Todd’s designs are edgier with a punk rock theme. I definitely sense an eighties vibe with his formal wear. The A-line scoop sleeveless bodice gives way to puffy layers of black tulle overlaying purple satin. He’s nailed the look perfectly.
My stomach takes a nosedive when my picture flashes next. I grab Todd’s hand for support as my designs begin showing. The same admiring murmurs Marla’s designs received fill the room. I exhale, slowly releasing my pent-up anxiety. I’ve worked with these designs the entire last semester. I’ve seen them hundreds of times, made endless tweaks, but there’s something different about viewing them on screen with a room full of bystanders.
When all of the students’ designs have been shown, the overhead light brightens. I take a sip of water as Professor Scott steps back to the podium.
“As you can see, Cessna University has a lot of talented students. Narrowing down the choices to two individuals wasn’t an easy task. After careful consideration of each design and what we feel the show’s producers are looking for, we’re proud to announce the finalists.”
I freeze, barely breathing. Todd’s hand squeezes mine tighter.
“Miss Marla Benning and Miss Shannon Smith.”
“Oh my, God, you did it!” Todd drops my palm in exchange for a quick hug. He then claps his hands together and squeaks as if I’ve been awarded an Academy of Fashion Award. But honestly, it feels like I did. Only it’s the Cessna U’s art department special edition. Holy crap. I’m one step closer to my dream.
I glance over Todd’s shoulder, and my gaze connects with Noah’s. Appreciation coats his eyes, and I can practically feel how proud he is of me. I’m glad he came and that we could share this moment even if it’s from a distance. He gives me a sad smile as the brightness in his eyes dulls to regret.
My brother works his way toward me with Cara on his tail. Noah nods but doesn’t follow. He dips out of the room instead. I don’t have time to think what that means as people bombard me with congratulations and pats on the back. The only one who doesn’t return my smile is Marla. Her look was fleeting but every bit as spiteful as her attitude. Big surprise. It should make working beside her until the contest ends in April interesting. I have three and a half months to endure her. One thing’s for sure, she can’t say my designs suck. Well, I guess she can, but I won’t believe her.
“Congratulations, sis.” Braxton pulls me into a hug, followed by Cara.
“Thanks! I still can’t believe it.”
“Your designs were elegant,” Cara says. “I’ve been seeing them back at the dorm, but they look spectacular on the big screen.”
“I know, right? I can’t believe you talked Noah into coming.” I cringe. I didn’t mean to say that thought out loud. The last thing I want is for me to sound desperate.
“We didn’t talk him into anything,” Cara says, her voice softening. “He said he wasn’t about to miss your day.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure how to process that. He still cares enough to come and support me but not enough to be my boyfriend? Friend. He did say he wanted to be friends. I don’t think I can do that, though.
“Let’s not talk about how bad Noah’s doing. This is your time. I’m so damn proud of you, sis.”
“Thanks, Gee-Gee. This is just the first step. I still have another hurdle before moving on.” I glance over at Marla, who tosses her head back in laughter at whatever Professor Scott said. One tall hurdle indeed.
Chapter Forty
Noah
“Well, that’s unexpected.” I fumble the phone in my hand when I read the incoming message. I recover and type a quick response.
“What’s that?” Garret asks.
“My mom’s in town.” This never happens. Mom never leaves the house. Like ever. It wasn’t until a couple of years ago she ventured out of the city. But for her to truck clear across the state on her own… That’s unreal and so far from her norm I don’t know what to think. Is she sick? She doesn’t do things like that. When I was younger, I never thought anything about her absence. Dad was the one who took me everywhere. It was always Dad who showed up to my games until he got to the point he could no longer walk without assistance. Mom took care of Dad, and the Smiths taking me to the games and practices became the norm. After Dad died, her ability to function in public nosedived. Last year’s College World Series was her first major outing. I think the coaxing from Mrs. Smith—or Sarah as she keeps reminding me—had more to do with it than Mom’s willingness to join civilization. I can’t believe she’s here.
“Your mom’s in L.A.?” Braxton asks, the surprise evident in his voice.
“Yeah. She wants to go out to eat.”
“Wow. That’s…good?” The shock must have overridden Braxton’s discontentment toward me. I doubt he forgot how mad he is at me, but he knows more than anyone how much of a milestone this is for my mom.
It’s been a month since Shannon found out she’s a finalist for Glamour Project. That was the last day I’ve seen Shannon. She still doesn’t come around. Braxton barely speaks. Conditions in the house have been tolerable. Garret hasn’t been himself either. He’s moodier than ever. The biggest surprise is Dalton. He’s the glue holding us all together. Too bad that doesn’t carry over to the field. His cocky attitude isn’t winning over the teammates’ trust.
“Noah, a word.”
My stomach drops as Coach calls my name. I give Braxton a glance. Concern etches his features. Great. This is where the coach tells me I’m not starting tomorrow’s game. Rumors have spread that scouts are going to be there. Regardless of them being true or not, I don’t want to give up my starting position. I knew helping that kid would come back and bite me in the ass.
