The Second We Met

by Hughes, Maya

  Those words were too hard to bear. If it was true and he did love me, I’d just broken the best thing that had ever happened to me, and I had no idea how to get it back.

  34

  Nix

  Wrecked. I figured after having defensive linemen out for my blood, fighting tooth and nail to separate my head from my shoulders, I’d known some serious pain—but those hits were like a paper cut compared to this. I’d take non-stop hits from Johannsen on concrete, if it eased this pain even a little bit. My nostrils flared like someone had just opened a jar of Icy Hot right under my nose. The pinprick tightness centered between my eyes.

  What have I done? I left. Numb, I stumbled off the curb and braced my arm against a parking sign, trying and failing to catch my breath. I’d had the wind knocked out of me a lot over the years, but it had never felt like this. The burning sting made me think I’d never take a full breath again. She’d robbed me of more than the air in my lungs.

  My heart was hers fully and completely, but she’d never trusted that. She’d never trusted me, and I couldn’t live teetering on the precipice of a world where she wasn’t mine. Better to do this now before my soul was bound to hers completely and being separated from her was like ripping off a limb.

  Part of me understood her initial freak-out, even if she should’ve known underneath it, something was off here.

  Why had they called my name? Why would they have even thought to give that award to me? I hadn’t done anything Elle had talked about when it came to prepping her application.

  Anger was in an on-the-field brawl with a yawning sadness inside me. I clutched my phone in my hand, torn between rushing right back into the theater to beg Elle to believe me and finding my father so I could wrap my fingers around his neck. My phone buzzed in my hand. I glanced behind me, hope that it was Elle burning like a cruel mistress.

  Of course it wasn’t Elle.

  * * *

  The slow-motion run they do in movies? I thought that was just for dramatic effect, but every step I took inside that hospital was like stepping on freshly poured cement. For the second time in two weeks, I was back there, only this time it was more serious.

  My stomach slammed into the reception desk and I braced my hands on top. “We’re here to see William Russo. He was brought in a couple hours ago.”

  The receptionist in her bright purple scrubs tapped on her keyboard like we were annoying passengers at an airline check-in desk, trying to purposely inconvenience her, not family waiting to know whether our loved one was breathing his last breaths.

  Her response was long and drawn out, each syllable stretched for maximum frustration. We took the steps, Dad lagging two levels behind me, his hand braced on his knee. I burst onto the floor, nearly taking out a doctor walking with a clipboard.

  With wild eyes, I raced down the hall to his room. A doctor closed a chart and shook Gramps’ hand. He looked smaller, almost swallowed up by the huge bed and the tubes running from his arms and chest. The dark circles under his eyes and the slight shake to his hand as he dropped it back to the bed sent panic rushing through me.

  Gramps turned to me and gave me his trademark smirk. In his eyes, he still had that same mixture of determination and mischief. My anxiety dipped from a twelve to a ten.

  The doctor—who looked way too young to be a surgeon—offered his hand. “You must be his grandson Phoenix. William’s been bragging about you since they brought him up here.”

  I shook my head to focus on the doctor’s words. Shouldn’t he have had distinguished gray hairs on his temples? He looked barely older than me.

  “Yes.” I reached out and shook his hand.

  “You’ve got a strong grandfather. The surgery will be standard business. The bypass shouldn’t give us any problems, but he’ll have to take some time to rest, keep the stress levels down.”

  “When’s the surgery?” Under my suit jacket and tie, sweat beaded on the nape of my neck.

  The doctor’s calm and cool demeanor didn’t do anything to stop the crazy pounding in my chest.

  He lifted the sleeve of his lab coat. “In about forty-five minutes. The nurse will be here to prep you in five.” Tapping the edge of Gramps’ bed, he smiled at me, and I wanted to throw him across the room. If it wasn’t serious, why did he need surgery today? And if it was serious enough to need surgery today, why were they waiting? Did he have forty-five minutes?

  “Calm down, Phoenix. I’m fine.”

  “You’re in a hospital attached to eighty different monitors—I hardly think you’re fine.” I hugged him, careful of everything attached to him.

  He flicked his hand away like this was no bigger deal than slicing off a bit of his finger in the kitchen.

  Dad intercepted the doctor outside, his voice seeming to vibrate the floor.

  “What happened?” My fingers skimmed the freezing cold bedrail.

  “Everyone was overreacting in the kitchen, saying I didn’t look so good.”

  “Yeah, obviously a total overreaction—they’re about to wheel you into heart surgery in less than an hour.”

  “I’d have been fine.”

  “You’d have been dead.”

  “I’ve lived a long time, almost eighty years—it was bound to catch up to me.”

  “What was?”

  “All that good food.” He laughed, setting off a cough, and some of the monitors beeped wildly.

  “Mr. Russo, how are you doing in there?” A nurse walked in, the kind of walk you did not to alarm someone, but to still get to where you needed to go quickly.

