Come Home to Me

by Liz Talley

  Hunt had gone with Jenny and her daughter to see an animated movie that afternoon even though a Disney feature film was pretty much his version of hell. He’d gone out for popcorn and run into David, who was with his aunt Maisie. His first thought was that God had a sense of humor.

  “What are you doing here?” he’d asked his son, casting a look at Maisie. The woman looked concerned to see her nephew at near breakdown.

  “I’m here with my little cousins.” David jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, but his plaintive eyes never left Hunt.

  “Oh,” Hunt said, trying not to feel so uncomfortable with all this emotion in the theater lobby.

  But he did. Mostly because he didn’t know how to feel. He’d screwed up letting David go to the party. That decision had not only scared the hell out of him, but had also been the catalyst for the horrible scene in the ER. Since that time, Hunt had been laid up in his condo, licking his wounds, avoiding texts from David and Summer, trying to convince himself to leave Moonlight. Cut ties and run.

  Because he never should have tried to be a real father to David.

  Some men weren’t cut out for having kids.

  “I know you’re mad. I mean, I screwed up. This morning in church, I asked God to forgive me. I don’t want you to hate me again.”

  “Hate you?” Hunt flinched. He grabbed his son’s arm and pulled him away from the lines forming. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Like when I was a little kid and you didn’t want me.”

  Oh shit. That’s what the kid thought. Hunt knew he worked hard to please him, but he’d not known the kid thought he had to earn Hunt’s love. David thought his father hadn’t wanted him. “It wasn’t like that, David. It wasn’t because of you. It was because of me.”

  David made a face. “You didn’t want me when I was a baby. I never saw you and stuff.”

  “That’s because I was messed up. When your mom found out she was pregnant, it . . . stunned me. I wasn’t ready to be a dad, and I was selfish. Then I went to the minors and got tangled up with drugs. I know you know a little bit about what happened to me, but I wasn’t in a good place. I couldn’t take care of myself, much less you. You had nothing to do with the mistakes I made.”

  “Oh,” David said.

  “People mess up. Just like you did with the drinking. I just messed up bigger.”

  David was like every other kid. He wanted to be accepted. Hunt remembered his own years as a freshman at Martindale Academy. He’d tried to blend in with the other kids, drinking too much, smoking a little pot, trying to get lucky with the girls they met in town. Hunt had had no guidance from his own father except vague warnings to toe the line and make good choices and, for God’s sake, throw in the upper eighties or his ass would be benched.

  “You sure? You didn’t . . . I mean, I haven’t heard from you. I texted you.” The kid’s face turned red, and that made Hunt feel like shit. Hunt had been focused on how terrible a parent he was, and David thought he didn’t care. Didn’t the kid know Hunt was trying to spare him having a crappy father? Nope. The kid thought Hunt’s silence was anger, but the truth was Hunt was scared.

  “I’m not mad, David. You made a mistake. But there will be consequences, just like there were for me. I haven’t talked to your mother yet. She has the final say-so.”

  David glanced over at Maisie, who was busy wiping spilled soda off her son’s T-shirt. “Because Mom has custody?”

  Hunt hesitated and tried to figure out what the kid was getting at. “Mostly.”

  “Well, you’re my dad. You should have an opinion.”

  “I am your father, but legally I don’t.”

  “Why don’t you want me?”

  The question might as well have been a baseball bat to the head. He literally stepped back. “I do want you.”

  “You haven’t asked Mom to change anything.”

  He didn’t know what to say. Before all this happened, he’d planned on asking Summer to consider reevaluating their legal agreement. His parents had essentially forced him to sign the legal paperwork once the blood test had come back positive, but he now wanted more. “I’m going to do that, David.”

  Or he had been.

  “Good,” David said, holding up a finger to his aunt, who’d started waving him back toward them with urgency. Her two kids had started doing that runaround thing kids did when they got bored and no electronic device was in hand. “I want to belong to you, too. I mean, you know.”

