False Start: A Quick Snap Novella

by Leigh Lennon

  He stammers his answer. “Well, yeah, you never let it get to you.”

  Standing, I slam my hands on the table. “I never let you see that you got to me, you arrogant asshole. I transferred to a Catholic school my freshman year. My nona wanted me to attend one when we moved to Portland, but I wanted to meet the kids in my neighborhood. No, all you did was put an X on my back, and if Kieran O’Hennessey didn’t want to be friends with me, then no one did.”

  He averts his eyes to the floor. “Ah, fuck, Leela, I had no idea. None. I thought it was a fun game you loved playing with me.”

  “So, you’re telling me I was the cliché sort of girl you teased and tortured because you liked me too much to tell me?”

  He stands, dropping the box he had under his arm on the desk. “That’s exactly what I’m saying to you, Leela. I liked you. And after I stood you up, I was going to come clean when we started high school that next fall …”

  I ignore the box on my desk. “But, you were going to come clean the night of the dance, too, so what am I supposed to believe?”

  “You’re right, but I was the pussy who let peer pressure get to me. I was on my way, and my friends gave me so much hell. Fuck, I was only fourteen. It’s not an excuse, but…I’m sorry.”

  He pushes the box closer to me, and I open it to a small corsage. “What the fuck is this?” I don’t raise my voice, but I do push it back toward him. Underneath the corsage is a yellow sticky note. I recognize it from twelve years ago.

  “I know you loved white carnations. Molly had asked Zia. I had one along with a bouquet. I was on my way when my buddies messed with my head. Anyway, I know it seems stupid, but…”

  “And you think a corsage twelve years later will make me forgive you?” I’m quiet, staring at the simple white carnation. It’s the reason I love them so much. They’re simply beautiful.

  “No, not at all…but…”

  “Get the hell out of my sight, Kieran O’Hennessey. I have to work with you, but I don’t have to like you.”

  I want to throw the flower at his handsome face, but the man in front of me looks defeated, like he had the year his team lost in the Super Bowl due to a penalty on his part. He gives me a side glance, and I don’t know why I’m the one who feels bad for his crushed spirit.

  He stops at the door. “I’ll prove to you I’ve changed, Leela.”

  He pauses just long enough for me to reply. “Yeah, good luck with that. I don’t think there are enough days in your life to prove any of this, even if you live to be a hundred years old.”

  He nods his head as though he understands. I’m left looking at the corsage along with the note he’d given me so long ago.

  Underneath his invitation to the dance, and my acceptance, is another piece of paper. But this isn’t the same sloppy penmanship as before. You can tell it’s still Kieran’s, but the writing is refined.

  Leela,

  Not taking you to the dance is my biggest regret in life, and as you know, I have a fuck ton of regrets. I’ll prove to all of those I’ve hurt that I’m worth trusting again.

  Kieran O’Hennessey

  See, now he’s only messing with my head because he signed it Kieran O’Hennessey just for me.

  An entire week has gone by, and I’ve run everything for this week’s schedule through Becky, and next week will be the big interview with his family in Portland.

  There’s a knock on my door, and as I peer up, I internally groan, watching Connie Weston in one of her tight black dresses. The woman is Cindy Crawford beautiful, but boy, is she the biggest bitch known to mankind.

  “Hey, Lee, just stopping by to see if you’ve heard of the man in different disguises popping up all over Seattle for the past week. Today, he was spotted at the base of the Space Needle in a pink tutu.”

  I hate when Connie calls me Lee. She’s not earned the right and we’re certainly not buddies. But, I respond to her, because I won’t stoop to her bitch like ways. “Yeah, I’ve heard about this, but I’ve not thought much about it. Has he said what he’s protesting?”

  Everyone believes it to be a man who has been popping up at local venues in different costumes. They’re not sure if it’s the same guy, but it’s the same sort of wild attire. All just a little bit different, but similar. At first, he wore a sign around both the front and back of him that was painted. It said, “I’m different. I’m okay with that. You should be, too.”

