by K. A. Tucker
I hold up my phone, my bottom lip wavering. “Why are people so mean?”
He puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me against him in time for me to start sobbing uncontrollably against his shoulder. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’ve stayed away from it up until now, but I was curious. I just wanted to see what people were saying, so I clicked on the comments . . .”
A lot of people have a lot to say.
And most of it was about me.
So many of them call me brave and kind, label me an angel, proclaim that I was touched by God’s will to manage what I did. They thank me over and over again, for risking my life to save such an incredible man. A man they’ve never met but obviously dream about meeting one day. A man they idolize. Many of them are praying for me and wishing me only happiness after what that teacher did to me. They don’t think it was right, the way I was treated, the way Scott Philips got away with it. They’re disgusted by it. So many people wholeheartedly agree with Kate Wethers—Brett and I would make a beautiful couple and they want to see it happen, because it would make for such a happy end to the story.
But all those kind words and well wishes quickly fade into oblivion, next to the other comments that have been floating around since the interview aired.
The ones that label me ugly and stupid, a white trash whore who’ll be serving fries for the rest of my life. That I need a nose job and a boob job, that my eyes are too big, that I’m too skinny. That I should be cut off welfare, that I’m the problem with America today. That I deserve what happened with Philips because I must be a slut if I got pregnant so young. That I’m lying about everything that happened the night of the accident because I just want the attention. That they hope Brett gave me a pity fuck before he returned to Courtney. That even if Brett and I had gotten together, he’d have ditched me the second his leg was working and he was back on the ice, banging hot puck bunnies.
Those are just words. Then there are the pictures, the memes. Still shots that people actually pulled from The Weekly interview, of me sitting on my couch next to Brett, my face contorted in midspeech, and hurtful little captions to go along with them. I guess they’re meant to be funny.
They only made me cry harder.
People actually took time out of their lives to make these.
Jack groans. “You never read the comments! Those people are fucking trolls. Losers with sad, small lives and nothing better to do than spew crap and hate. It’s all bullshit.”
“And yet it hurts so much when it’s about you.” When almost everything they’ve said, I’ve thought at some point or another. “This feels like seven years ago all over again. Except worse. I can’t handle this.”
“Yeah, you can. You’re the strongest person I know.”
Me, strong? “No I’m not.”
“Yeah, you are. You’re way stronger than Emma, or Mom.”
“Mom’s a rock.”
“No, Mom just doesn’t take risks, she always plays the safe card.”
I simply shake my head.
“I still remember when you walked out of the house with your backpack slung over your shoulder. It was like you’d been sitting in your room waiting until the stroke of midnight.”
“I was.”
“You set out to survive on your own, with no job and no money, and you did. The day you moved out, Mom and Dad had a huge fight. She guaranteed that you’d come running back within two weeks with your tail between your legs. But, stubborn ass that you are, you didn’t so much as call. And then, when she found out you were pregnant, she actually brought a contractor in to give an estimate on a basement renovation, for when you came running home with the baby because there’s no way you’d be able to hack it. You never did. You handled everything life threw at you and you did it all on your own.”
“With the help of a few people,” I correct, though I offer him a small smile, appreciating the words. I flop back on my bed, suddenly exhausted. I feel like I could sleep for the next week.
“You can handle this, Cath.”
I stare up at the ceiling. It’s in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. Jack leans back beside me, the accompanying creak making me think we’re about to break the frame, which was a garage sale purchase. It hasn’t had to bear the weight of a man lying on it since before the day Keith loaded it into his truck and brought it here for me six years ago, sad as that may be.
“Did you want what Wethers said to be true?” he asks softly, a rare seriousness in his tone.
Yes. Clearly I did, if this stings so much.
“He just feels indebted to me,” I say instead. Not answering the question.
“Maybe.”
“Misty thinks I’m an idiot for not throwing myself at him when I had the chance.”
