Heal My Heart

by Elley Arden

  “Are you sure?” Nel asked.

  “No alcohol in season.” Tag reached for M. J.’s hand on a burst of protective pride. “M. J. plays quarterback for the Cleveland Clash.”

  “You’ll fit right in.” The booming voice preceded the imposing man. Jordon emerged from the shadowed hall and extended a hand to M. J. “Sports are the Kemmons family religion.”

  Tag watched the greeting, knowing Jordon hadn’t meant any slight by the words. He felt it, too, when Jordon offered him a hearty welcome. But a little nugget of doubt and separation had been planted with that innocent statement. Sports are the Kemmons family religion.

  Tag didn’t play sports, so what did that make him? “Not a Kemmons,” his biological father would’ve said.

  Tag had driven two hours on a Sunday afternoon, hoping to quiet that voice in his head. He only hoped he didn’t end up back in Cleveland with the voice louder than ever.

  Chapter Eleven

  M. J. sat beside Tag at a dinner table surrounded by interesting, accommodating strangers in a house bigger and more beautiful than anything her parents had. To call today surreal would be an understatement.

  “Asparagus?” Tag asked as he held a floral-patterned plate.

  He was nervous. She could tell. The lopsided grin hadn’t appeared since Jordon had made an entrance. Jordon was daunting, but M. J. suspected there was more to it than that. After all, if she thought the day was unreal, Tag must be reeling. He was having dinner with his biological family, sitting alongside “his girl.”

  She smiled as she accepted the platter and scooped a serving onto her plate. They were officially dating. She’d said it was okay, but the idea bounced around her brain like a caged rabbit. Hopefully she’d get used to it, and it would settle. After all, she was sleeping with him and meeting his family. Dating seemed like a minimum requirement for those things.

  She stuffed an oversized piece of lasagna into her mouth. It was a lot to swallow, but she was not going to make this day about her in-season relationship hang-ups.

  “So Tag, may I ask where you get the … materials to perform a procedure like what Grey had done?” Jordon’s wife, Maggie, asked. She had the baby pressed to her chest in some sling-like contraption. The kid was non-stop smiley, and one of the cutest things M. J. had ever seen.

  “No, you may not,” Jordon said.

  How something so smiley came from something so stern was beyond her.

  Maggie shot him a side-eyed glance, and then smiled at Tag. “Is it humane?”

  Prior to sitting down to dinner, they’d all been briefed on herbivore vs. carnivore dishes. It seemed to be more than a choice Maggie made to keep her rail-thin figure.

  “‘Is it effective?’ is my preferred question,” Jordon said in his same gruff manner, but then he leaned over and kissed his wife on the ball of her rosy cheek.

  “We have the answer, and it’s, ‘Yes.’” Grey lifted his hand and gave a beauty-queen-like wave.

  M. J. liked the way Nel smiled at him, all glistening eyes and proud.

  A spark tingled in M. J.’s chest when she looked at Tag. “He’s a great doctor.” The spark exploded when he smiled back, and a warm hand landed on her thigh beneath the table.

  “How did you guys meet?” Maggie asked.

  Braydon squealed as he gnawed on the fabric closest to his mouth.

  Tag squeezed M. J.’s leg. “Technically, she doesn’t remember how we met, because she had a concussion.”

  “A sack?” Grey asked.

  “Uh, no. I fell onto the field at a baseball game he was covering.”

  They laughed. Tag filled them in on the rest of the story with an easy divulgence. If she didn’t know the story behind the smiles around the table, she’d have thought this a routine family dinner.

  Placing a hand on top of Tag’s, M. J. reminded herself it was anything but. Still, she hoped these people were as transparent as they seemed. No hidden agendas. She could only go on what had happened so far. They’d been wonderfully accommodating to her, and no one raised an eyebrow about her profession—not a single snide comment about a woman in a man’s sport, or ignorant question like, “Do you wear lingerie when you play?”

  As far as she could tell they were sincere and normal, despite the scars she couldn’t see.

