by J. Nathan
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not considered to be real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by J. Nathan
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Edited by Stephanie Elliot
Cover Design by Letitia Hasser at RBA Designs
Cover Photo by Fabrice Lerouge
First Edition February 2019
CHAPTER ONE
Grady
I haven’t always been a prick…
Age 11
Darkness filled my room as I lay in bed. The tape on my football posters had peeled off and the curled bottoms flapped in the late October breeze seeping through my open window.
“I’ll kill you, you bitch,” a deep voice carried across our lawn from the home of our new neighbors. They’d arrived a week ago. And not once since the small moving van pulled up, had there been any silence coming from their home at night.
“Hello?”
The small whisper jarred me upright. I might’ve only been eleven, but hearing voices was definitely something new for me.
The quiet plea repeated. “Hello?”
I crept out from under my sheets and crawled to the window beside my bed. I could only see the top of the blonde-haired girl who stood outside.
“You okay?” I asked, pushing my window up until it was all the way open.
Her head tilted up. Her big blue eyes, puffy with tears, met mine. She shook her head. “Can I come in?” she sniffled.
My eyes shot behind me at my closed bedroom door. Would my parents be angry if I let her in? I mean, I didn’t even know her name. “Ummmm…”
Noticing my indecision, she turned away. “Never mind.”
Shoot. “Wait.”
She stopped, but didn’t turn around.
“Sure. Fine. You can come in.”
She spun around and scurried over. She couldn’t have been more than four feet. I reached for her to help her up, and she placed the tiniest hands I’d ever seen into my oversized bear claws. “How old are you?” I asked, lifting her through my window as if she weighed nothing at all.
She dropped onto her knees on my bed. “Eight.” Her eyes moved over my room. It was your average eleven-year-old boy’s room. “Wow.”
The awe in her voice embarrassed me. I knew the house she’d moved into was kind of a dump, so I understood her amazement at the size of my room. I reached for the window and closed it, not wanting her to hear her parents’ loud voices. Though I’d overheard my mom say it wasn’t her real dad. “What’s your name?”
“Emery Pruitt,” she drawled, her accent as thick as my momma’s molasses.
“Good to meet you, Emery Pruitt.”
She smiled through her teary eyes. “You, too, Jordan Grady.”
“How’d you know my name?”
She quickly wiped her damp cheeks with the back of her hand. “I have my ways.”
I laughed at this little eight-year-old who was likely tougher than my entire football team. You had to be to deal with the amount of fighting her parents did. “So, what shall we do?” I asked, suddenly feeling completely unequipped to help her.
“Sleep,” she said. “I just need to sleep.”
I scooted off the edge of my twin bed until my bare feet hit the hardwood floor and pulled back the sheet. “Here.”
Emery climbed underneath and tucked herself into a ball. She was so tiny in my bed. Such a wounded little soul who probably hadn’t gotten a lick of sleep since moving in.
“Whatcha waiting for?” she asked. “Hop in.”
“I’m gonna take the floor.”
She scrunched her perky little nose. “Why?”
I shrugged.
She rolled over as far as she could, leaving a huge space for me. “Come on. I promise not to kick you in the middle of the night.”
I snickered to myself as my eyes shifted between the uncomfortable floor and my cozy bed. It was a no brainer. I climbed in beside her. We both fell silent, laying on our backs and staring up at the ceiling fan spinning above us.
“Thank you, Jordan Grady,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome, Emery Pruitt.”
It took no more than two minutes before the soft purr of her snores filled my room.
* * *
I awoke the next morning to a wide-open window and an empty spot beside me. I reached over and smoothed my hand over the cold sheets, wondering how long Emery had stayed. Had her parents noticed she’d disappeared? Had she walked in to them waiting for her in the kitchen?
The smell of homemade pancakes from my own kitchen drifted into my room. I rolled out of bed and padded down the hallway with my bare feet. Scrubbing my hands over my face, I entered the kitchen. My parents sat at the table where a stack of pancakes filled the plate in front of my chair. “Morning,” I said, slipping into my seat.
“Morning, honey,” my mom said, sipping her coffee.
My dad didn’t look up from his newspaper. “Morning, son.”
“Your practice was moved to this evening,” my mom said.
I glanced to my mom as I stuffed a forkful of pancakes into my mouth. “Why?”
“With the heat wave moving through town, your coaches feel it’ll be more bearable once the sun begins to set.”
I nodded, realizing they had no idea I’d had a visitor the previous night. “Can I ask you something?” I said.
My mom lowered her coffee cup. “Sure.”
“Any idea what happened to the little girl next door’s real daddy?”
My dad folded up his paper. “Why do you ask?”
“I just assumed you guys would know,” I said, stuffing more pancakes into my mouth.
“I heard he died of cancer while her mother was pregnant with her,” my mom admitted sadly.
I nodded, my stomach clenching for Emery.
“Why are you so curious all of a sudden?” my dad asked.