I stand outside the coach’s door as a grown man, but staring at the metal door makes me feel like I’m in Little Leagues again about to be reprimanded. Holy hell, my stomach is tied up in knots. I take a calming breath and slowly release it before knocking.
“Come in.” Coach’s voice carries through the door.
I gulp down my trepidation and push through. If I can’t bargain my way into playing tomorrow’s game, I’ll work harder and prove how I deserve this spot. It’s the only thing I can do.
“You wanted to see me, Coach?”
“Yeah, have a seat.”
I’d rather stand, but I obey and sink into the leather cushion that’s closest to me. I look straight forward while Coach glances up from the papers piled on his mahogany desk. His reading glasses rest on the lower edge of his nose.
“I’ll make this brief. I wanted to let you know scouts from the Diamondbacks are going to be at the game tomorrow. They’re evaluating pitching and catching, so bring your A-game.”
Relief chased by excitement spreads through me like wildfire. This is what I’ve been waiting for—a chance to prove my worth.
“Thanks, Coach. I’ll be starting tomorrow’s game then?”
His lips purse as he studies me for a moment. Heat rises on the back of my neck. Did I misinterpret his meaning?
“Being a good hitter and having a good throwing arm makes a good catcher.” He leans forward, elbows resting on top of his desk, and gives me a stern look as if to drive his point home. “But reading your pitchers, knowing their quirks and temperaments, and the overall situational awareness is what makes a great catcher. You’re a great catcher, Geren. Don’t forget that.”
I think he just told me my starting spot is preserved.
“Thanks, Coach. I’ll be ready tomorrow.”
“I know you always fight on the field. Now, get out of here. I’ve got work to do.”
I nod. Coach has always been direct and to the point. I couldn’t have asked for a better manager. I head to the locker room and find a couple of teammates still lingering while Garret and Braxton wait by my locker.
“What’d Coach have to say?” Garret asks.
A slow smile spreads across my face. “Only that Arizona is sending scouts here tomorrow, specifically for pitching and catching.”
“Ah, man, that’s great.” Garret punches my arm.
“Awesome. I knew you didn’t have anything to worry about.” The smile on Braxton’s face tells me we’ll be okay.
“Too bad you’re going out with your mom. This calls for a celebration.”
“It’s a good thing I’m meeting her then. I can’t be hungover for tomorrow’s game.”
“Whatever. You wouldn’t get drunk, anyway.” Garret laughs. “Meet you outside.”
The last of the teammates follow Garret out, and I’m left alone with Braxton. He rests his hand on the back of his neck. The pained expression looks as if he wants to say something but doesn’t know if he should. Just spit it out, bro. I don’t know what more he wants from me. I stopped seeing his sister. Although it wasn’t because he told me to, but at this point, it doesn’t matter. The outcome is the same.
“Look, I’m—” He shakes his head. “Forget it. We’ll slay them on the field tomorrow.”
“You bet.”
He takes a step toward the exit but then stops. He tips his head toward the ceiling and huffs out a swear word before slowly turning to face me. “If you broke up with Shannon because of me, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said you weren’t good enough. You’re my best friend. There isn’t anyone who’d be better for her.”
My jaw tightens. An apology is the last thing I expected. I clear my throat, trying to shake loose the emotion swelling in my throat. “Thanks, but there’s more to it than that.”
“I can tell you’re fucking miserable. What’s going on? I don’t understand why you’re torturing yourself?”
Silence stretches between us. The need to tell him—to tell someone—wars with the need to keep my impending doom a secret. But damn, carrying this burden is too overwhelming at times. My eyes gloss over, and I’m so caught by the emotion I cave.
“I don’t want to burden her.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
It doesn’t feel right explaining to Braxton instead of Shannon, but she can’t know. She can never know. “You know my dad had ALS, right?”
He nods, seemingly confused.
“Dad’s was the familial kind. Meaning there’s a fifty-fifty chance I could have it.”
“Oh.” His eyes widen as understanding fills them. “And you don’t want to burden my sister.”
I close my eyes and nod. The pang in my chest tightens. “I don’t want her to end up like my mom.”
“Have you explained this to her?”
“No! I don’t plan to. I know what she’d say. She wouldn’t care less about the condition and insist on taking care of me.” Because that’s what she does. I stare Braxton straight on. “I don’t want her to end up like my mom—devoid of emotion.”
He flinches. “Have you already been diagnosed?”
“No.”
“Is there a test?”
“It’s complicated. Look, I have to go meet my mom. But now, you understand why I had to end it. Shannon deserves a life better than what I could give her.”
“I really think you need to explain this to her. Cara and I wasted a lot of time due to miscommunications and assumptions. Don’t make our mistakes.”
“I won’t burden her.”
“At least talk this over with your mom when you see her.”
That conversation would lead to a discussion about Dad, a taboo subject. I don’t want to upset her, but maybe, he’s right. I could at least ask what genes were affected so I can get tested.
“Thanks, man.”
He gives me a bro hug and then leaves. At least, our friendship is on the right path. Now, to see why my reclusive mother trucked all the way downstate to have dinner. The knot in my stomach tightens further.