  M. J. listened to them while she ate. She watched them, too—watched the way they interacted with the people they loved. Jordon and Grey seemed happy, authentic, and capable of maintaining long-term relationships. It gave her hope for Tag. Maybe he could work through all of this and have no use for the emotionally guarded man she’d first met. Maybe that man had gone away for good. She hoped so, because he was no match for the multi-dimensional man she’d discovered underneath—that man was the kind of man she could fall for.

  M. J. was still thinking off and on about what that actually meant as they headed toward home again. Hadn’t she already fallen for Tag to a certain degree? What came next? Love? She swallowed a scoff. Only twenty-four hours ago she’d decided it was worth another shot to have a man and a football career. Love was the longest shot of all.

  What was so great about love anyway? If her parents were any example, love meant control. Being asked to compromise yourself, to be a shell of who you really were, just to conform to someone else’s idea of how you should be. Just to make some man who wasn’t comfortable in his own skin happy.

  Well, thanks, but no thanks.

  And yet, Tag had never even hinted that he wanted her to change.

  Maybe he could be different.

  “That went well,” Tag said. Light from outside the car flickered across his face. He wasn’t smiling, but he looked peaceful.

  “It did. I like them.”

  He nodded, eyes on the road. “Me, too.”

  “Did you like them when you were younger?”

  “I idolized them.” The words sounded stuck in his throat.

  What kind of father drove a wedge like that between sons? And in the name of baseball? Sick. M. J. wasn’t about to pose those questions to a clearly overwhelmed Tag. “Now what?” she asked instead.

  “We should be home around ten. Why? Is Tanya worried about you?”

  It wasn’t exactly the answer M. J. was looking for, but she ran with the lighter subject matter. “I think she likes the break. She’s always yelling at me for making messes, leaving dishes in the sink, and throwing my clothes on the floor.”

  Tag grabbed her hand and dragged it into his lap, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles, blanketing her arm in a sprawling heat. “Then you should come home with me. I’ll never complain about you throwing your clothes on the floor.” He grinned as he brought her hand to his mouth.

  Yeah, if he kept this up, she was bound to find out what came next, because she couldn’t seem to stop falling.

  • • •

  A thick ribbon of sunlight spilt the kitchen in half, illuminating M. J. as she leaned against the sink, clutching a cereal bowl, talking about reading defenses, flex versus blitz to be exact. Tag wasn’t the least bit interested in football strategies, but he listened in earnest and with a smile on his face, because he wanted her here, like this, in his T-shirt, standing in his kitchen, spooning up cereal as she talked about sports.

  He’d woken up a different man, a lighter man, a man with an amazing woman and two brothers in his life. If he was dreaming this peace after the upheaval of the last month, he’d kill anyone who was stupid enough to pinch him.

  “So practice tonight should be brutal.” She rinsed her bowl and placed it on the top dishwasher rack, like she cleaned up after herself all the time, which he knew she didn’t, because she told him so last night.

  “Why are you doing that?”

  She blinked at him. “Doing what?”

  “Loading my dishwasher.”

  She shrugged. “Because it’s polite.”

  “And you worry about being polite?” He stood and walked to her, wrapping arms around her waist.

  The
shake of her head was slow, considering. “Not usually.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He laughed against her neck, kissing her below the ear. “I have to go. Take your time. Just hit the garage button when you leave … and call me after practice.”

  An hour later, Tag was late for his first patient by the time he reached the office, held up by wandering lips and hands. It was hard to complain about a setback like that, which marked another change in him. Normally, getting a late start on his appointments was enough to ruin his mood for twenty-four hours. He couldn’t imagine anything being powerful enough to dissipate the joy he was feeling now.

  Shortly after lunch, Tag discovered the one thing that could.

  “Dr. Howard, my name is Paul Burkett. I’m with ESPN radio, and I’m putting together a story about Grey Kemmons’s recovery and return to baseball, of which I understand you’ve been an integral part. I’d love to talk to you about this miracle procedure. If you could give me a call …”

  Tag swallowed a surge of uneasiness wrapped in excitement. This was the kind of acknowledgement he’d hoped for, but it was complicated. Was he supposed to freely admit the familial connection? Definite progress had been made where his brothers were concerned, but was he ready for a public admission?