  Hunt did. He understood wanting love. “We’ll talk about it soon. I’ll pick you up after lessons on Tuesday.”

  David hesitated for a moment and then he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Hunt.

  Hunt automatically wound his arms around his son.

  It was the first time the kid had initiated physical contact, and Hunt felt something lumpy and suspicious in his throat. He inhaled the smell of his boy—shampoo and salty teen boy. David finally unwound his arms, his own eyes sheened with tears.

  “Go on with your aunt. We’ll figure stuff out. It’s not as bad as it feels right now,” Hunt said, looking for the entrance to the restroom. He needed to get himself under control.

  “Okay.” David gave him a half smile.

  Hunt issued a wave toward Maisie and booked it into the men’s restroom, where he shut himself in a stall and tried not to cry. He couldn’t remember the last time actual tears had come to his eyes. Maybe rehab or therapy. But that kid had undone him.

  So on Monday he’d texted Summer that they needed to talk. She’d sent back a text. Good idea. Wednesday? Can you come here?

  He texted, I’ll be there around 6:00.

  On Tuesday Hunt walked down from the office and to the high school ball field. Rhett had brought David early so he could practice hitting with a few sophomores that Summer had vetted. Don was running late, but Hunt needed to escape from the office. The crisp day and the clink of the bat called him out to the field where David tossed the ball around with guys he’d hopefully play with in the spring.

  Hunt leaned onto the dugout wall where the kids’ bags splayed, spilling batting gloves, jackets, and empty sports drink bottles. David and the guys hadn’t even noticed he was there, which was somehow even better. There was something wonderful about catching a kid being himself.

  “Dude, that’s a strike,” one kid called from behind the plate.

  The guy pitching gave a knowing smile, but the batter shook his head. “Bullshit. That was high and outside.”

  “Caught the corner,” the catcher insisted, glancing out at David, who shagged balls. “What do you think, Dave?”

  “Caught the corner,” David said.

  “What does he know?” the batter grumbled, swinging the bat back around to rest on his shoulder.

  “You saw him pitch. He knows,” the catcher said, adjusting his face mask.

  Hunt smiled and enjoyed the next ten minutes or so of the boys arguing as they each took ten pitches and switched around. David looked surprisingly competent at the plate, though he got sucked in on the low-inside pitches, and when he’d pitched, he’d sat them all down. Impressive was the word on the tip of Hunt’s tongue.

  Don’s truck pulled into the high school lot and Hunt raised a hand. Don was on the phone and didn’t see him. The boys tromped into the dugout, still not seeing Hunt behind the green cinder-block wall.

  “Dude, are you punished for life for getting wasted?” one boy asked.

  David chuffed. “Yeah. I can’t play video games during break, and I have to rake Pete’s yard and bag up all the leaves. I’m lucky Mom let me come out here. She’s still pissed.”

  “What about your old man?” another asked.

  Hunt felt his stomach clench.

  “He ain’t that mad. He said it was what kids do.”

  “He probably got trashed all the time in high school, too.”

  “Probably,” David said.

  “Oh my God, did y’all see Anna Clair Miller? Landon hit that. She was so
drunk, she didn’t know her own damned name,” one of the boys said, laughing.

  “Landon got with her?” another boy echoed.

  “He ain’t a virgin no more and neither is she.”

  David cleared his throat. “She was passed out?”

  “I guess. She was awake for some of it,” the kid answered.

  David cleared his throat again. “Uh, well, technically that’s rape.”

  “No, it’s not. She was all over him.”

  He could hear David suck in a breath, then slowly release it. “Actually, it’s rape if she can’t give consent. If she’s passed out, she can’t say yes. So technically it’s rape.”

  “How do you know?” Another boy asked. “You teach sex ed or something in your spare time?”

  David laughed nervously. “Nah, my mom was a rape counselor. She knew a woman who was passed out and the guy had sex with her. He went to jail for a year.”

  “Damn,” one of the boys said.

  “It’s called date rape,” another boy said.

