Down & Dirty

by Tracy Wolff

  “When I would tell her to get some sleep, she would smile at me and say, ‘Not yet, Hunter. I just want to see one more place. Just learn one more thing. Just want to help one more person.’ That’s who Heather is, who she’s always been from the time we were small. When we were growing up, everyone always thought I was the adventurous one. That I was the troublemaker. But the truth is, it was always Heather. But she always had such good intentions that I could never let her take the blame when things went wrong. When I got in trouble, I’d always tell her that it was the last time. That I wasn’t going to do anything she said anymore. But then she’d come to my room late at night with some ridiculous story or even more ridiculous idea and we’d be off again, making mischief and wreaking havoc.

  “Heather’s been a part of my life from the moment I was conceived. We spent nine months together in our mother’s womb and thirty-one years together outside of it. She knew me better than anybody and I knew her the same way. And I’m grateful for every single moment I had with my sister.

  “No, getting up here and talking about her isn’t difficult. It’s one of the easiest things I’ve ever done. But trying to figure out how to live my life without her in it? That will always be one of the hardest.”

  For the first time his voice breaks and I swear, the whole church breaks with him. I’m a sobbing mess, nearly incoherent with how much I hurt for him. And for Brent and Lucy who will have to grow up without the wonderful, fun-loving woman Hunter just described.

  The rest of the funeral passes in a blur. Heather was cremated, so there’s no trip to the gravesite afterward, no long drawn-out graveside vigil. Just Hunter standing outside the church in a perfectly tailored black pin-striped suit, looking pale and gaunt and somehow even more beautiful for it.

  I think about staying to talk to him, about waiting in line to pay my condolences. But he has enough on his plate right now without having to deal with me, too. And, if I’m being honest, I’m feeling too emotionally fragile after his eulogy to be able to handle him turning away from me. I’m afraid if he does that I’ll throw myself at him and beg him to let me help.

  Somehow I don’t think he’ll thank me for it.

  And so I drift slowly toward his truck—I’m still driving it until I get paid next week—trying to decide if I want to go to the wake or not. Tanner told me they’re holding it at his house, since Heather’s condo isn’t big enough for the crowd from the funeral. Part of me wants to go, but that’s the selfish part. The part that wants to try to connect with Hunter after this last week of radio silence. But today isn’t about me and it sure as hell isn’t about Hunter and me. So I’m probably better off just going home. In fact—

  “Emerson! Emerson, wait!” a little girl’s voice calls from behind me and I turn to see Lucy running toward me. She’s wearing a beautiful dress with pink and green flowers, her hair loose around her shoulders. She looks both more grown up and somehow also younger than she did when I met her last week.

  I try to figure out what to say to her—what does one say to a six-year-old child who has just lost her mother?—but she takes care of the awkwardness for me. Instead of stopping when she reaches me, she just keeps coming, barreling into me and throwing her arms around my waist like we’re the best of friends.

  It nearly breaks my heart all over again.

  “Hi, Lucy. How are you doing, baby?”

  “My mommy died.” Her lower lip trembles as she stares up at me with tear-soaked green eyes that look far too much like her uncle’s.

  “I know, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

  She hugs me tight again, and I hug her back, rocking her back and forth to comfort us both.

  “She gave Uncle Hunter presents to give to us. Mine is a book filled with pictures of her at prom and her wedding and lots of other important times, with room for me to put my pictures next to hers when I’m old enough for all that stuff.”

  Oh my God, I think I’m going to start crying again. I bite the inside of my cheek and swallow once or a dozen times before I think I can actually force normal-sounding words out of my throat. “That sounds like an amazing present.”

  “It is.” She sounds matter-of-fact when she continues, “It’s cuz she won’t get to see me when I do all those things.”

  “I know, baby. I know.”

  “Are you coming to Uncle Tanner’s?”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Please! Please come! He has a videogame room and the TV is as big as the sky. And he has a regular game room that’s also really cool. And he has an elephant in the backyard.”

