by Ginger Scott
Blue highways. Is it bad that I’m rooting for another dead end?
Chapter Twenty
Nolan
The Saddleback Inn has the worst mattresses on the planet. There was one room left, with a single full bed, because for whatever reason, people flocked to the Saddleback Inn this week. I don’t think Reed slept at all, and I maybe slept two hours. My neck feels like it got kicked, so I can’t even imagine what his muscles feel like. I keep offering to drive, but he refuses to give up the wheel.
He’s going to be tired when he reports. Maybe I should have let him go on his own. This was probably selfish—this time I took from him.
His hand moves across the center console to my knee, and Reed flips his palm over and stretches his fingers, begging for my hand to rest in his. I smile at the age lines in his skin and draw a line along the three wrinkles that are set deep with calluses.
“Did you ever have your fortune told at the Spring Fling?” I think Sarah played the part of the psychic our junior year, which means that any of those fortunes were complete BS.
“Nah, I never believed in that crap. Why?” He squeezes my hand and glances at me, his eyes scrunching in the morning sun. I reach up with my other hand and find his junky old sunglasses clipped to my visor and hand them to him.
“Thanks,” he says, sliding them on his face. He’s had the same pair for the last decade, and even though they’re too big to be in style now, he keeps them because Peyton hates them.
“Sarah had a book about palm reading that she took out from the library. She got it so she could run the booth that one year. And those lines are supposed to be how many children you are destined to have.”
He slips his hand from mine and flattens his palm along the steering wheel to examine it. He shrugs and quirks his lip.
“We better get to work then, I guess,” he says, winking.
“Uh, no, buddy,” I shoot back.
He reaches over to brush his fingertips along my face next.
“My life is perfect,” he says, and a warmth fills my chest that I haven’t felt in years.
I hesitate to break this moment up with things like the real reason I needed to make this drive with him, but I know if I don’t broach the subject, then he’s just going to fall right back into that place when I’m no longer here to be a distraction.
A few more miles pass before I find the courage, and I don’t bring it up gracefully.
“We should talk about Trig,” I say, instantly wanting a do-over.
Reed’s staring at the road ahead, and if I weren’t so finely tuned to his subtleties, I never would know that his heart and mind just did a shift. His brow dents and his lips pinch tighter in the corners, like he’s pretending to think about what I’m asking. It’s a mask he wears sometimes when I force him to get raw with his feelings.
“What do you mean?”
I expected that response, so I shift in my seat and bring my leg in, tucking it under the other so I can face him more.
“Trig’s death scared you.” I know it did. Hell, it scared me, too.
Reed blows out a short laugh and bunches his face.
“I’m sad, sure. I’m really sad. A little angry, too…maybe confused, but scared? Nah,” he says. I think he might actually believe that.
“I think, though…” I breathe in long and slow through my nose, ready for a fight. “I think maybe you are.”
He shoots me the look I expect, one eye closed more than the other. It’s the, “Stop being crazy, Nolan” look. Nine out of ten times, that look means I’ve touched a nerve. It means I’m right.
“I know you don’t want to deal with this now, but if you don’t, Reed, I’m afraid it’s going to become a thing that eats away at you. And I’m afraid you won’t be sharp. I’m afraid you’ll get hurt,” I admit.
“Ahhhhh,” he snickers. “I see what this is about. You’re the one that’s afraid. I’m not Trig, Babe. I don’t get hit the same way, and our offense runs differently. I’m going to be okay.”
“Reed, that’s not what I’m saying.” I twist back in my seat and sigh, sinking in and gripping the strap of my seatbelt across my chest.
“I can’t have you not believing in me, Noles. That…that is what’s going to get me hurt. Not some psychosomatic stuff or memories and regrets…it’s me worrying about you that’s going to be the thing that gets in my way out there.” His tone has gotten a little angry and his volume louder. His nostrils flare as his eyes shift from me to the road and back.
“Reed, I’m pretty sure I’m here with you—for you.” I’m starting to get mad now.