“Misty’s good at throwing herself at guys.” He pauses. “Has Singer said anything?”
“No. Nothing about that, anyway. He’s texted a million times to see if I needed anything.”
“I ran into him the other day when I was jogging. He wasn’t really himself. I think he finally realized he doesn’t have a hope in hell with Madden as competition.”
“There is no competition.” I hold up my phone to show Jack the side-by-side graphic meme someone created: a svelte, glamorous Courtney Woods next to a still of me from the interview, in my pink blouse, looking like a meek extension of my ugly-ass garage sale couch. “And talk about not being able to compete.”
He sighs. “Here, can I show you a little trick?” He takes my phone and closes out the page. “What do ya know? Just like that, none of it exists anymore.”
“Funny.”
“Let them be miserable while you’re working on bangin’ my idol.”
“Jack!” I’m shaking my head at him, but a smile tugs at my mouth. “That’s never gonna happen.”
He pulls himself back to a sitting position, hauling me up to sit next to him. “Seriously, can’t you just find someone normal? First you fall in love with your art teacher and you almost send him to jail. Then you get knocked up by a drug dealer who can’t help you out because he does go to jail. Then you have to go and pull Brett Madden out of a burning car and make him fall all over you like a lovesick puppy on national TV. Why can’t you just find . . . I don’t know, a banker, or a plumber?”
I’m giggling because, as harsh as that reality is, it’s coming from Jack, who I know doesn’t judge me at all. “Or a used-car salesman?”
“Now you’re on the right track. I need a car.”
I wipe the remaining tears from my face. “Thanks, Jack. For being here. For knowing when to come.” I never would have asked.
He sighs. “Just keep your head up. And promise you won’t ever look at that shit again. That was dumb. I’m going to cut off my hotspot when I come here if I catch you doing it again.”
“I won’t. I promise. I’m done. I’m moving on.” I toss my phone to my bed stand, the weight of it suddenly unbearable. “I take it the game’s finished?”
He nods, his dour expression telling me that the Flyers won’t be playing again until next season.
“Twenty eighteen’s our year, right?” Jack grumbles to Hawk as they ease down my porch steps, Jack dressed to jog home.
“Hope so,” comes the bodyguard’s deep response. The radio in his SUV buzzes with low voices, the commentators dissecting the game, highlighting all the ways that the Flyers screwed up and lost their chance at playing for the Cup. I’ve heard “Madden” said at least twice in the past twenty seconds, even though Brett wasn’t playing. It’s not hard to figure out where the brunt of the blame is going to fall, regardless.
But it’s almost a relief to me that I won’t have to face Brett sitting in a box with Courtney Woods beside him again anytime soon. I’m sure there are already more than enough stills of them splashed all over the Internet.
Maybe now everyone can move on.
Including me.
“You should go home, Hawk,” I tell him.
<
br /> The fierce-looking man frowns a little. “I’m supposed to—”
“I’m good. Look, they’re all gone. There’s no one around anymore.”
“But Mr. Madden insisted—”
“That you stay until I feel safe. I feel safe now, so you can go.” I cap it off with a smile.
After a long pause, he offers a curt nod and heads for his truck. To phone in to headquarters and get permission to leave, no doubt.
“You gonna be fine to get home?”
Jack is leaning over to fix his loose shoelace. “I’ve only had three beers.”
“Keith is going to notice that they’re gone.”
“Good. Tell him to buy better stuff when he restocks.” With a wink, Jack is off, running down the lane.
“Stay on the sidewalk!” I holler after him.
My phone is ringing from my bedroom as I step back inside, and it’s a piercing sound, carrying through the silent house. While Brenna’s a deep sleeper, I still run for it, afraid it might wake her.
My heart stutters when I see Brett’s name on the screen.
I already know why he’s calling. To tell me what I’ve seen with my own two eyes. What everyone has seen. What people—complete strangers who don’t know me, will never know me—are now gossiping about. And as trivial as Jack made it all sound, every little reminder makes me nauseous.