  “Yeah, they talked about it in health class in eighth grade. Some of that is bullshit, though. Girls are always all into it until they get caught with a guy’s dick in their mouth. Suddenly they’re all ‘He made me do it’ or ‘I was too drunk to know better.’ They’re just afraid everyone will think they’re a whore,” the guy who’d been catching said.

  Hunt felt heat wash over him. It was like the blast from an oven . . . or a blast from the past. Summer had been drunk and she’d told him no. Well, sorta told him no. She’d changed her mind when they were halfway there. He’d thought she was just nervous. Most guys, including Hunt, didn’t know about foreplay when they were teenagers. The first time he and Molly had sex, she’d hit him and told him it stung and that she was bleeding, but eventually it got better. But with Summer, she’d accused him of rape from the beginning.

  But it wasn’t.

  Was it?

  “Doesn’t matter,” David continued, his shyness gone. He sounded like he knew exactly what he was talking about. He was confident. “She can say no in the middle of it. If she says stop, you’re supposed to stop.”

  “But what if you’re about to, you know, get there? That doesn’t seem fair. She lets you fuck her and then says get off when you’re about to come?”

  “I’m just telling you what I know,” David said.

  “I call bullshit on that,” another boy said. Hunt heard them moving toward him. He ducked behind the dugout. Don was walking his way.

  “Call it what you want,” David said, “but you could get arrested for it.”

  “That’s not fair,” one of the boys repeated.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Hunt watched as David placed his glove carefully inside the beat-up bag Hunt had found in his garage. They were supposed to go to Charleston and buy a new one, but then the kid got smashed and hospitalized.

  Hunt leaned against the dugout, his legs actually trembling. When he glanced to his right, he saw his father heading down the hill. Coming to do for David what he’d done for Hunt. And what was that, exactly? Berate under the guise of coaching? Protect him, his arm, his career at all costs? Call Summer Valentine and her parents liars so they didn’t jeopardize his son’s chance to throw a ball?

  What had Hunt done?

  What had his father done?

  Hunt felt like he’d been hit with a stun gun. Out-of-body experience, mind blown, something crazy happening. Those words his son had said turned him inside out . . . blasted him . . . sent him staggering.

  Rape.

  An ugly, ugly word. When first uttered, it had seemed an unfounded accusation, dangerous to him and his family. Then it had been a shaky foundation for a relationship with the woman who’d given birth to his child. But rape had been something he’d been convinced he’d never done.

  But now . . . now he wondered if he’d been wrong.

  “Hey, Hunt,” Don said, extending his hand. The older man nodded toward where Mitchell McCroy stood in the outfield, arms folded across the top of the fence. “Your old man must have gotten the message, huh?”

  Hunt looked at Don’s hand and then took it. “Yeah.”

  “You okay? You look sick.”

  “Dad?” David poked his head out from the dugout. “When did you get here?”

  The kid looked panicked.

  “Just a few seconds ago. I was checking my voice mail,” he said, holding up his phone and waggling it. “You have fun with the guys?”

  The three other boys came out, each extending his hand and introducing himself. Hunt knew two of the boys’ parents. One was new to the area.

  “Can we stay a few minutes and watch Don coach David? Van’s a pitcher, too,” the boy who’d argued with David said, jerking his head toward the taller boy. Hunt had dated the kid’s aunt when he’d moved back to Moonlight. He was pretty certain she’d consented. In fact, she’d straddled him in the movie theater.

  “Sure. If it’s okay with Don,” Hunt said, arching a brow at Don.

  The older man nodded. “Sure. Nothing I like more than helping kids learn. You guys come on. If one of you is a catcher, we’ll give you some reps.”

  Hunt walked to the bleachers and pulled out his phone. For the first time in his life, he typed date rape into the search feature on his phone. Words like nonconsensual, drinking, and act of power leaped out at him. He read an article on one site and then switched to another, almost desperate for one expert to take up for the guy. Surely someone would say that if a woman drank too much, dressed too sexy, or led a guy to believe she wanted sex, it wasn’t rape. Some responsibility had to be placed on the woman, but site after site hammered home the fact that anything done against a woman (or man) without clear and full consent was a crime.

