Forgiving the Football Player

by Emma St Clair

  Her dark eyes stared with all the emotion of a river stone beneath her fake lashes. “Paxton.”

  He flinched at the sound of her voice, his mouth going dry. Cilla squeezed his hand and rolled slightly forward. His mama’s gaze fell to Cilla and she didn’t hide her examination of Cilla’s legs and the wheelchair.

  Pax’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Mama. Can we come in?”

  Nodding slightly, she turned on her heel, calling over her shoulder. “It’s your house. Of course you can.”

  He ground his teeth. It was a Catch-22 with her. She and Jazz needed his money. But they hated him for giving it to them. Not that he held it over their heads, but neither one had ever properly thanked him for anything he’d done: the house, the cars, covering outstanding debts, even a lawn and pool service. He wondered if she was bitter that he didn’t do everything for them. He never offered to pay their utilities or groceries. He had offered to pay for college if Jazz wanted to go but hadn’t heard a word about that.

  Cilla squeezed his hand, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. “Hey,” she whispered. “In it together.”

  He nodded, and they moved inside. After he closed the door, he scooped Cilla up again to lift her over the single step in the entry. Cilla took his hand again as soon as he set her down, and he was grateful for it. Just seeing Mama had been like a shock of electricity that made his muscles tense and his nerves vibrate. Everything in him fought to leave.

  “I’m in the kitchen,” his mama called.

  Cilla tugged his hand, and then let go to push herself, leading him through the house. The outside, which was perfectly manicured by the crew he paid weekly to mow the lawn, trim hedges, and plant new ground cover as needed, was a stark contrast to the interior, which looked barren.

  The first two rooms didn’t have furniture, other than a folding chair and blanket in what was supposed to be the dining room. The further into the house they moved, the more lived-in it looked, which meant messier. The grand staircase off the foyer had something on every step: shoes, newspapers, a box of cereal, and a backpack. A coat was slung over the bannister.

  The back half of the house featured an open floor plan, with the kitchen connected to a sunken living room with big, bright windows overlooking the pool. Beyond the pool and the metal fence was a lake, the fountain just beyond their yard. The view was the best part of the room.

  His mama stood at the counter in the kitchen, fixing what looked like iced tea in a plastic pitcher. The granite counters were almost hidden under dirty dishes, groceries that hadn’t been put away, and scattered mail.

  “Tea? It’s all I’ve got. Or water.”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Cilla said.

  Mama made a noise of disapproval in the back of her throat and glanced at Pax, as if proving a point.

  “Tea, thanks.”

  He didn’t like or want tea. There was something about being in his mother’s presence that made him fall back into being a boy again, not a grown man who had been on his own for six years. He caved under her silent pressure the same way he always had, and the realization filled him with shame.

  Without another word, his mama handed him a glass and then stepped down into the sunken living area. A huge TV perched on what looked like a cheap particle-board dresser. The fake-leather sectional sofa had big pieces peeling off. Mama dropped into a recliner and kicked off worn bedroom slippers. Pax set down his glass on a table and picked Cilla up, walking her down the steps.

  “I’m with you,” she whispered into his ear as he set her down. The kindness in her voice almost made him crumple. Then he caught sight of Mama watching and stiffened.

  Pax chose a seat on the end of the couch so Cilla could be next to him. She reached for him, holding out her hand like a silent question mark. He took it and squeezed her fingers. Everything about this moment was humiliating for him, but he drew strength from her presence. She already knew his family. Nothing here surprised her. And he knew that Cilla didn’t see their behavior as a reflection of his.

  “You left your tea over there,” his mama said, pointing with long, manicured nails to the table where he’d set his tea. As he watched, she poured a mini bottle of what looked like vodka into her tea.

  “I’ll get it in a minute.” He cleared his throat. “How are you, Mama?”

  “Same as always.” She pointed her glass of tea toward Cilla. “Surprised to see you two together. I wouldn’t think you would want to be so … public.” Her gaze fell toward Cilla’s legs and Pax felt anger filling up his chest.