I don’t know what to say to him.
And so I simply sit there, the volume muted, staring at his name as I wait for it to go to voice mail. It takes me almost a minute to collect my nerve and listen to the message, a sad smile touching my lips as his voice fills my ear. “Hey, Cath, it’s Brett. I figured you’d be done work by now but maybe not? I was at the game tonight and just got home. It’s the first time I have a moment’s privacy. Anyway . . .” He heaves a sigh. “I wanted to warn you that there was going to be some stuff floating around in the media about me and my ex getting back together . . .”
Just the way he says it feels like a punch to the gut.
“. . . Simone thinks that’s the best way to deflect the Weekly spin. Courtney was up for it, so she flew in from LA today to lend some weight to the story that Simone pitched.”
Simone pitched it. So she’s the reliable source. Makes sense. That was her tagline they used.
He pauses. “Did you watch tonight’s game, by any chance?” I don’t miss the touch of wariness in his voice. “Anyway . . . it’s all for show. We’re not back together.”
I close my eyes, the familiar burn in my stomach flaring painfully.
“So . . . yeah. I just wanted you to know that. And I was hoping I’d get to talk to you in person, but . . . anyway . . .” He sounds so sedate, so unsure of himself. I imagine that has to do with his team’s loss tonight. Though, it’d be hard for any of those guys to muster up a smile right now. “So, yeah . . . Good night . . . . Or good morning . . . I don’t know. Talk to you soon?”
As far as bumbling voice mails go, Brett just beat out my “take your money back” one from last week. I wish I could laugh about it.
I wish I could just take his words at face value.
I wish I could believe him.
I crawl into bed and close my eyes. I press my phone against my ear and get lost in Brett’s message—not in his words, but in his voice: a deep, melodic song that I can somehow feel right down to my very core.
Each time I hit Replay—seven times in total—I hope something will click, something will change. Something will tell me that I can accept his explanation and find the guts to talk to him.
But I can’t.
Because his words are words I’ve heard before. This explanation is one that I’ve heard before. This kind of false hope has consumed me before. And the probability of facing heartbreak again . . .
I set my phone on my nightstand, Brett’s message unanswered.
I promised myself I’d be smarter.
July 2010
I walk swiftly toward his house, my bike cast aside at the park across the street, where I’ve been sitting for three hours.
Waiting, for the familiar rumble of Scott’s motorcycle.
Gathering my nerve to speak to him for the first time in four months.
His house is on a quiet street, in a quiet neighborhood, in the oldest part of Balsam. It was his grandmother’s bungalow, willed to him when she passed away. It’s small and charming and, best of all, its front door is set back a little to offer privacy.
I reach his porch as he’s sliding a key into his front door, the creak of the wooden steps announcing my approach.
He pushes aside a wave of golden-brown hair, mussed from wearing a helmet. “You can’t show up on my doorstep like this. You know that.”
“Why won’t you even look at me anymore?” My voice trembles with barely contained emotion, my face no doubt a splotchy, mascara-streaked mess.
He hesitates. “You know why.”
“I saw you coming out of the café today.”
“Cath . . .” He leaves his door open a crack and turns to face me, those warm hazel eyes softening. He glances around us, checking for prying eyes. “She’s a kindergarten teacher and we dated for years. If she’s willing to give me another shot, it says something about my character.” He shrugs. “I need to help my reputation right now.”
His reputation isn’t what’s suffering. “Are you sleeping with her?” A fresh wave of tears threatens.
“Please don’t cry, Cath. I’m sorry.” His throat bobs with a hard swallow.
“Do you still love me?”
His gaze slowly drifts down over my frame—the midday summer heat making my tank top and jean shorts cling to my body—before lifting to meet my eyes again. “You know how I feel about you. I will always feel that way about you.”
I take a deep breath, brush my tears from my cheek. “I miss you so much.”