  Not when his parents didn’t know about any of this. Tag needed to talk to them.

  Staring at the phone, he took a big open-mouthed breath. His mother was out of the country, and his father was at the office. It would be impossible to get them together on the same call at this time of day.

  He listened to Paul Burkett’s voicemail again. The man was a sports reporter. Surely he was more interested in Grey’s career than uncovering some tabloid story. Tag was twisting this. When he straightened it out, all he saw was a story about the grafting procedure being used successfully on a major league baseball player. And that story would fast track the professional accolades Tag had been looking for in the first place.

  He could call the man first. There had to be some lead time to the story, and that would give Tag plenty of time to talk to his parents.

  “Your two o’clock cancelled.” Tammy poked her head into his office. “Maybe you can catch up on some of those dictations.”

  Tag smiled. His lack of efficiency with dictations was a consistent joke around here. “Actually, I have a call to make.”

  It was better to tackle these things head-on rather than let them fester.

  As it turned out, Paul Burkett was a talkative, exuberant man. He ate up the details about the procedure, conjecturing about other injuries in the history of sport that could have benefited from regenerative grafting. Fifteen minutes in, and Tag’s worries seemed for naught.

  “Man, this is going to be great. Dynamite stuff. You’re an impressive guy, Dr. Howard, and I have a feeling we’re going to be hearing a lot more about you.” Tag liked the sound of that. “Now, one last thing … was there more riding on the outcome of this procedure knowing that Grey Kemmons was your brother?”

  Tag’s ego shattered like a weak ankle, splintering fresh pain to his heart. This was exactly what he’d feared, an exposé. How could he think it was anything less after Paul waited until the very end of the interview to spring it?

  He straightened his back and lifted his chin. “I’d love to talk more. I would.” Liar. “But I already put myself behind schedule by talking to you this much. Maybe we could pick up later?”

  “Sure. Sure thing. You name the time.”

  After I talk to my parents, that’s for damn sure. But Tag kept that sentiment to himself and assured Paul he would call again soon.

  Later that evening, Tag sat across the dinner table from Dad, trying to find the words to explain the situation. Telling Dad about Grey’s injury and subsequent treatment was the easy part compared to telling Dad why it took Tag so long to say anything.

  “Your mother says if they proceed with the sister-school plan, we’ll all be expected to visit Africa as ambassadors. Of course, I immediately asked if there were golf courses in Africa, which didn’t go over too well.” Dad laughed.

  Simon Howard was a polished man, about as opposite from Francis Kemmons as one could get. Short, wide, cerebral, and clumsy, the idea of Simon giving up on a child was ridiculous. Certainly, he wouldn’t now. And somehow that made Tag’s silence all these weeks worse.

  “Dad, I have to tell you something.”

  Simon stopped chewing and propped his silverware on the edges of his plate. “That sounds serious.”

  “It is.”

  A slow smile crept across his wrinkled face. “You’ve met someone, haven’t you? Your mother will be thrilled.”

  An instant image of M. J. popped into Tag’s head. “Actually, yes, I have, but that’s not exactly what I wanted to tell you. I mean, I’ll tell you about that, but later.”

  “Okay. Now I’m extra curious. Is it about work?”

  Tag nodded. “You could say that.”

  The rest of the story about Jordon and Grey flowed from there. Dad remained quiet throughout. The more Tag talked, the easier the words came, until he broached the subject of the interview. The idea of airing his dirty laundry to the world wrapped tight around his gut. The idea of being seen as anything other than Simon and Edna’s son thickened his sadness.

  “Can I talk?” Dad asked, his courtesy the product of living with an outspoken woman for forty-two years.

  “Of course.” Tag was eager to stop talking, but he was less eager to hear what Dad had to say. What if Tag had disappointed him with the way he’d handled things?

  He never wanted to disappoint his parents.