“Yeah, but you don’t want to be. You haven’t watched me in years. You know what that feels like?” His words cut to a raw space in my chest. A tornado snakes up my throat and wrecks my heart.
He is my everything, and I always want to be with him. I’m just too terrified to see something awful happen to him. I’ve admitted that to him! I can say when I’m scared.
“You really think I’m not here for you?” I ask.
He shrugs, a flippant gesture that goads me into pushing us over the edge.
“Why the hell do you think I made Jason fuck up your flight? You think I wanted to ride across the desert in the most uncomfortable car known to man? I left our daughter at home with a broken heart, and I know what those feel like, Reed. I’ve been there!”
Shit, that was dirty. My breathing has gotten faster, like I’ve run a sprint. I’ve landed in the irrational and this is when I get messy and mean.
“You told Jason to cancel my flight?” He zeroes in on that one piece first, his eyebrows high with his question.
“Yeah, but only because…”
“Are you serious?” He shouts his question, interrupting me.
“Reed, listen. I only did it because I saw how you were, and I was…I am… worried.” I’m stammering.
“Do you have any idea how bad that looks for me? I’m never going to be able to convince people that I have my act together if I can’t show up for things when I’m called on to lead. Noles, that was a really fucked-up thing to do, and I can’t believe you didn’t know better!”
I start to blink tears. He’s yelling now, and he’s right about a few of the things he’s mad about, but also…he’s so very wrong!
“Why does it matter? They need you? Reed…if you aren’t on your game it won’t matter anyway, and this Trig stuff…it’s messing with you! I see it!”
“It matters because if I do good here—now—maybe I get a contract extension, or better…picked up by Arizona. They love veteran quarterbacks, and I’ve still got so much to give. I do good here, I get everything I want, Nolan. This is my shot, my last shot, and I can’t take things for granted by skipping out on warm-ups and practices and shit.”
I’m stunned silent. My tongue feels fat, swollen with the sickness now choking away my air. I blink and the tears that were threatening my eyes slip down my cheeks.
“Extension.”
The word falls from my lips so emotionless. No question, just fact, in the way I say it. Reed lets out a heavy breath.
“I don’t know. I was just thinking about it, but it doesn’t matter now.” He’s speaking away from me, and the wind attacking the Jeep from the mountain pass has drowned out most of his sounds. I’m glad. These miles will be for reflection. For both of us.
When we clear the Palm Desert, the traffic picks up to that frenetic L.A. hustle, and Reed’s attention turns to the busy lanes. He has a new distraction, and he’s playing up how intent he needs to drive, overacting with his expressions and remarks to other drivers. I’ve quit waiting for our conversation to continue, instead turning my attention to everything I’m missing at home right now.
To Peyton.
I text her a few times, asking if she’s all right, and when she doesn’t answer after thirty minutes, I refresh our family tracking app to see where she is, relieved when she shows up at the house. She’s probably asleep. I wish I was. There’s no chance of that happeni
ng now, though.
I keep trying to get Reed to connect with my gaze, to notice how much I’m staring at him. I know he feels it, but as much as I’m working to find him, he’s running away. He’ll look to the right, but only so far. His arms flexed and tense with their grip on the wheel. My master of avoidance.
When his phone rings with Jason’s call, I know that I’ve lost him for the rest of the day, maybe even the weekend. He starts in with questions about his schedule, interviews and meeting times to catch up with the coaching staff. I sit on my hands and wait for him to give up the fact that he knows what I’ve done and to get angry at Jason for it. He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t bring it up once, instead pretending he’s still in the dark and our little plan is still fully intact.
He’s so good at pretending everything’s fine.
We exit the freeway after thirty minutes of harsh start-and stop jams, and I’m nauseated and hot when we pull into the hotel valet. I get out and Reed unloads my bag, then steps close to kiss my cheek as if this is just another day of work. I suppose for him it is.
He turns and gets one foot back in his Jeep, and the boiling in my belly reaches my throat.