I shrugged. “There’s a lot of yellin’ goin’ on over there. I wondered what makes people fight like that?”
My parents exchanged a sad look. “Unhappiness I assume,” my mom said before changing the subject to the weather—a safer topic to discuss with her eleven-year-old son.
After breakfast, I ran outside, tossing my football above my head and catching it as it dropped into my hands. When we didn’t have practice, my friends and I normally met at the park for a game then we hit the creek to cool off before playing another game. I threw another spiral above my head.
“Hey.”
I twisted around and the football dropped on my head, tumbling unceremoniously to the ground.
“Looks like someone needs practice,” Emery said as she skipped toward me, her blonde hair in a high pony tail that was swinging from side to side.
I bent and nabbed the ball, spinning it in my hands. “Says who?”
“Says me.”
“What makes you a professional on the subject?”
She shrugged. “Toss it to me.”
I shuffled back a few feet and threw her a perfect spiral. She bobbled it in her hands and dropped it. “Looks like someone needs more practice,” I teased.
She bent and grabbed the ball from the lawn. “Then I’m glad you live next door,” she said without missing a beat. She clearly didn’t plan to talk about the previous night, and that was fine by me. I wasn’t a therapist. I didn’t know the right things to say to someone who had a drunk for a stepdad.
I held up my hands. “Throw it here.”
She tossed a wobbly pass to me which I caught easily.
“You’re gonna want to line up your fingertips on the laces,” I said, showing her my hand on the football. “Then just let it roll off your fingers.” I tossed it to her in a perfect spiral which she bobbled with both hands but held on to it. “Nice catch.”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
“Now you try.”
She lined up her fingers like I’d shown her. She pulled back her hand and let it go. The ball carried straighter than her last pass, though her spiral needed some work.
“Not bad,” I assured her.
“You really think so?”
“Yup.”
“Do you play football every day?” she asked.
“Yup. I need to practice if I’m gonna play for Alabama one day.”
That was her cue to laugh. Everyone else did. I was used to it by now. No one thought I’d make it—except of course my parents. But then again, they thought I hung the moon, so it didn’t count. “Can I come to your games?” Emery asked.
I shrugged. “If you want to. They’re every Saturday at the field by the park.”
She shook her head. “No. When you play for Alabama.” She wasn’t laughing at me. She wasn’t even humoring me. She really believed me when I said I’d play for Alabama.
I smiled. “Sure.”
“Can I have a front row seat?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m gonna be your biggest fan, Jordan Grady. You just wait and see.”
I laughed, because something in the way she said it, told me it was the truth.
“Whatcha waiting for?” she asked. “If you’re gonna play for Alabama, you need some serious practice.” The little smart ass held up her hands.
I tossed her the ball, easier this time so she could catch it without bobbling it. She did. “Nice catch.”
She tilted her head. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
“No?”
She shook her head.
And somehow, I believed that too.
CHAPTER TWO
Grady - 15
I lay in bed with my arms crossed behind my head, my mind whirling with indecision. Shyanne and Miley both wanted me to ask them to the school dance. They’d been causing unnecessary scenes at school all week. And there was nothing I hated more than girl drama. Did I even want to go to some lame-ass dance? High school girls were so…different. I just wanted a girl who’d jump in the creek with me on the count of one. One who’d toss around a football without groaning about breaking a nail. One who’d believe me when I said I was gonna play football at Alabama.
Someone like Emery.
The guys had been busting my balls for the past four years about my “little shadow.” But I didn’t care. I knew the truth about our friendship. I knew the truth about her family life. I knew the truth about our bond. Besides, I liked my “little shadow” a hell of a lot more than most of them.
“Leave! Just leave!” Emery’s mom’s voice carried through the night. She threatened her husband all the time. But he never left. He just drank more.
I hated the idea of Emery living in that house. She assured me Wayne had never hurt her. And despite her assurances, I repeatedly begged my parents to call the sheriff. When they’d had enough of me asking—and I assumed hearing all the fighting—they called him. He stopped by Emery’s house while she was at school. But Emery’s mom told him everything was fine. Because of her unwillingness to report domestic violence, the sheriff told my parents there was nothing he could do.
I felt helpless.
I’d always been told if you didn’t like something that was happening, you needed to do something to stop it. But aside from killing Emery’s stepdad, there wasn’t anything I could do but give Emery a safe place to escape to.
The tapping on my window came like clockwork. I didn’t even go to the window anymore. At twelve, Emery was tall enough to push it up herself, climb inside, close the window behind her, and crank up my ceiling fan to drown out the unwanted noise. “Hi,” she whispered as she crawled under my sheet and turned on her side away from me.
“You okay?”
“I am now.”
My heart squeezed in my chest. The girl would be the death of me. “How was school today?” I asked, trying to redirect her attention from the fight.
“Same. How was yours?” she asked.
Thoughts of Shyanne and Miley fighting over me plagued my mind. “Same.”