  In the beginning, we thought this had been a stance for the LGBTQ+ movement. And the entire community applauded this. And I think it is, but I think it’s about equal rights for all. The next time he surfaced, a day later, the sign read, “Don’t be mean to others.” Some of the signs have been the same, reading, “Treat others the way you’d like to be treated.” It’s all been so odd but refreshing at the same time. Today, it says, “Only bullies bully.”

  We were very confused as to what this person is protesting, but with his signs, there is a lot of truth—that we are all human. Every day, more and more of his sightings were reported. Normally, they were early in the morning or later at night, but on occasion, there would be several sightings in one day. It started about a week ago.

  Connie helps herself into my office. “Yeah, I’m not sure, but I’ve been assigned to the story. So, hopefully, it’s something newsworthy.”

  I should have known that Connie didn’t come in here just to shoot the shit with me. She’s rubbing it in my face that she’s been given a high-profile piece.

  But I play civil. Keep your friends close but your enemies closer, right? It’s how I approach Connie Weston.

  “So, what’s up with his colorful outfits? The pink tutu is a new one,” I ask. Yesterday, I saw him with long hair and what looked to be a fake mustache and beard with a cowboy hat. He had on a neon pink shirt, spurs, and cowboy boots. Boy, does he know how to attract crowds.

  “I’m not sure. But look for my segment tonight.” I think she’s out of the room, only to see her pop her head back in. “Toodles.” And then she’s gone. Good riddance is what I want to say. But now I’m more intrigued by the flamboyant man attempting to make a stand. For what, it’ll be interesting to see.

  In twenty-four hours, Connie Weston’s segment makes national news. And she’s as unbearable as rain at a picnic.

  But my mind is only on the interview portion of my piece on Kieran O’Hennessey.

  I arrive at his apartment a couple of minutes late, and because of traffic, I hadn’t been able to stop by my house to change. I carry a backup outfit in my car, just in case a story breaks and I have to look nice. I arrive just minutes after my cameramen. They take one look at me, and I say, “Give me ten minutes.”

  I don’t acknowledge Kier or at least I try to avoid him as much as I can even though I have to change. “Mr. O’Hennessey, I apologize. Can I use your spare room?” I head back there and have my hand on the doorknob when he sidesteps me.

  “That room is a complete mess. You can change in my room. I’d offer the hallway bathroom, but I have a maintenance issue in there.”

  Well, dammit! Being in his personal space is the last place I want to be, but I guess I don’t have a choice.

  He opens the door, and I place my suit in its plastic carrier on the bed, then walk back over to the door to lock it. It takes me five minutes to change into a navy blue silk blouse and gray slacks. After applying a little makeup in the small mirror in his bedroom and spraying just a bit of perfume on my wrists, I head back out to his main space where the cameramen are ready.

  “Okay, Mr. O’Hennessey, are you ready to begin?”

  The son of a bitch smiles his lopsided megawatt smile at me, which makes him look like the boy next door as he replies, “With you, always.”

  Chapter 7

  Kier

  She never shows her hand to me. There’s not a tell in her actions. In football, I’ve become good at watching people, looking for that tell, and when she doesn’t give me one, I’m a little defeated. But just like most of m
y life, I have a lot to atone for, especially with Leleeta Cesarea.

  “Okay, Mr. O’Hennessey, are you ready to begin?” she asks.

  “With you, always.” I know we’re not filming, not yet anyway, and she gives me a slight grimace with my answer.

  The cameraman clears his voice, counting back from five, and at one, he points at her. She transforms before my eyes. This is the calm and collected Leela I’ve been watching on television. I DVR all the news, for her channel anyway, because there’s not a rhyme or reason as to when she broadcasts. Then each night, I fast forward through it all simply to watch her.

  “I’m Leela Cesarea, for Eyewitness News. I’m here with Kier O’Hennessey, Seattle’s premiere running back. Throughout this segment, you’ll see Kier O’Hennessey on the field and with his friends and his family. Today, I’m at his home in Seattle. There’s been a lot of speculation as to the new Kier O’Hennessey. Since leaving New York, he’s been almost invisible in the news. As for fans of Seattle, they wonder if he’s worth a second chance. Can this one year of having his head down and doing his job be enough for his new fan base to trust him? I’m here to dispel rumors of the young running back.”