* * *
The warm smile Mom greets me with helps ease my nerves. If she’s sick, she certainly doesn’t act like it. There isn’t any nervousness coating her face. If anything, she looks peaceful. Is peaceful too weird to describe your mom? Seems weird. But she’s been so down all these years her smiling is a welcomed sight.
We just finished our dinner at Dido’s Italiano Restaurant. The place is the go-to when craving a fancy meal that isn’t too far from campus.
“I still can’t believe you’re here.” I place the napkin on the table and stare openly at her. The usual bags under her eyes have disappeared. Did she have plastic surgery I wasn’t aware of?
“There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
Here we go. She takes a deep breath, and the worry lines appear. I steel my insides for what she’s about to say.
“I don’t know how else to say this.”
“Just give it to me direct.” I stare at my hands fisted on top of the table. We may not be close, but I don’t want to lose my only parent. Who would I have left?
“I’ve met someone.”
My head snaps up. “What?” Or more importantly, how?
“I’ve been seeing someone. I think it’s time you two finally meet. He’s asked me to get married.”
I stare at my mother in disbelief. “I was just home two months ago. You never said a word. Are you sure he’s not after your money?” And seriously, how the hell did you meet?
“His portfolio is substantially larger than ours, but that’s not important. We’ve been seeing each other for about six months.”
“Six months, and you’re just now telling me?”
“I’m sorry. But I needed to make sure we were serious.” She shakes her head. “I know you’re old enough, but I had to work on this myself. But we get along so well, and he’s the first guy to make me happy since your father passed away.”
I sit back in my seat, silently reveling at my mom’s transformation. She never talks about Dad. Never mentions his death. Despite being blindsided by this information, I think this guy—wherever the hell he came from—is good for her. I clear my throat. “How did you guys meet?”
She sucks her lip in and glances down at the table.
“Mom?” I raise my eyebrows to prompt her and wonder why the hell she’s so reluctant to tell me.
“He’s my therapist.”
Oh my God, my mom’s starring in a bad porn reality show. And that thought makes me want to scrub my brain with Lysol.
“You cannot be serious.” When she doesn’t say anything, I continue. “What’s his name?”
“Richard Bowing.”
And the star’s name of the reality porn show is Dick. Awesome. Pushing aside my snarky comment, I ask, “When did you start seeing a therapist.”
“After you won the College World Series. Sarah talked me into seeing someone.” She huffs. “It was long overdue.”
“Eleven years,” I say dryly.
She squirms in her seat. “Actually, longer than that, son.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is going to take some time.” She motions for the waiter to fill up her wineglass. When her glass is full, she takes a gulp before speaking. “Have you ever heard of enochlophobia?”
“No.” I drag out the word out, wondering where Mom is going with this.
“Enochlophobia is the fear of crowds, and it’s something I’ve had to deal with practically my whole life.”
I stare at my mother, wondering why it took until I was twenty-two years old to find this out. But the further she explains, it’s like a switch clicked in my head, and my entire childhood now makes sense. Dad never pressured Mom into going out with us. He always made an excuse for her to me. Not once did he look mad or disgusted by her. He was her support. Her rock.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
She averts her gaze and takes a sip of wine. “You’re my son. I was supposed to be strong for you, not tell you I couldn’t go to your game because I feared the people crowding around me.”
“Dad helped you with that,” I state more than asking, but Mom nods.
“After he died, it was like I lost not only my husband but my support system. The grief made it eas
ier to just check out. I’m sorry I missed out on so many things.”
“Mom, don’t apologize. I don’t have any regrets.” Other than Dad dying. After a beat of silence, I add, “So, this guy must be helping. You came all the way here by yourself.”
The corners of her mouth pull into the first genuine smile I’ve seen on Mom in years. “He’s helped quite a bit, but I’m not by myself. He came with me.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “He’s here?” My gaze ping-pongs around the room as if I know who to look for.
“Not at the restaurant but back at the hotel. I didn’t want to spring him on you. I can bring him to the game tomorrow if you want.”
“That would be good.”
“Can I ask you something about Dad?”
“Of course.”
“Can you release his records to my physician here? I want to get tested for ALS, and it would help to know which genes of his were affected.”
Her eyes widen. “Have you been having problems?”
I don’t know how to answer her. Part of me wants to lie and say no, but she knows they wouldn’t be testing me if I didn’t show any early signs. “A few tremors in my hands. It’s been a few months back, and I haven’t had any since, but I’d like to have them run the test.”
Concern crosses her face. “Yes, just let me know where to send them.”
“Do you regret marrying Dad?”
“No. Not at all. I loved that man with everything I had.”
“I thought the reason you never left the house was because of his death.”
“His death hit me hard. I was dependent on him, so when he left, my entire support left too. But I don’t regret the years we had.” She tilts her head and studies me. “You look upset. What are these questions really about?”
I keep quiet, not sure how to respond. How do I admit I was too afraid to take the chance with the one I love? Mom didn’t know about Dad’s condition before marrying him, but I do. Or I will once the testing confirms it. But even if the results are negative, there’s still a slight chance of developing it later in life. Letting her go was the right thing to do, but it doesn’t feel that way anymore.
Behind the Count: Cessna U Wildcats Book Two Page 23