“You’re lying,” Emery said.
“How do you know?”
“You paused.”
“So?”
“So, you pause when you’re not saying somethin’.”
I huffed. Of course she could tell I had something on my mind. She knew me better than anyone. “A couple girls want me to ask them to the school dance.”
Emery’s body stiffened and a long moment passed before she spoke. “And?”
“And…I don’t know what to do?”
“What to do or who to ask?”
“Both.”
You could’ve cut the silence in my room with a knife, hacksaw, and axe. “You could just take me and not have to worry about it,” she finally said.
I scoffed. “Right.”
She spun and faced me, anger blazing in her eyes. “What’s that mean?”
Even though she was adorable when she was angry, I knew better than to smile. “You’re twelve. This is a high school dance.”
“I’ll be in high school in a few years.”
“But you’re not now,” I said.
“Yes. You remind me of that fact daily.”
I stared into her eyes. Hurt replaced the anger, which just made me feel like shit. I had no idea what else to say to make her feel better. I knew she had a crush on me. If she was my age, I may have been crushing on her too. But she wasn’t. End of story.
The silence in the room carried her parents’ fight inside. “You son of a bitch! Who is she?”
Emery’s eyes cut to the window.
Oh, damn. It was bad enough she had a drunk for a stepdad, she didn’t need to hear he was a cheat, too.
“Do you even know how to dance?” I asked, trying to redirect her attention.
Her eyes moved back to mine. “Of course I know how to dance.”
“I’ve never seen you.”
She shoved me playfully. “Whose fault is that?”
“She takes care of my needs!” Emery’s stepdad yelled, seemingly in the front yard now.
Emery’s body wilted.
I reached out and pulled her small body into my chest. She came willingly. I pressed my lips to the top of her head, not really knowing what to do or say. She was just a kid. And I was just a stupid teenager. My mind was normally on sports and sex for Christ’s sake.
“I’m never gonna drink alcohol,” she whispered into my chest.
“Good. It messes with your judgment.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
“Just do.”
She was quiet for a long time. Luckily, only the crickets chirping outside my house carried their way inside now. “And I never wanna fight like that when I get married,” she added.
“Then don’t.”
“I won’t,” she assured me. “I’m only gonna give my heart to a boy who’ll love me and never wanna fight with me.”
“Who you think you’ll marry? Billy Rae?”
She hauled off and punched me in the gut.
“Ow!” I said, feeling a sharp pain emanating from my ribs. “Why’d you do that?”
“Because you should already know who I’m gonna marry.”
“How would I know that?” I asked.
She tilted her head up so she could see my face. “Because I’m gonna marry you, silly boy.”
The confidence in her slow southern drawl erased the pain in my ribs. Every word out of her mouth had always been the truth. And when she said she planned to marry m
e, I knew she meant it. And even if it didn’t happen, she still believed it would.
Not wanting to crush her dreams, I bent my head and pressed my lips to the crown of her head. “Go to bed, sweet girl. I’m right here.”
* * *
The dance blew. Ten minutes into it, all I wanted to do was get the hell outta there. Shyanne and Miley fought over who’d dance with me the entire time, regardless of the fact that I didn’t go with either of them, opting to go with my friends instead. I spent the night hiding by the bleachers, visiting the men’s room more than necessary, and paying a few of the guys to dance with the girls so I didn’t have to. They probably thought I was gay or something, since Shyanne and Miley were the prettiest girls in our class. But what they didn’t get was I didn’t care about that. I just wasn’t feeling it with either of them. Did I try to force myself to feel something? Sure. But I wasn’t one of those guys who’d act like I was into a girl if I wasn’t.
JP, the backup QB who lived down the block, dropped me off after the dance. As soon as he pulled into my driveway just after ten thirty, I jumped out of his truck.
I loosened my navy tie and walked toward my back door, glancing over at Emery’s house. Her bedroom nightlight barely lit her room. I hated that she needed that damn thing for nights she didn’t stay with me.
I stopped in my tracks and turned away from the door, deciding to stop by Emery’s house first. Once I reached her window, I tapped lightly, not wanting to scare her. “Emery,” I whispered.
She peeked out the window, her face lighting up as she pushed up the window. She took in my white buttoned-down shirt, loosened tie, and khaki pants. “You look so nice. How was the dance?”
“Totally sucked.”
She burst out laughing, covering her mouth so no one inside her house heard her.
“You got a pretty dress in your closet?” I asked.
Her entire face scrunched up. “What?”
“A dress. You got one?”
She nodded.
“Put it on and meet me by the big tree in my back yard.”
“Why?”
“Stop asking questions and meet me there.”
She nodded again and then disappeared inside her room.
I laughed to myself as I strolled through the darkness to the old tree behind my house. I definitely enjoyed spending time with Emery a hell of a lot more than anyone at that dance. People could be so fake. I hated knowing they smiled to your face and talked about you behind your back. I didn’t have to worry about any of that nonsense with Emery.