  “He has a real elephant?”

  “Of course not, silly. It’s a statue. But it’s life-size and he lets me ride it. He has a giraffe, too. And a lion. I bet you’d like to ride the lion.”

  “I would like to ride the lion.”

  “So you should come. Just for a little while. Please. Everyone keeps crying and Mommy told me not to cry too much. She told me she wanted me to be happy when I think about her, but I’ve already cried a lot today. I don’t want to cry any more.”

  Like I’m going to be able to say no to that? The girl has her uncle’s charm, obviously, and his ability to talk anyone into anything. Although, judging from his eulogy, Heather had that talent, too. God. They must have been unstoppable when they were together.

  “Okay,” I say, hugging her close one last time. “I’ll come for a little while. But just a little while, okay?”

  She claps and hops up and down. “I knew the elephant would get you.”

  “It was totally the elephant,” I agree, even though Lucy herself is the real reason I’m going.

  Which is how, fifteen minutes later, I find myself in the middle of a long cavalcade of cars all bound for Coronado. Damn it. At least my abject terror over crossing the bridge does a good job of distracting me from worrying about seeing Hunter…until we actually get to the island, that is.

  I’ve got my GPS on for directions, but mostly I’ve been following the other cars since they all seem to know where they’re going. At least until we get to the main highway and everyone turns left except for one car. Hunter’s car. He goes right.

  Go left, I tell myself. Go left, go left, go left. If he wants a few minutes alone, give it to him. Let him be. Go left.

  I go right, and as I follow him along the winding curves, I know instinctively where we’re going. Sure enough, he doesn’t stop until he’s in front of the house we saw that day when he was trying to explain to me what he wanted in a home.

  This time he doesn’t pull into the parking lot at the corner. Instead, he stops right in front of the beach, barely bothering to parallel park before he bounds out of the car and heads straight down the sand to the water.

  Fuck. Just fuck.

  Because I have two choices here. One, stay in the truck and watch Hunter do whatever he’s going to do and hope he’s not planning on drowning himself. Or two, woman up and get out of this truck and go after him.

  My nearly lifelong phobia of water—brought on when stepdad number one tossed me in the deep end of the pool and told me to swim even though I didn’t know how—tells me to stay right where I am. The truck is dry and safe and hundreds of feet away from the water. It’s the perfect place for me.

  But there’s another part of me—one that loves Hunter more than I will ever fear water—that urges me to go after him. To get my ass out of the truck and up that beach so that Hunter knows he isn’t alone.

  In the end, the part that loves Hunter wins. Barely.

  Chapter 29

  Hunter

  I know I need to go to the house, know I need to sit through the wake—as much for Lucy and Brent as for all the people currently gathering at Tanner’s. And I will go. I will. As soon as I can remember how to breathe.

  I haven’t been able to breathe since Heather died…since I sent Emerson away.

  She’s texted me every day, just to check in. And I love her for that—and for a million other things. I know I s
hould call her, know that I owe her an apology, but I can’t do it. Not yet. Not when it feels like one wrong move will shatter me into a million fucking pieces.

  I wasn’t ready for this. I thought I was, told myself I was going to keep it together for the kids. For my team. For Heather. But I’m a mess. I’m a fucking mess, all the way around. Oh, I’m faking it, holding shit together as best I can. But that’s all it is. One great big lie.

  It’s why I can’t have Emerson around, why I’ve treated her so badly since Heather died. Because those moments in the waiting room, when she reached out to me—when she cupped my face in her hands and asked how she could help—I nearly broke in half. And if that happens…if that happens, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  What Brent and Lucy will do.

  What my team will do.

  My niece and nephew have lost everything and they need someone to be strong for them. Someone to hold it together when they lose it—which they’ve been doing a lot over the last few days, understandably. How can I be strong for them if I let myself be weak with Emerson?