  She twists her entire body to me as the cameraman, or one of the men taking up my living space, turns to only film me. “Okay, Kier, we’re going to dig right in. You’ve been criticized as a playboy, caring more about your own fame than that of your team. Can you explain this?”

  Ouch, she’s going straight for the jugular. I shift in my chair, but I don’t smile. No, for this type of interview, I need to be both on my toes and on the offensive.

  “What can I say? I was stupid. I was young, given the world, and I hadn’t been a good steward with what I was given.”

  “And can you explain the arrests, the fast life? Seven arrests in five years. The drunken brawls and the many fines from the League,” she shoots back her question quickly.

  I take in a calming breath because Becky has briefed me for these questions. “Again, I was stupid. I thought I was untouchable. It’s funny, when one is threatened with losing hers or his reason for living, one sobers up quick. I’m not talking about sober from alcohol; I’m talking about life in general. Knowing what you want and transforming because all the other stuff you thought you wanted really doesn’t mean diddly-squat at the end of the day.”

  She arches an eyebrow. “This is certainly a vivid way of explaining your change. But for the fan base, those who are not convinced you’re a changed man, what can you say to them?”

  This is where I give her and the camera a slight smile. “It’s a good question. I guess first, I’d like my record to speak for itself. I have seventeen touchdowns, the second most in the League by running backs this past year. My team trusts me, but I won’t lie. It took them a while. I made some big mistakes in New York, but all I can do is continue to keep my head down and show not just the city but everyone,” I stress the word everyone, staring straight in her eyes, “and I mean everyone, that I have changed. It may take more time for others to believe this, but I pledge to continue to do what I’ve been doing.”

  She shifts uncomfortably in her seat when I smirk at her with my normal signature iron-clad megawatt smile. She understands the meaning. Her gaze narrows on me, and I’m aware they’ll edit any spots they aren’t comfortable with. Her laser stare is cute for me, but maybe not for the rest of the Pacific Northwest to see.

  She continues to ask me harder questions, pushing me, but in my responses, I’m comfortable with the grilling. We move into the kitchen as I attempt to act like a normal man hosting a news anchor at my home. I give her a water as we chat about my adolescence, giving her background she can use to layer these segments.

  The interview is complete at this section, and the cameramen pack up. “If you don’t mind, I’ll grab my stuff I left in your room…” As she says this, I give her a wide smirk.

  “Oh, shut up. You know what? Never mind. I’ll grab my shit and be on my way.”

  “Leela, I’m joking with you, but seriously, how can I convince you to have dinner with me?”

  I know it’s a long shot, more than a long shot, but damn, I won’t stop until I can convince her she’s always meant more to me.

  “Yeah, do you really think that’s going to work, Kieran?” I don’t correct her anymore. It pulls at my heart and puts a smile on my face when she calls me Kieran. All the important women in my life do this, so she might as well be placed in this category.

  I had asked for her cell number, and when she refused, I did all I could do, and I insisted on giving her mine.

  I stare at the phone, knowing the only woman worth my time won’t be texting, but I’ve always been up for a challenge. And since the only woman who has twisted my insides happens to be the one who left my home in a huff, I not only want to land her as mine but I also want to prove I’m worth her affection.

  My phone rings, and I pounce on it. Could it be her already? But if it’s not, I do have something I can be doing, atoning for all the hurt I’ve caused others.

  I smirk at my phone. It’s not Leela, but it’s another woman I’d do anything for. “Hey, Mom,” I chirp. Moving closer to home has healed my relationship with my parents. To say they’ve been in the middle of all the fights and arrests or many of my one-night stands is an understatement. My sister has been bombarded at her school, and the paparazzi has camped out on my parents’ lawn more times than I could count.