  “Mama—”

  “It’s fine.” Cilla glanced at him, giving a wink, and squeezed his hand before turning back to his mother, a challenge in her voice. “Why, exactly, would you think that?”

  Pax wanted to be anywhere in the world but this room with his mother and Cilla. They had never liked each other, but now seemed poised on the edge of something far more dangerous with words like sharpened knives. He wanted to stop it somehow but knew that saying anything would be akin to stepping into the middle of a fight.

  His mother opened her mouth, but then the sound of footsteps banging down the stairs stopped her. Mama’s gaze flicked to the stairs as Jazz’s voice called out. “Mama! Who’s here?”

  When she stepped through the doorway, Jazz’s feet stopped moving so fast that she almost toppled forward into the sunken living room. Pax dropped Cilla’s hand and stood quickly, trying to swallow down the rising tide of emotion in his throat.

  Jazz had always been a beautiful girl. With dark hair like Pax’s and their mother’s, she had her father’s bright blue eyes and high cheekbones that didn’t seem to come from either of her parents. She wore a red sweater that fell off one shoulder and black leggings with some kind of fuzzy boots. Since he’d last seen her, she’d grown a few inches and was almost eye-level with Pax, which was saying something.

  Her eyes were what had him frozen. The last time he saw her, she simply glared at him from across the room, like she blamed him for any and every problem she had in her life. His stomach felt like a quivering ball of nerves as he waited for her to speak.

  Before he could even choke out a word, she crossed the room and launched herself at Pax, wrapping her arms around his neck until he was holding her up off the ground. She was so light in his arms, reminding him of how he’d done this when Jazz was a little girl. She clutched him like her life depended on it and Pax’s breathing hitched.

  Over Jazz’s shoulder, he caught Cilla’s eyes. She had a hand over her mouth and tears in her eyes. He was blinking away his own. Of all the things he had expected, any kind of welcome wasn’t one of them. Much less an enthusiastic one.

  “I am so sorry, Pax,” Jazz whispered into his neck. “I was such a brat. For years and years. Can you forgive me?”

  “Yep.” The one word was all he could choke out. He pressed his face into Jazz’s hair. She smelled the same, like peaches. He remembered the shampoo—White Rain, the kind they could buy at the dollar store. He wondered if she still bought the bargain brand, or if she’d upgraded to a more expensive shampoo with the same scent.

  Jazz pulled back, smiling widely. “You got a little something in your eye there, brother,” she said, reaching up to wipe away a tear. “Me too.”

  Pax swallowed, still not able to form any kind of complete sentence. Jazz turned to Cilla and leaned down to give her a hug as well. She whispered something to Cilla that had them both giggling.

  “Well, isn’t this a lovely reunion,” his mama said, drawing the attention back to herself.

  Jazz flopped down on the couch, taking Pax’s spot next to Cilla. She patted the spot next to her. Pax perched on the edge of the cushion, legs twitching. The emotion in his chest was too big, too thick for him to relax.

  “Now, Mama, let’s not be dramatic.” Jazz pressed a finger to her lips. “Oh, wait. That’s the only way you know how to be.”

  The tension in the room skyrocketed. Mama scanned over their three fa
ces as though she were staring down enemies. The anger radiated off her almost like the wave of heat that would hit in summer, walking out of an air-conditioned building into the Texas heat.

  “What brings you home, brother?” Jazz turned to him and patted his knee.

  That was the second time she had called him brother. Pax felt like his brain had gotten so tripped up by her effusive greeting and apology that he didn’t know how to recover. He shot a panicked look to Cilla.

  “He’s helping out with Wheels Up. It’s a charity he started, actually, but kept it really quiet. It’s where I work. We’re doing a big event this weekend called the Wheels Up Winter Games. Mostly for kids to compete in different events in their wheelchairs.”

  His Mama snorted, but Jazz turned to Cilla and then looked back at Pax. “I had no idea. I want to help. Can I do anything?”