  And then there’s the team. We’re 6-0 right now, which is a damn fine record considering the teams we’ve taken on so far this season. I’m team captain—the last thing they need is for me to start fucking up because I can’t get my shit together.

  Which means I have to hold it together. And to do that, I have to stay away from Emerson, at least for a while longer. Until I’m no longer faking it. Until I’m strong enough to keep my shit together for real.

  But right now, I can’t even think about keeping my shit together. All I can think about is trying to take my next breath. And the next one. And maybe, just maybe, the one after that.

  Desperate to connect with something besides my own rage and pain, I kick my shoes off. Take off my socks. And dig my toes into the cold sand.

  Relief sweeps through me, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. I shrug out of my suit jacket, drop it on the sand. Unstrangle myself from the green tie Heather gave me a couple of years ago. Then, not giving a shit about what’s left of my Tom Ford suit, I walk straight into the ocean until the water is lapping at my knees.

  It’s still not enough. But, short of drowning myself, I’m out of options. So I stand there, bent over, hands braced on my knees, and try to find my fucking balance. Try to find a way to breathe.

  “Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  I freeze at the sound of Emerson’s voice behind me, whirl to find her standing on the shore in a black sweater dress that hugs every single one of her glorious curves. Her hair is wild around her head, she’s wearing tall boots that swallow her legs all the way to the knees and her hands are on her hips. She looks pissed. Really, really pissed. And also really, really good.

  Like salve my soul good.

  “The sand wasn’t enough?” she continues. “You had to actually go in the water?”

  She sounds so outraged that I nearly laugh and somehow, someway, something loosens in my chest. I take my first deep breath in a week.

  “You’ve got something against water?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” She bends over, giving me a great view of her beautiful, beautiful breasts as she tugs off her boots. “I’m terrified of it.”

  “You’re scared of water and heights?” I demand.

  “Nope, not heights. Just water. You got it wrong that day on the bridge.” And then she walks straight into the ocean after me and doesn’t stop until we’re face-to-face. Well, face-to-chest considering how much shorter she is than I am, but still. She’s right here, so close I can touch her if I want.

  I want. God, do I want.

  Still, I curl my hands into fists. Do everything in my power not to grab on to her and pull her against me.

  I lose the battle without ever lifting a finger, though, because a sudden wave comes crashing past us. Emerson loses her balance as it knocks into her and she falls straight into my chest.

  I wrap my arms around her and lift her all the way out of the water. She squeals and winds herself around me—arms, legs and body. “Why the hell did you come in the water if you’re this scared?” I demand as I carry her back to the sand.

  “Because that’s where you were. Obviously.” She looks at me like I’m stupid.

  “I already told you I don’t need you to take care of me.”

  “I know you did.” She struggles against me until I put her down. And then, staring up at me with her hands on her hips, she demands, “And do you know what I’ve decided about that?”

  “I’m a little scared to find out.”

  “You should be, because it’s bullshit. I’ve stayed away for the last week, giving you your space because I can’t imagine the pain you’re in, but I’m done now. I’m calling bullshit on your ‘I am an island’ routine.”

  “Are you now?” I’m smiling. For the first time in a week, I’m smiling.

  “Yes, I am. And do you want to know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I love you.”

  The words send me reeling, have me struggling to focus on anything beyond them. But she’s still talking and I don’t want to miss a thing.

  “I know it’s ridiculous, just like I know that I’ve only known you a short time. You’re obnoxious and weird and I don’t have a clue how it happened, but you totally made me love you. And, just so you know, I have abandonment issues and rich guy issues a mile wide, so the whole ‘fuck me and then dump me’ thing really kind of sucked. But I get it. I do. You’re tough and in pain and you don’t want to need anyone.

  “Well, fuck that. I’m here anyway and I’m not going anywhere, no matter how hard you push me away. I went into the fucking ocean for you and that should tell you exactly how much I love you. So if you tell me that you’re fine and try to shut me out again, I’m probably going to punch you.”