  Eventually, Hunt pocketed the phone.

  Staring out at the boy nodding to Don, Hunt thought back to that night long ago. He vividly remembered his anger at his parents, the hurt he felt at Molly dumping him, and the mounting stress to win every game and go to state. He’d been primed for reckless behavior. Pair that with a drunk and friendly Summer, and trouble was bound to occur. He remembered being convinced she wanted him, which had soothed some of the pain he’d felt. Oddly enough, he recalled trying to make her like him . . . and not like Rhett.

  Yeah, he’d known she’d had a thing for his best friend. God knows her gaze hung up on Rhett a million times that night, and something about that had pissed Hunt off. Why wasn’t he good enough for the girl who was pretty much a charity date? Maybe he’d devalued her a little. And perhaps he’d used her to make himself feel better. And according to the last three websites he’d visited, it was likely that he’d raped her.

  Bile rose in his throat.

  He got up and paced, rounding the bleachers, climbing back up and sitting down hard. He felt like a caged beast, trapped by his thoughts and decimated by the realization he’d been lying to himself for over fifteen years.

  What was he supposed to do now?

  Admit to Summer that he’d been deceiving himself for years? Apologize for not listening to her? Tell her he hadn’t known what he did was rape? She’d probably wondered how he couldn’t know. When he thought back to that night, he remembered some pushback, tears, and the way she’d carried on about the corsage that had gotten messed up.

  And just nights before, he’d seen that same accusation in her eyes. He’d thought he’d left the hospital because he couldn’t deal with what had happened to David, but perhaps deep down beneath all the bullshit he’d sold himself, he’d finally seen the truth. David’s words to the boys playing ball had been the final nail in the coffin of his excuses.

  Hunt had spent his life escaping blame. Not many people held his feet to the fire or told him when he wasn’t doing right . . . except his father. His anger at his dad had obscured the truth from Hunt. But his eyes had been opened to his grievous mistake . . . and he could no longer close them and pretend his choices away.

  “Hey, Dad,” David said, jo
gging toward the fence. “Don said you can throw the best knuckleball he’s ever seen. Will you show me?”

  Hunt shook his head. “I’m too old and my arm’s not warmed up.”

  “But I’ve never seen you pitch.” The plaintiveness in the kid’s voice weakened his resolve.

  “Come on. Please.” David gave him a smile.

  His son’s desires were always going to be Hunt’s undoing.

  “Okay, I’ll throw a few,” Hunt said, rising from the bleacher, hoping that doing something constructive would take away some of the fresh guilt pooling inside him.

  Hunt walked onto the field, picking up a spare glove one of the kids had left on the dugout bench, and swung his arm in wide circles, warming up muscles he’d not used in many years. He wasn’t even sure if he could throw even half as well as he used to. He might end up embarrassing himself or disappointing David. Something about that stung him almost as much as the self-realization he’d had just moments before. He didn’t want David to be ashamed of him.

  Hunt had screwed up, and he’d have to make that right.

  David deserved that much.

  “Show ’em what you got, Dad,” David said, the confidence he had in Hunt shining in his eyes.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  November, present day

  Summer pushed the grocery cart through the store, trying to remember everything on the list she’d left at home on the counter. Forgetting her list was a rare occurrence, but the last week and a half had been a whirlwind of craziness. At least that was the story, and she was sticking to it.

  For the past few days she’d been living a lie . . . and it was about to be over.

  Rhett was going back to LA in just over twenty-four hours, and that thought made her heart vibrate with sorrow. Yeah, she’d drunk a glass of stupid and let herself get attached to Rhett. Or maybe she was living out one of her favorite movies—The Bridges of Madison County. She’d duped herself into believing Rhett would ask her to come with him, but deep down she knew the only bag packed would be his. Then she’d watch him ride away into the sunset.