“That’s it? You’re just gonna leave? Like that?”
I’m clutching my purse in one hand and my bag handle in the other, a set of doormen holding an overpriced glass doorway open for me on both sides about ten feet behind me. They know who Reed is, and they’ve figured out that I’m his wife. Of course, now that I’ve gotten all vocal, I suppose there is a chance that they think I’m a scorned lover. Maybe the rag magazines are around taking photos. I’ve always been amused by the made-up headlines.
CINDERELLA QUARTERBACK IN LOVERS’ QUARREL WITH MYSTERY WOMAN
Reed steps back out of the Jeep completely, the motor still rumbling feet away from me. His toes match up with mine and his hand brushes the tangled hairs from my face. Our eyes meet a second later, and I catch the flicker in his—he’s forcing this.
“We’ll have dinner tonight. Somewhere nice,” he says, leaning down and kissing me with a little more passion than before. I’m sure to the onlookers everything seems just fine. I feel it, though. Or rather, I don’t feel it.
My hand grasps the front of his shirt in a bunch and I hold on tightly, urging him to stay. I step up on my toes and tilt my chin to meet his stare.
“Now you’re mad, and I guess that’s better. We aren’t done, though. Not even close,” I say.
His mouth twitches, and he turns to the side, his smile rising on the side closest to me but only a little.
“I’ll be a few hours,” he says. With nothing more to add, he shifts before he buckles up, then drives away.
I turn and greet the doormen with a fake plastered-on smile, and as I walk by them I lean to the side and whisper to one, “Don’t tell his wife.” I wink and head into the lobby hoping that one of them gives the tabloids a tip and that I show up in a blurry photo online later tonight. It will be amusing, and we’ll both laugh about it.
It will be the only thing we’ll laugh about.
Chapter Twenty-One
Reed
My head isn’t in this.
I was a dick.
Why did she do that?
I should blame Jason. It’s easier to blame Jason. Jason would never do this on his own, though. He wouldn’t do it unless he was really worried about me.
Nolan wasn’t wrong.
Jason’s late, and when this happens now, I automatically think he’s either planned some secret with Nolan to keep me away from practice or he’s off hiding in his hotel room with Sarah. I doubt she flew in for this, though. They don’t really have to hide anymore, anyhow, so I guess he’s just late.
I should go to the hotel, but I’m not ready yet. I don’t want to keep saying stupid things.
Almost everyone else is gone, and the visitor clubhouse at this place is not exactly homey. The brick and concrete are a stark gray with water stains and crumbling bits of sand and cement chips. It’s cold, and every sound I make echoes so much I think it must careen into the concourse and circle the concessions.
I could spend an hour running on the treadmill to stress test my leg, but really…that’s just going to make me tired. I pull my towel from my neck and toss it in the general direction of my cubby before laying back on the wooden bench.
“I barely fit, but this plank of wood feels better than that mattress did last night,” I muse to myself.
“You figure you make up your time sitting in here nursing your sore-ass muscles, then Coach won’t notice that you weren’t taking snaps today?” I let my arm fall from its rest on my eyes and crack one lid open while smirking at Coach Simms.
“If that’s my excuse, what’s yours?” I pull myself up to sit and face him and he takes a spot on the bench opposite of me and across the room.
“Lot on my mind, I guess. And I don’t sleep on the road games. Never have,” he says, clearing his throat through the last few words. I know he used to smoke like a Texas barbecue joint, but from what I gather, he quit six years ago after his first heart surgery.
“That’s something like a hundred and seventy nights of insomnia,” I say, doing my best to impress him with my estimating skills.
“One sixty-four, actually, but close,” he says.
I wince and snap, just missing a perfect guess.
His eyes meet mine and he chuckles once to himself, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his spread-apart knees. His skinny legs are draped in black pants that rise at his ankles, showing off his pink socks. I point to them, and he lifts his pant leg just a little and chuckles more when he sees them.
