hospital. With a bunch of flowers in hand, I ask if Rachel is allowed to have visitors. The nurse greets me with a gigantic smile. “Sure thing, sweetie.”

  “Even though I’m not immediate family?” That’s been the rule since she was admitted, but I wanted to come straight here figuring that’s where Conner would be.

  “Yep, she was moved to a regular room just a few minutes ago.” Her nametag reads Keisha and she’s all bright and bubbly. I can’t help but think there’s good news waiting for me on the other side of Rachel’s door. Keisha fills out a visitors pass for me and directs me to Rachel’s room.

  The door is slightly open, and with a gentle knock, it opens even more. “You awake?” I ask, peering my head into the room.

  “Yes, come on in.” Her voice is full, alert – alive.

  Aside from the strip of hair missing behind her ear, and the remaining bandages on her head, Rachel looks unscathed for the most part. Propped up against the headboard, trying to feed herself her lunch around all the tubes, wires, and IVs, she almost looks laughable. I pull a chair up next to her bed, and place the flowers on the side table. “You look pretty incredible for someone who just had major surgery four days ago.”

  Exhaling a deep sigh of gratitude, she puts down her fork as a single tear rolls down her cheek. She swipes it away with her non-wire-covered hand. “I had no idea all those headaches…”

  “Hey,” I pull her hand in mine, patting it calmingly, “no one knew. It’s no one’s fault.” Handing her a tissue, I smile compassionately at her.

  “How’s Conner holding up?” she asks around the tissue, wiping her nose.

  I let go of her hand and lean back in the chair. Memories from just a few hours ago of our time in the shower, of how my feelings for him have taken over my every thought, fill my head, spreading a huge grin across my face. “Ewww, gross. Not like that.” Her finger waggles in my face, laughing as she does so.

  “What?” I shoot upright, not realizing what I must have looked like. “Oh, uh, you mean–”

  “Yes,” she cuts me off. “I mean how has he been holding up since I’ve been in here, dork.” Both of us a laugh as she extends her arm to the side, showcasing the room Vanna White style.

  “He’s been a wreck, actually. It scared the shit out of him, but when you opened your eyes the other night, even though it was only for a minute, I think he held on to that hope that’d you’d pull through.” A deep breath escapes her lungs, as if it’s just cleansed her own concerns over her brother’s well-being.

  She returns to her meal, more than frustrated with the food she can barely cut. “Stupid fork.” It clangs against the plate as she tosses it on her table.

  Rather than laugh, I simply pick it up for her and cut up her meal. The look on her face is one of appreciation. I nearly choke on my tongue when she asks, “You love him, don’t you?” With a casual, nonchalant attitude, she picks up her fork and returns to her meal, as if she hadn’t just dropped a bomb in between us. “What?” she asks, taking stock of the shocked look on my face.

  My hands run though my hair, scrub over my face. Elbows land on my thighs, and thumbs twist in nervousness. My head falls forward, cradled in my shaking hands. I close my eyes and sort through the emotions her words just brought to life. In such a short time, Conner has come to mean so much to me. Maybe if I hadn’t also been in therapy, been willing to work through my own problems then this wouldn’t have happened as quickly as it had, but there’s no denying that I do love him.

  His honesty and integrity.

  His light-hearted playfulness.

  His capacity for kindness and love.

  Slowly, I lift my head, and look at the girl who’s scared me to death twice in less than a week. Once with the blockage in her brain and once with the blockage in my heart. “I do,” I admit, more to myself than to her.

  Her response of a smug, all-knowing smile fills the room with warmth. “Good, now make sure you tell him, too.”

  “Tell me what?” Conner’s voice calls from the door, making my heart beat a little quicker in my chest.

  “Nothing,” I deflect, standing to greet him as he walks into the room. His look of wry cynicism tells me that he’s on to me, but it doesn’t seem as if he heard what we were talking about.

  Rachel fills Conner in on the updates from the doctor. Essentially, she’s a medical miracle. Luckily, she didn’t suffer a stroke from the blockage. In the grand scheme of things, it was fairly small. Though it didn’t feel fortunate at the time, the fact that the blockage was pressing up against a nerve and causing severe migraines was something that ultimately saved her life. Watching the two of them talk with one another, well, I’d call it heartwarming, but my heart needed a hell of a lot more than warming. It needed a heat wave and that’s exactly what it got when Conner made me a part of his life.

  “I’ll let you two have some time together,” I announce, excusing myself from the room. Conner moves to protest as Rachel winks at me without him seeing it.