  Cilla blinked back her surprise. “Of course, we could use tons of volunteers. This week there are a lot of little things around the office and the games are Saturday if you want to come help out. There will be a lot of jobs on the day of. I’ll get your number from Pax.”

  “Great. I’d love to be there.” Jazz stood up. “I hate to run, but I’m actually heading out to meet my boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend?” Pax found his voice at this and sounded much more territorial than he meant to.

  Jazz laughed and playfully slapped his shoulder. “He’s a good guy. I’ve learned my lessons there. Trust me. You’re here through the weekend?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay. I’ll be in touch. He’ll want to meet you. I mean, he’ll be terrified, but happy.” She laughed again, then held his eyes. “I really am sorry about how I treated you, Pax. I know it wasn’t your fault Byron left. He was a terrible father anyway. And you were always a great brother. Even when I didn’t appreciate you.”

  Jazz leaned down and kissed Pax’s cheek, gave Cilla’s shoulder a squeeze, and then headed out, not bothering to say goodbye to their mother. After the week he’d had, Pax didn’t think anything else could surprise him, but he felt like Jazz had been abducted by aliens and a replacement sent in her place.

  What had happened since he last saw her? He couldn’t even remember how long ago that was.

  As if reading the questions in his mind, his mama rolled her eyes and said, “She found Jesus a year ago. Went on some youth retreat something-or-other. I shouldn’t have let her go.”

  Of course his mother would see this as a bad thing. She had never been into church. Pax had gone with Cilla through high school, the only time her parents willingly tolerated him. Since the accident, his own faith had been a complicated and mostly nonexistent thing. Seeing Jazz made a flicker of shy hope stir to life in his chest. If she could change, maybe there was hope for Pax.

  His mother still glared. How could she begrudge anything that changed Jazz?

  It wasn’t just that Jazz had stopped being angry with him. When he last saw her, she had been shrouded in anger and bitterness. A sullen girl furious with the world. Now she radiated joy and peace. He wondered why she hadn’t called to talk to him earlier. With a sharp pang, he realized that she may not have known that he would want to talk to her. He’d bought them the house and continued providing money, but Pax stopped reaching out years ago.

  His mama continued, “Then again, I gave up all hope on my children years ago.”

  The words shouldn’t have stung. But his mama knew him well, even if she loved poorly. Her barbs always struck home.

  “Good thing they didn’t give up on you,” Cilla said, her voice sharp with anger, a blade cutting through the air. “You wouldn’t have this lovely home. Or the cars in the garage.”

  Pax wanted to stop her, though hearing her come to his defense warmed him. There was no point in tangling with his mama. It was a fight without winners. With Jazz gone, all the light and joy had been sucked right out of the house.

  Pursing her thin lips, his mama nodded to Cilla’s chair. “And you’d still have legs that worked.”

  Pax had never wanted to hit—or hurt—a woman. But in that moment, he really, really did. Cilla’s head snapped back as though the words had physically struck her. Without hesitation or a backward glance, Pax picked Cilla’s chair up and carried her out of the room. Her arms instinctively wrapped around his neck and she pressed her face into his chest.

  “Goodbye, Mama,” he called over his shoulder when he reached the front door. He hoped it sound like what it was: a final, not temporary, farewell.

  Her voice drifted out from the back of the house. “Suit yourself. Not like I asked you to come.”

  “No,” he muttered. “You didn’t. And I shouldn’t have.”

  He managed to wrangle the door open, balancing the chair against his body. He did not put Cilla down until they were next to her car. He placed her gently beside it and knelt at her feet. Cilla sniffed and wiped her face.

  “It shouldn’t matter. I’m fine.”

  Taking her hands, Pax squeezed them. “Cilla, I am so sorry about my mother.”

  She smiled too brightly and lifted a shoulder. “Oh, I’ve heard worse.”

  Pax fought to find just the right thing to say. He hated that for her. He hated the pain in her eyes that she tried to hide. He could see an ugly cocktail of emotion forming there: anger, hurt, shame, despair. A hammer of guilt struck a solid blow in the center of his chest. The guilt would likely never leave him. No matter what he suggested earlier about letting go.