  Eyes narrowed, lips pursed, she shakes her fist at me in a pretend threat. And that—combined with the love and fear in her eyes—is what does it.

  That’s all it takes to have me breaking.

  The sob rises up from deep inside of me, so deep that it hurts my chest and throat and head.

  So deep my whole body shakes with it.

  So deep that I swear I feel it in my soul.

  And then she’s there—of course she’s there—wrapping herself around me and holding on so tight that I shouldn’t be able to breathe. But I can. For the first time since I left her in that damn hospital parking lot, I can.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers as I bury my head in her neck and sob. “I’m so sorry, my love. So, so sorry.”

  I don’t answer, I can’t. I’m sinking fast, breaking not in half as I feared but into a million tiny pieces. My nightmare come true.

  But Emerson holds on anyway, holds on so tight that it doesn’t even matter if I fall apart because she’s holding me together.

  I cry. I cry and cry and cry.

  For Heather.

  For her kids who will grow up without a mother.

  And for myself, who has to spend the rest of my life feeling like I’m missing a limb.

  Emerson holds me through it all, her small body strong and powerful and perfect as she pulls me close. As she holds me tight. As she lets me fall apart and somehow finds a way to put me back together again.

  I don’t know how long we stand there wrapped around each other—wrapped up in each other.

  Long enough for the wind to roll in off the water.

  More than long enough for the ocean to start licking at our ankles.

  And still Emerson doesn’t move. Still she holds me tight.

  And that’s when I know. Not that I love her, too, because I think that knowledge has been there since I pushed her away. But that this is real. And lasting. And isn’t going anywhere.

  Besides, what man in his right mind would turn down a woman who loves him enough to face her deepest fear for him?

  Maybe idiots like that exist in this world, but I’m not one of the
m.

  When the tears finally abate, when I can finally breathe without broken glass slicing through my chest—at least for now—I lift her out of the water. Wrap her glorious legs around my waist. And tell her what’s been burning inside of me almost from the moment I soaked her with that very well-placed puddle.

  “I’m crazy about you,” I tell her even as she uses her thumbs to wipe the tears from my cheeks. “I know you probably think I’m a bad risk, with my reputation and with how fucked up I am over Heather’s death. But I love you, too.

  “Losing Heather isn’t easy. I’m not going to lie about that. I’m going to have good days and bad days and fucking miserable days. I know that and I know you know that. But I’ve spent the last week trying to hold shit together, scared to see you because I know you see through me. I just didn’t realize that was a good thing.”

  Her big blue eyes shimmer with tears. “Oh, baby—”

  I stop her with a finger to her lips, then lean forward and kiss the tears away. “But I do now. And I know we haven’t known each other long and I know I’ve been a total dick for at least half the time we have known each other, but you ground me. You quiet all the shit in my head and all the shit outside of it. You make it easy for me to breathe in a way nothing—not even football—ever has.”

  She’s crying full on now, and I pull her to me this time. Wrap myself around her. Then lean forward and whisper, “I’ll give you a hundred bucks to stop crying.”

  She gets it—of course she does—and she starts to laugh as the tears dry up. We’ve come full circle, Emerson and I, and as she says, “I’ll take it,” I know everything is going to be okay. It won’t be easy, but with her next to me, it will be okay.

  And right now, that’s more than enough.

  Epilogue

  “Remind me again why I agreed to marry you?” Emerson asks as she starts unpacking yet another box of football memorabilia.

  “Because you love me,” I answer, skimming one of my hands over her truly spectacular ass. She shoots me a dirty look, but I just grin. If she wants me to keep my hands to myself, she probably shouldn’t bend over right in front of me in those tight little shorts. It gives me all kinds of ideas and none of them have anything to do with unpacking the boxes in our new home. “And because I’ve introduced you to the entire starting lineup of the San Diego Lightning.”