  “You don’t have to leave,” he insists, standing from the chair. I push him bac
k down, rubbing his shoulder as I do.

  “I have some things I need to take care of. Besides, I need to get everything in order for the game tonight.” It’s the last game of the season, and the order for the trophies I plan to give to the boys, whether they win or lose, came in the other day and I haven’t had a chance to pick it up.

  “Shit, I forgot all about it.” Conner rakes a hand through his hair, clearly torn between staying with Rachel and going to the game.

  “It’s fine,” I try to calm him down. “The boys will understand. I’ll be sure to explain it to them.”

  Rachel grabs his hand and her eyes crinkle with warmth as she looks at him. “Go, Con,” she assures him. “I’ll be more than okay here. As long as you promise to break me out as soon as you can,” she adds with a playful smile and wink.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, now stop.” She shoots him a pointed look and the conversation is closed.

  Since Conner rode his motorcycle here, we make plans to meet at the field before the game. He walks me to the door, hiding us behind the privacy curtain.

  “I’ll see you later, then.” He laces our hands together, nodding at one of Rachel’s nurses passing in the hallway.

  “Warm-ups start at five fifteen.” With a quick kiss and a warm look, I leave him to spend the afternoon with Rachel.

  “Let’s go, Tigers!” A mass of hands fly into the air before the boys sprint out to the field, careful not to step on the freshly drawn base lines – some superstitions transcend all ages.

  The early evening sky, set ablaze in hot oranges and bright yellows by the low-lying sun, is the perfect backdrop for a championship little league game. “Kieran is on fire tonight,” Conner marks yet another K in the book for his tenth strikeout of the night. After the bottom of the eighth inning, the other team leads in a close game of 2-1.

  Before they take the field to start the final inning, I call the boys in for a final pep-talk. They all huddle around Conner and me. “You guys have played an awesome game. No matter what happens out there, you will always be winners to us.”

  Brett rolls his eyes, and puts his hands in the middle of the circle. “You tell us that all the time, Coach. But we’re here to actually win!” His voice grows louder, spurring on cheers from his teammates. “Let’s do this! Gooooo Tigers!” he calls out and they fling their arms in the air.

  The top of the ninth is a nail-biter to say the least. With one out and two men on base, one on first and one on third, the other team has the opportunity to blow the game wide open right now. “Let’s go, Kieran. You can do this,” I cheer, looking him right in the eyes, hoping to instill as much confidence in him as possible.

  He nods and stands calmly on the mound, reading the signs from the catcher. He winds up and delivers a slider that the batter lifts easily into right field. The third base coach immediately calls the runner on third back to the bag, waiting to tag up and run home.

  Out in right field, Frankie, a scrawny, unsure boy, who barely says more than two words on a good day, turns his body and with clean and utterly perfect skills, he plucks the ball out of the sky and launches it to home plate in one smooth, skillful motion.

  Every single eye at the game tracks the ball as it races to beat the base runner. The umpire throws his arm over his shoulder. With a loud yell, he screams, “You’re out!” and the team jumps up and down in their positions, cheering and clapping, forgetting that they still need to earn two runs to win the game.

  Frankie jogs in from right field, seemingly unaware of the fact that his double play singlehandedly just saved the game. His teammates swarm him, nearly raising him in the air as they charge the dugout.

  After a round of jubilant high-fives, a serious air sets in. Conner talks to them this time, beating me to the punch. “That was amazing, Frankie!” He fist-bumps him and a glimmer of a smile graces Frankie’s usually sad face. “Okay, boys,” he coaches, “you can do this. Just keep your eye on the ball and swing at your pitch. Don’t let him pull you out of your zone.” The love of which I thought I couldn’t speak earlier, consumes me in that moment. Even though right now isn’t the time to declare it, I can’t deny it.

  The loud crack of the bat and the sight of a ball flying through the infield break my daze. With a man on first and Brett up to bat, the pressure mounts. Brett is by far the best hitter we have. He’s also Conner’s favorite – they’ve developed a special bond over the few practices Conner has been with the team.

  In the blink of an eye, the count is already stacked against Brett. Wasting two perfect swings on two less-than-perfect pitches puts him in the hole. Conner calls “time-out” and Brett jogs over to him by the sideline. They exchange a few hushed words that I can’t hear – ones that I let stay between the two of them.

  The pitcher winds up and, for the first time in Brett’s at-bat, he throws a perfect pitch, right down the center of the plate. Brett’s massive swing has one intention: to sail the ball out of the park.