  “First, I wish your mother was here, because you know she would have a lot to say, and those words would be invaluable.” He smiled. The softness of his face was reassuring. “Second, I’ve wondered when something like this would happen. One of those boys was bound to want to find you—if it wasn’t you wanting to find them. All normal. So, what now, right?” Tag nodded. “You have these brothers who remind you of things you’d rather not think about, and you have a reporter who wants to talk about things you’d rather not talk about.”

  “Exactly.” Tag’s skin tingled with relief. He should’ve told them as soon as Jordon called.

  “My advice? Talk to the reporter. Get it out there once and for all. You did nothing wrong. Be honest, and you have nothing to fear. Of course, you’re a grown man, and you make your own decisions, so just know whatever you decide to do, it doesn’t change how proud I am of you, my son.” Dad’s eyes sparkled with tears.

  Tag was about to get out of his chair and embrace him, when Dad cleared his throat and said, “Now, tell me about this girl, because that’s going to be the thing your mother grills me about.”

  After all that, it was incredulous to think Tag was smiling. “It’s sort of crazy, but Mom already knows her from the school.”

  “You don’t say? Is she a teacher?”

  Tag shook his head. “She’s a quarterback.”

  Dad’s eyes widened. “An athlete. That suits you, doesn’t it?”

  It did, and Tag couldn’t wait to tell M. J. that, to tell her everything, but first, he had another call to make. After dinner, he would call Paul and finish the interview, be honest, like Dad said. It wouldn’t be easy, but it couldn’t possibly be as hard as Tag’s early life had been.

  • • •

  “Grey plays professional baseball. Jordon played professional baseball. In fact, in my research, I learned that your father acted as agent during both of their drafts. On the contrary, I couldn’t find anything about you playing a single inning—not even little league. How does it feel to be the odd man out?”

  From the start, Paul’s questions had been more aggressive than Tag anticipated. Even the darkness inside Tag’s home office didn’t hide him from the pressure.

  “I don’t see myself that way.” Anymore. He spoke carefully, because it was a new and shaky assertion, tested more and more with every question.

&
nbsp; “Really? I’m surprised by that. You said you were given up for adoption when you were nine years old, but Jordon and Grey remained with your father. Don’t you resent the things they shared and the life they lived without you? Birthdays. First days of school. Weddings and christenings.”

  Tag switched the phone from one sweaty hand to the other. “Jordon and Grey were estranged for many years, too.”

  “But not as many as you.”

  The reminder rankled. As well as things had gone in Pittsburgh, his brothers’ solidarity was very apparent. Tag would never be as close with them as they were with each other. And that hurt—enough to make him wish it all away. Progress be damned.

  He dipped the phone away from his mouth to clear his throat. “It is what it is.”

  “Come on. You have to wonder why they didn’t contact you years ago. They were adults long before you were. They could’ve picked up a phone years before they needed you to heal Grey’s hand. Don’t you wish they had given you that courtesy?”

  It was a harsh question, but it was a valid one, too.

  Tag’s jaw clenched. “Trust me.” His voice hardened. “I wouldn’t change a thing about my life. I wouldn’t change places with anyone. I lucked out. My brothers …” the word dripped with acridity, “didn’t. I mean look at me. Look where I am. I have the perfect mother and father. Look what I’ve accomplished. My education and professional accomplishments are second to none. You tell me who’s sitting pretty. They’re successful, sure, but remember ultimately who fixed whom.”

  Silence fell over the line and Tag flinched, as his own defensive and still clearly bitter words registered. Damn it. He regretted ever dialing the phone.

  “Very good, Dr. Howard. I believe I have all I need.”

  I bet you do. Tag closed his eyes, took a breath, and ended the call. He told himself that the worst was over. He didn’t have to talk about this anymore. He was done. He would heal. He would move on. With M. J. His brothers could be there, too, on the periphery, but they weren’t in town, and he didn’t have to constantly think about them.

  It sounded like a good plan—perfect really. Nevertheless, Tag spent the rest of the day ignoring his brain’s insistence that once the interview went live there would be fall out.