“Breast cancer socks. My wife beat it, so I wear nothing but pink socks. I wore them all through her treatment, and you know how we get with that superstitious crappola. Whatever, made-up or not, I’m not messing with it. I’ve got drawers full.”
I admire his answer, and I think I’d probably dedicate my life to something like that too if I almost lost Nolan to something like cancer and associated her recovery to something I did. It never would be something I did, though. It’d all be her, because she’s the strong one. I just fumble through things.
Coach and I sit in silence for several seconds, both avoiding each other’s gaze like Clint Eastwood and Chuck Norris trying to prove who’s the bigger man. His head snaps up first, and I’m pretty sure it means he is.
“That was some service.” My head tingles with a dose of adrenaline as he pulls me back to Trig and the service. I’ve never really left I suppose, but I’ve been doing so well not talking about it.
“It was,” I agree. It’s the polite thing to do.
We sit in more silence, only Coach leaves his eyes on me while I stare at the lines on the carpet, realizing the subtle pattern of the L.A. skyline woven under my feet. They should go back in and add some smog.
“You’re gonna meet with Gary tomorrow. He likes mornings, so get in early.” Coach stands and lets his open palms fall against his sides.
My brow pulls in.
“With…Gary…” He means Chaplain Gary Cruz.
“What’s with people not hearing me lately? Press didn’t hear me either the other night…yeah, I said Gary. Be here bright and early. And go home and get some sleep. You look like shit,” he says, leaving before I can question him anymore.
I let the melancholy in a little more. It feels like I swallowed a rock and it’s stuck just beneath my breastbone. It’s sharp and heavy, and I can’t get a full breath. The dizzy feeling has gotten worse.
It’s seven at night, and Jason, even if he makes it through traffic, isn’t going to be here in time to talk to anyone or walk through anything. And it looks like I’m going to be getting in bright and early, so I may as well go back to the hotel—just like I promised.
I flip my phone around in my palm a few times, not surprised that there aren’t any texts from Noles. She’s likely pissed off. She also knows what Fridays and Saturdays are like before a game. It may
have been a while since she’s been on the road with me, but the routine is so messed up that she’d never forget how it interferes with regular life.
Hungry?
I set my phone down on the bench while I gather up my things. After a few seconds of trailing dots that tell me she’s typing, I get a simple response.
Sure.
Yeah. She’s pissed.
Meet me out front in 20.
I grab my bag and toss my phone in the pocket on the side, slinging it over my shoulder as I head into the guts of the stadium toward the garage. I remembered seeing a little shopping center right on the corner by our hotel, and I know I don’t have a lot of time, but if I want to ease my way out of the dog house, I should at least try.
I pick up my step and toss my bag in the back of the Jeep, pulling away with a squeal that gets the attention of the security guard who steps out of the small four-foot-by-four-foot box where he keeps an eye on everybody’s keys.
I zip through four or five streets before I find the shopping center. I park a little out of the way, trying to avoid two men fresh from the Milk Maiden Café that I see stumble into the parking lot. They’re wearing their blue and gold L.A. jerseys; I know they’ve seen me when, from the corner of my eye, I catch one of them slap his arm against his friend’s chest. I almost make it into the mall, but not before one of them turns around, his arm swung around his buddy’s neck for balance, and yells “Reed Johnson is a pussy!”
Rather than indulge them in any way, I decide to find the honor in being hated by a rival again. My smug smile feels right, and I start looking people in the eyes when they give me doubletakes in the mall. I let most people wonder, but when a kid who looks like he’s about ten or eleven lifts his eyebrows practically to his hairline, I give him a nod. He rolls his shoulders and gives me one back, then walks a little taller into the department store with his parents.
I’m oddly good at picking the perfect thing for Nolan. I kinda suck at shopping otherwise, but something about getting things for her just comes naturally. I see things that feel like magnets to her personality in almost every city I go to. I usually pick something up when I know I’ll be seeing her again soon, but I need this…whatever I find to be more than a charmingly perfect gift. It has to be an apology, and a story, and maybe another apology.