  On a rainbow of an arc, Brett lifts the ball into centerfield, where it’s given a good chase by a lightning fast twelve year old. He races into the fence, crashing into it with the side of his body as his arm reaches up and stretches over it. The ball gazes the leather fingertips of the centerfielder’s mitt and then drops to the ground.

  The crowd erupts into a loud frenzy of cheers. All the workers and younger boys from the home jump up and down in the bleachers, which threaten to break under their celebration. His thirteen teammates rush the field, huddling around the plate as the first base runner crosses home plate, tying the game. As Brett proudly trots down the third base line, the boys start chanting his name, forcing a look of unparalleled pride to bloom on Brett’s face. He stomps on the rubber base, winning the game and the championship for his team.

  When Brett manages to break free from the pack of his teammate’s celebration, he sprints right into Conner’s open arms. “Fantastic! I’m so proud of you!” Conner hugs him tightly before lifting Brett up onto his shoulders.

  With the only family they’ve ever known huddled around them, I give the boys their trophies. Stunned by their prize, they each accept their trophy, simply awed at their name engraved on the brass plate. “Thanks, Coach. These are awesome.”

  After the game, and a round of celebratory ice cream cones from the truck parked next to the field, the boys take a final victory lap around the field, singing “We Are the Champions” as they touch each base a final time.

  Despite the season being over, I promise the boys that I’ll have at least one practice a week over the summer. When they ask if we’ll coach them again next year, Conner speaks before I do. “You’re stuck with us!” They boys hoot and holler at his declaration as they file onto the bus.

  After the bus pulls away, Conner and I walk over to my car. His bike is parked right next to me. “That was really fun,” Conner’s voice is scratchy and sore from all the screaming.

  “They really like having you around,” I say as he swings a leg over the bike. So fucking sexy.

  “What’s not to like?” he jokes as he grabs his helmet from the back. “Meet you at my place?” he asks after leaning in for a quick kiss.

  “Be there in ten,” I kiss him back. As I watch him pull away, a ball of nervousness knots in my stomach thinking about what I have waiting for him when we get there.

  The warm summer sun heats my back on the ride home. Knowing that Dylan will be there waiting for me warms my heart. The conversation I had with Rachel earlier this afternoon plays through my head along with the sounds of my bike thrumming through the street.

  “Yes, I am,” she declared, adding a huff and puff for extra emphasis.

  “Rach,” I stood from my chair in frustration, “what if–”

  She cut me off, throwing her hand up in the air. “What? What if I get hurt again? What if Caleb comes back?” Sarcasm hung heavily on each word. “Conner,” her tone softened, calling me back to my seat at her side. “This,” she pointed to her head,
“was a freak thing. The doctors are giving me a great prognosis and I’ve already scheduled more appointments for follow ups and second opinions than I thought I would have in my entire life,” she rambled, exhausted by her new reality.

  “What about Caleb?” My teeth clenched in anger just thinking about what he did to her, what he did to me.

  “What about him, Con? He hasn’t found us yet, and honestly, I don’t think he’s looking for us.” She pulled my hand into hers. “I need to be able to live my life and you need to be able to live yours.”

  “It’s worked so far.” I tried but failed to get her to see my point.

  She shook her head, laughing at my simple response. “But it can’t work forever. I need to move out, get my own place, and stand on my own two feet.” Her eyes begged me to understand, pleaded with me to agree. It was pointless to argue. She was right and she knew it.

  “You have Dylan now, anyway,” she added, with a touch of hopefulness in her tone, as if she were simply dangling that statement out there to see if I’d bite.

  Hook, line, and sinker, I took the bait. Nodding and smiling, I said, “You’re right.”

  “I’m right that I should move out or that you love Dylan?” She arched an eyebrow and shot me a look.

  I looked at my watch. “I gotta go. The game is going to start soon.” My attempt at deflection was only met with another pointed stare. Arms crossed in silence, she wasn’t going to let me leave without answering her.

  “Yes,” I said. She waved her hands, signaling me to carry on and say what she already knew. “To both.” I smiled and waved goodbye, feeling lighter for having admitted my feelings to someone.

  She said goodbye, a cat-who-ate-the-canary look plastered to her face. “Have fun.” Her singsong voice bounced off my back and I got the distinct feeling that Rachel knew exactly what she was doing through that entire conversation.

  All feelings of happiness vanish as I round the corner to my block and my complex comes into view. Dylan’s car is already parked out front, in what’s become his usual spot. He’s already out of the car and up on the front steps, where he’s locked in an obvious argument with the one person I’d really hoped to never see again.