  Words would not do. Not for this wound.

  Pax leaned forward slowly as he lifted Cilla’s hands. He pressed his lips to her knuckles, one by one by one. When he finished, he lifted his eyes to her face. She watched him with wide, wet eyes. Dropping her hands, Pax wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. Then, before he could think himself out of it, he closed the distance between them and let his lips brush over hers.

  The gentle press of their lips lasted only a moment. He pulled back slightly, resting his forehead on hers, already feeling breathless. Their eyes met, and something unspoken passed between them. Pax swore something clicked into place deep in his soul.

  “Pax,” she said, her voice a raw whisper.

  “I know.”

  He wanted to move forward a few inches, to settle his mouth firmly on hers. He wanted to kiss her like a declaration, a claiming. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not without knowing what he would be declaring, and if she even wanted to be claimed by him.

  Getting to his feet, Pax pressed a lingering kiss on her forehead. It was hardly enough, but for the moment, it was all he could offer.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Did your parents move?”

  Pax’s words jolted Cilla back into the moment. She shook her head, dispelling the thoughts that had pulled her under. They had both been silent since they left his mama’s house. Since he had kissed her in the driveway, opening doors or old wounds. She wasn’t sure which yet.

  Staring at the road ahead, realizing she hadn’t explained why she was driving away from her parents’ house, not toward it.

  “Uh, no,” she said, a hint of a smile ghosting over her lips. “Taking a detour. I thought we could use a breather between the family disasters.”

  “Tell me about it,” he muttered.

  His mother’s cold words still bounced around Cilla’s head like a pinball. Just when she thought that they stopped hurting, they struck another nerve.

  Cilla didn’t want to be bitter. Wishing the accident hadn’t happened did nothing to change the present. Actually, it made things worse, at least according to the therapist she stopped going to years ago. The woman had urged Cilla to acknowledge the feelings, then move on.

  Move. On. Like that was a thing she could do.

  As she had wheeled out of the woman’s office mid-session, Cilla shouted, “Tell me how that works for you when you lose the use of your legs!”

  She couldn’t stomp out of a room anymore, but she could still slam the heck out of a door. It wasn’t as
satisfying, if she were being totally honest. But that’s the thing Cilla was realizing: she wasn’t totally honest. Or even a little honest. Not with other people and not even with herself.

  Pax being here forced so many things to the surface: the sense of loss, her bitterness about her injury, her anger with him for leaving, her anger with so many people for reasons they didn’t deserve, and the love she couldn’t deny that she still felt.

  Yes, love.

  If that had not been abundantly clear to her in all the years she pined after Pax, it was now. Every cell in her body—even the ones she couldn’t feel, she was sure—were pulled into his orbit. It was hard not to close the distance between them in the car right now, even to take his hand. She clutched the wheel more tightly, determined not to obey those instincts.

  Because, despite the kiss, she had no illusions that he felt the same way. Not anymore.

  His kiss, sweet as it was to her, tasted of regret, pity, and sorrow. His mom’s harsh words broke something in him. He hadn’t done it because he loved her or still felt drawn to her the way she was pulled toward him.

  If he was, the kiss wouldn’t have ended there.

  No, she needed to shut down any hope she might have about rekindling something beyond this fake relationship.

  With all that turmoil twisting around in her gut, heading straight to her parents’ house would be like dropping a match into a fuel tank. Cilla felt ready to blow. She needed time. Space. A moment. If she could have done this without Pax, she would have, but she was stuck with him riding shotgun. Maybe he needed a moment to.

  When Cilla turned down the old farm road, she glanced over to see him smiling. “I can’t believe this hasn’t been developed yet,” he said, looking out the window towards the fence and farmhouse beyond. “They still have emus!”

  One of the giant birds stalked along the fence. They had discovered this emu farm in high school. Maybe it wasn’t technically an emu farm, since they only appeared to have a handful. But it was a farm with emus.