He hesitates, his eyes flickering to the house next door again, the only vantage point with a clear view of us, thanks to a crop of trees in front. “I miss you, too. But we shouldn’t have allowed that to happen.”
Chapter 19
“Seriously, I didn’t need a police escort to go shopping,” I insist to Keith, barely avoiding the town worker as she waters flowers. It’s the first days of June, and the tulips that graced the planters have been replaced by bright bursts of petunias, marigolds, and lime-green coleus, flowers that will adorn Main Street in the coming summer months. And then, like clockwork, they’ll be replaced by indigo and golden mums and orange pumpkins to mark autumn and, after that, thick evergreen boughs, red ribbon, and twinkling white lights. Really, there isn’t a season where this stretch isn’t tended to with the utmost care. The valley could be suffering the worst drought in Pennsylvania’s history and I’ll bet this worker would still be out here every Saturday morning, watering, keeping Balsam beautiful and the tourists coming in.
And, truth be told, we may actually be facing a drought soon enough, as we’ve gone from unseasonably cool to stifling hot in a week’s time, the weather forecasts calling for highs of midnineties by this afternoon.
“Then you shouldn’t have tried that lame ‘I have nothing to wear’ excuse on Lou.” Keith taps the rim of Brenna’s baseball cap, pushing it lower over her face. This is the first time she’s been anywhere with me besides a car ride to school, and I’m not entirely sure there won’t be a photographer lurking, given that today is this Key to the City ceremony they’re forcing me to attend.
I roll my eyes. Keith showed up on my doorstep with coffee and donuts at a quarter to ten, exactly fifteen minutes before Threads, a boutique clothing shop and the only one in Balsam, was to open. Apparently Lou called him last night to ensure I got out and bought something for myself. She didn’t call Misty, I’ll note, which would have been the more obvious choice. I think Lou still worries about my safety.
There’s absolutely no need. I’ve gotten plenty of curious looks, but no one has said anything to me beyond a hello.
I hold Brenna’s
hand extra tight as we head for Keith’s truck, trekking carefully over the cobblestone street that marks the center square of Balsam. My other hand grips a shopping bag holding a dress that I hope is appropriate for this afternoon’s event. No one seems willing to tell me much about it at all, except that I’m to be ready at three thirty and we’re going to Lander’s Mill, a museum on the outskirts of town.
“Can we get ice cream? Please!” Brenna begins tugging my arm toward the Sweet Stop. “Please, please, please, please, please!”
Normally I’d say no, that it’s too early in the day for ice cream and the five bucks they charge for a double cone is robbery. But I just treated myself to a dress that cost me more than I’ve ever spent on an outfit. And she’s such a good kid, never complaining about all the things we can’t afford.
She squeals as I lead her toward the door.
“I’ll wait out here. Nothing too messy, Squirt, or you’ll be cleaning my seats!” Keith calls after her.
She’s not listening, already pulling me in past the red-and-white-striped awning.
We pass a table of giggling teenagers who immediately silence. I hear hushed whispers of “That’s her!” and heat crawls up my neck. It’s a ridiculous reaction for a twenty-four year-old woman in the presence of girls who can’t be more than sixteen, but it somehow brings me right back to high school.
“Okay, Brenna, hurry up and pick please.”
“Um . . .” She lifts onto her tiptoes to see inside the ice cream chiller.
“Face off the glass,” I quietly scold, offering an apologetic smile to the teenage boy behind the counter who waits for our order with a lackluster expression. Poor kid has to wear a silly white cone for a hat; I’ll bet he’s not happy with that.
“Cotton candy . . . pineapple orange . . . chocolate chip . . .”
I struggle not to roll my eyes as Brenna reads each label, just as she does every time she’s choosing an ice cream flavor at Diamonds, where we have a whopping five options. In the end, I know she’ll pick Dutch chocolate, because she always picks Dutch chocolate.