  “Hey, Son, I wanted to check in with you. Your sister and I were chatting about your interview today with Leela Cesarea. How in the world could you not remember her? And was she hard on you during the first interview? She’s drop-dead gorgeous, isn’t she?”

  Siobhan O’Hennessey has never given me her questions one at a time. It’s how she is. If she thinks it, it’s out of her mouth before anyone has a chance to reply. “Okay, let me see if I can remember all the questions, Mom. I’m not sure why I didn’t remember her, but she looked completely different. The last name sounded familiar, but she changed it, and it didn’t click. Her questions were not easy, not in the least, and yes, there’s no denying she’s quite attractive.”

  Cradling the phone in the crook of my neck, I amble into my guest room where it had been locked. I look at the utter chaos on the bed and decide what to do next as my mother drones on and on. I listen to every word she says, from how lucky I am at having a second chance to how she ran into Luciana Cesarea, Leela’s mother, at the butcher. Are there still butcher shops out there? I wonder while I shoot off an email to make arrangements for my evening.

  My eyes scan the computer, reading all the steps I have to go through in this endeavor. “Kieran, are you listening to me, Son? You let her go the first time, you stupid idiot, but now, you should lock that shit down.”

  My mother’s words have me silently howling. “Oh, yeah. But, Mom, I’m not her favorite person. She’s made it perfectly clear.”

  She’s silent on the phone at first. “I knew how much you liked her from the very beginning with the teasing. And I heard about how you stood her up. I could see your eyes lingering on her and how they’d change for those little asshole friends you hung around. Son, you’ve liked that girl longer than I can remember. And I know you were so involved in yourself. It’s the only reason you didn’t keep tabs on her for the past several years.” My mother knows me too well.

  “Mom, how in the world did you know all this?” I sit down, my attention fully on what she’s sharing with me.

  “I’m your mother. I know everything. I’ll see you this weekend. Be nice to that woman, and if you can, show her, as you’ve shown us, what a wonderful man you’ve turned into.”

  We say our goodbyes, and we end the call, all the while I get ready for my new project.

  Chapter 8

  Leela

  “Knock, knock.” The annoying voice of Connie floats through my office. “Did you see our guy is making more of a statement? This time, he’s claiming that if you treat people righ
t, they will, in turn, be nicer. Kind of like paying it forward.”

  “Oh, yeah?” My head stays down, staring at the footage when I mute it. I can’t afford for the snake to get ahold of anything with my story. I have to listen to Kier’s first segment before I can head out to Portland.

  Connie’s annoying voice continues. “He’s still wearing this standard plank billboard, connected by a rope on each side. This time it said, I used to bully kids, kids who thought I was their friend. On the back, it continues, I wasn’t. Please don’t be like me.”

  This gets my attention, and I peek my head from the screen. “Have you been able to get close to him for an interview?” I ask.

  “No, it’s the weirdest thing. He’s positioned in a way where security guards stop us.”

  “Wow. I have to say, he’s someone who’s learned from his mistakes.” Connie and I are done with our little chitchat, and she leaves. I gather my work to make my way to the parking lot and to my car.

  “Don’t kill your story, literally,” Marcel calls behind me. I turn around as I walk backward with his continued advice. “Kier O’Hennessey needs to be alive for ratings, you know.”

  “You’re lucky you’re my friend, old man, or I’d flip you off.”

  As I walk toward my SUV, every curse word that fills my head leaves my mouth, and if anyone in the parking garage had been on the same level as I am, they’d find out how colorful my language can be. “Fucking shit bag motherfucker.” I kick my flat tire, then call my sister to borrow her truck.

  “I just lent it out to one of the firefighters during this shift who needed a truck. And hell, I didn’t know you’d need it.” I call my mechanic, our in-house car lot, and a rental car company. My mechanic can’t work me in until tomorrow with it needing more than a simple patch, and both the station’s cars and rental cars are all reserved for the weekend. Plus, the news crew isn’t driving down until the morning, and I’d rather get a good night’s sleep, instead of waking up at four a.m. to ride with them.