  “It’s my grandson’s fault.” He looked at her with big puppy dog eyes, and she shot me a censorious look. I swallowed past the lump in my throat, and the corner of my mouth lifted. Even in a hospital bed, he was still sharp as ever. How much longer would I have with him? Being on the road, training camp…even if I was still in town, how much of that little bit of time we might have left would I be missing out on?

  “I’ll be back in here in five minutes with the razor and shaving cream. Be prepared.”

  I blinked at him. “They’re shaving your chest?”

  “No, my crotch. The doctors thread a catheter up through my groin—”

  “Nope, I don’t need the play-by-play. As long as you’ll be okay.”

  “Pops.” Dad stood in the doorway of the room like a visitor waiting for an invitation.

  “Phillip.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine. Phoenix is going to help the nurses prepare me for the surgery, maybe hold one of my legs so they can really get in there.”

  “Dad, be serious.” My dad strode into the room, his gaze bouncing wildly from one machine to another.

  Gramps scoffed. “Why start now?”

  “The nurse was pretty cute—maybe you could get her number.” I winked at him and peered out the open doorway.

  Gramps rubbed his chin. “Maybe I could. Perhaps she likes a silver fox.” He ran a hand through his full head of hair.

  “And the doctor said you need to take it easy, so that means less shifts at the restaurant. Let someone else handle things for a while.” I picked up his hand.

  Every bone stood out against his thin skin. Since when had Gramps gotten so old?

  “It’s my life’s work.” Gramps crossed his arms over his chest, doing his best annoyed teenager look.

  “For once, put something else above it. It’s your health we’re talking about here.” Dad braced his hands on the rail of the hospital bed.

  “I didn’t think you’d care either way.”

  “I can help out, Gramps.”

  My dad’s head snapped up, his eyes wide.

  “You know how much you like my basil ricotta gnocchi. I don’t mind coming in and doing whatever I can.”

  Dad scowled. “You don’t have time for that place.”

  “I’ll make time for Gramps.”

  An assertive knock on the door cut off his next words. “Excuse me, gentlemen, I need to get
Mr. Russo ready for surgery. The family waiting room is down the hall to the left.”

  Dad stormed out past the nurse holding her supplies in her hand. I kissed Gramps on his cheek and gave him another hug.

  “See you on the other side, old man.” Leaving the room, I followed the disappearing figure of my dad down the hall and into the waiting room.

  “You will not step foot in that kitchen to the detriment of your career.” Dad broke off his pacing to point his finger straight at my chest.

  “Gramps needs our help.”

  “He doesn’t need anything but that precious restaurant.”

  “What the hell is your problem? He’s your dad and he’s about to go into surgery. This might be the last time we see him, and you didn’t even say goodbye.” The words I’d kept buried deep down since we got that phone call came charging forward like a linebacker finding his pocket.

  “Did you know your grandfather never came to one of my games?” Dad stood with his back to me.

  “Growing up?”

  He braced his hands on his hips. “No, not just growing up. I mean never. Not once did he ever take a day or a night off to come watch me play.”

  “Are you seriously pissed about that right now?” I guess we were going to be one of those families—not the kind that came together in a crisis, but one that lost it on each other. I was already teetering on the edge, and the previous anger shoved down by worry was percolating, cresting on the edge of explosion.

  Dad’s lips twisted. “The old man will probably die just to spite me.”

  “You’re unbelievable. It’s about you, isn’t it? It’s always about you.” I balled up my fists and tried to keep the thundering blood in my veins from drowning out the rest of the world. “You interfered with the Huffington Award, didn’t you?” My words shot out like nails, ripping through the air.

  He looked at me like I’d asked if the sky was blue. “Of course.”

  “Why?”

  “With how well the charity stories were going, it would’ve been stupid not to capitalize on that. I talked to Sam and he mentioned the blood drive, which you failed to tell me about, and how good that looked for the school.”

  “Because it wasn’t about any of this. I did that for Elle.”

  “She’ll be fine.” He waved it away like she didn’t matter in the looming behemoth of my future prospects.

  I clenched my fists at my sides. “What the hell did my mom ever see in you?”

  The thunderclouds of his anger whipped across his eyes. “What kind of fucked up thing is that to say?”

  “No worse than what you just did. All you care about is creating this perfect picture for you to pitch to the highest bidder to make even more money. It’s not about the money—it’s never been about the money to me.”

  “All I want is for you to have the best future you can. The opportunities out there for you…they’re even better than the ones I had.”

  “And I don’t care.” I held my arms out wide. “I don’t give a shit about any of this. All I wanted was for—”

  “I took steps to make sure you don’t screw up your future. You’ve worked so hard to get here. One mess up—one bad day can bring all that crashing down.”

  “You think I don’t know that? It’s a mantra you’ve beaten into my head every day, before every game, watching every tape of every play I’ve ever made, only ever pointing out my mistakes.”

  “I made sure you’ve had a life most people would dream of, and I was there to support you every step of the way.”

  “You were there pushing me into every step.”

  “And if I hadn’t, what were you going to do? Kick around your grandfather’s restaurant? Throw away your football career to become a cook?”

  “Maybe! What if I did? What if hanging out with Gramps and making food people love was what I wanted?”

  “You’re my son, goddammit!” He jammed his finger into the center of his chest. “And I’ve done the best I can to give you everything I never had. He was setting up Tavola and didn’t have time for silly things like watching me play football. I played my ass off out on that field, hoping maybe one day he’d see that I’d made it and be proud of me, and I made a promise to myself that I’d never do the same to my son.” He stared into my eyes.

  “Dad, you weren’t there. Mom was gone and you were on the road. I practically lived at Tavola. It was my home.”

  “You had a home—our home.”

  “As long as I did everything you wanted, right? As long as I went along with your plans, did what you asked. When you asked me to jump, I said how fucking high. That’s the kind of home I had. That’s how you showed your love—by making me pursue your dream.”

  “I’ve never done anything like that. I wanted you to shine and I wanted to be there to hold that light on you so everyone else could see it, not just because you were my son, but because I knew you had the talent. I knew you had it in you—that greatness.”

  “You wanted your do-over. I was an extension of you, a way to sweep up all those endorsement deals you never got, all the championships you should’ve won. I’m not you. I never wanted to be you, and I’m sick and tired of the people I care about always having conditions on their love.

  “Gramps is the only one who’s ever not given a damn about anything other than me being happy. This is my fault, though. I let you run my life. I went along with whatever you wanted, no questions asked, and let you think you could pull shady things like this and get away with it.”

  Dad’s eyebrows dropped.

  “I’ve been scared. Scared of what might happen if I told you no. Scared of what my life would look like if I did what I actually want to do. Scared I’d lose you. But I’m not scared anymore.” Tears burned in my eyes. “I’m not going to let you railroad me into a life I don’t want.”

  Dad stormed out of the room, the door groaning and banging against the wall in the hallway.

  I had the thought that I might have just lost the last family I had left.

  35

  Elle

  The clock on my bedside table ticked, echoing inside my head. Had it always been this loud? Or was this the first moment of silence I’d allowed myself in who knows how long? I wrapped my arms tighter around my legs and buried my face in my knees.

  Darkness filled my room. How long had it been? Hours? Days? Weeks? No, not weeks. Graduation was only a few days away—or was it tomorrow? Everything ran together since the pieces of tape I’ve been using to hold myself together had been peeled away.

  My tears had run dry, tears for what happened to me now, for how I was meant to drag myself into whatever came next, and tears for how I’d hurt Nix. At every turn, I’d let my past wrap its long, slender fingers around the neck of our future.

  I’d tried to call, so many calls over so many hours. Each call and text went unanswered. I had my answer. This time, there was no coming back from how I’d hurt him, how I’d hurt myself.

  This was my fault—had been since the first day I’d moved into that house. I’d let my issues grow into a tangled wall of thorns, so sharp and wide it was a miracle anyone would try to traverse it, but he had. He’d put up with everything I dished out and didn’t let me get away with any of my old tricks when it came to pushing people away and protecting myself.

  Only this time, the protection had backfired, and he was gone. I’d dragged myself across the street probably looking like I’d been hit by a car and knocked on his door. No answer.

  I’d dragged myself back to my bedroom and had stayed in bed since.

  “Elle…” Jules’ gentle knock and the creaking of my door sounded like a jet engine taking off in my room.

  The bed dipped, but I kept my head where it had been for so long that even the cramp in my neck had given up.

  “I brought you some chocolate chunk cookies.” Her voice was low, and even that was like a roar to my ears.

  I buried my head deeper.

  “No response for a chocolate chunk? No
w you’re scaring me.” Her strained laugh didn’t do anything to help the hollow pit in my chest. “A letter came for you.”

  “I don’t want to see it.” At this point, only bad news and junk mail landed in our mailbox, official letters from the university and crappy credit card offers.

  “It’s from the registrar.”

  Resigned to my fate, I took it from her hand, slipping it from her grip like a dirty tissue. I ripped it open: an official note saying the tuition deadline for the semester had passed. I could walk with my class, but I wouldn’t be able to graduate. The worry and fear that had mounted throughout the semester before the award ceremony were dulled by the chunk of my heart that was now missing. The one thing I’d been trying to avoid had occurred, slamming straight into my face, but it paled in comparison to losing Nix.

  * * *

  The days melded into one continuous session of Jules knocking on my door, trying to get me to come out, and, when I couldn’t, bringing me some food and brushing my hair. Nix still hadn’t returned my calls, not that I could blame him. And then, I couldn’t hide anymore.

  My parents had called from the road; they’d be arriving in a couple hours. I’d have to smile for all the pictures and wear my cap and gown knowing I wasn’t graduating. If I told them the truth, it would crush them. Dad was only just back on his feet at work, and I couldn’t deliver the blow of me not being able to graduate because of money. Adding another helping to this disappointment stew wasn’t going to help anyone. Walking across the stage with the rest of my class, I’d pretend everything was okay for my parents.

  The front door slammed shut so hard it rattled the floor then a set of footsteps raced up the steps. The bathroom door banged open and the shower turned on. Not a word.

  Unfolding myself from the fetal position, I padded out of my bedroom.