by Virna DePaul
“So how was he?” Sheila asked on speakerphone. “On a scale of 1 to 10, how good is Heath Dawson in the sack?”
“To be honest? A 10.” Sheila squealed in the background. “Don’t get too excited, though. Afterward, he was a zero. Actually, a negative 100.”
“What happened?”
“Well, we took a shower together, which seemed great. Until he slapped my ass and said he hoped I wouldn't mind if I saw myself out. You know, like I was the gardener or something. I felt like a piece of meat, and I had to restrain myself from punching him in the balls.”
Sheila made a sound of commiseration. “Ugh, I’m sorry, hon. He clearly has the attention span of a gnat. At least you’ve gotten him out of your system, right? Now you can find a guy worth sleeping with and dating. He’s out there: I know it.”
“I’m glad you’re hopeful. Because I’m not.”
“Aw, don’t give up.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Sheila. I should never have joined the game to begin with.”
She meant it when she said it. But when she was back in her hotel room, she couldn’t lie to herself. Despite how he’d treated her, Camille still wanted Heath.
Her body shuddered, remembering: his hands on her breasts, his mouth moving down her body, his hard cock inside of her. When she’d told Sheila he’d been a 10, she hadn’t been exaggerating. The man knew his way around women, and he knew how to draw out their pleasure until they were screaming his name. She couldn’t help but be impressed, but she also found herself a little jealous, too. He had to have had a lot of experience, which meant a lot of women, and knowing that she was probably just another notch on his bedpost left a sick feeling in her stomach.
Had she really thought that he’d pledge his undying love for her afterward? No, but she’d expected something not quite so…perfunctory. An ass slap and a wave goodbye wasn’t exactly romantic, to say the least. But the way he’d looked at her beforehand? She hadn’t imagined that. His eyes had darkened and his voice had been so rough, and the way he’d touched her: like she mattered somehow. She knew it wasn’t just rose-colored glasses from the good sex; she’d seen how he’d looked at her. Things hadn’t started off as just a quick screw—not for her, and not for him. But when they’d finished, it was like he’d turned off a switch and he’d reverted back to Heath Dawson, player and ladies’ man. Not the man Camille had had sex with, but the man who went through life without a care about anyone else’s feelings.
She grabbed her camera and paged through the photos. The majority were of Heath’s house, the gorgeous, blue Georgia sky in the background of the exterior shots. She smiled as she looked through them: many of them were quality shots, and she was happy with how they came out.
But what she really focused on were the shots that included Heath. Many of them were in candid, and she’d caught him talking and laughing. Some shots he looked serious, explaining some choice he’d made in the landscaping or the decoration of his house. But other expressions were ones that were clearly directed at her, and it was those few shots that she saved in a folder. Those shots proved to her that she hadn’t been imagining how he’d looked at her at all. They were almost unbearably intimate: it was like he wanted to take in every part of her, every atom and cell.
When she got to the photos of herself, though, she gasped. She barely recognized herself, with the sunlight streaming through the windows, bathing her in light. She looked relaxed, happy, and beautiful. She marveled at Heath’s ability to bring that out in her, when no one else had been able to. He obviously had a gift, or perhaps it was just his presence that allowed him to take photos of her like this. Emotions flooded her as she flipped through those photos of herself—sadness, joy, wonderment—and when she got to the very last photo, the one where she was looking at him with such blatant desire, she had to turn off her camera.
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and tried not to let those photos imprint in her mind.
But they wouldn’t leave her, nor would the deep-seated feeling that despite his attempts to hide it, Heath Dawson was a complex man, one who was afraid to let her see exactly how much he was beginning to care for her.
* * *
At the Bootleggers’ home game the following day, Heath acknowledged her early on with a smile and a nod of his head, but there was no calling to her on the sidelines. No teasing or calling her Watergirl or asking her if her cooler was glistening.
Even so, after the game, Camille could feel herself hanging back, hoping Heath would approach her. He knew her job had officially ended and that she’d be heading home now. Sure, what they’d had, whatever it had been, was over, but he’d at least say goodbye and wish her well, right?
Apparently not.
Her last glimpse of him was talking to several cheerleaders before turning away and heading to the locker rooms without so much as a backward glance.
What a fool you are, Camille, she thought. What an absolute fool.
Chapter Eleven
A week later, her life back to normal even if thoughts of Heath and their time together still often popped into her head, Camille pulled her car into her garage. When she opened the door to the kitchen, she could hear Emma chattering away just before her daughter ran up to greet her.
“Mom, Mom! Have you talked to Heath lately? Can you ask him to come to my party? Please?”
“Hi, Ms. Pollert,” Meghan, Emma’s babysitter, said.
“Hi, Meghan,” Camille said before turning to her daughter. “What was your question? I couldn’t hear over the yelling.”
Emma sighed. “Can you ask Heath to come to my party?” she said slowly, like her mother was too slow to understand the most basic things.
Camille sighed. “Sweetie, I told you asking him to your party wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“I know but…” She looked down and shrugged. “I thought maybe you’d change your mind.”
“No, sweetie, it’s just not a good idea.” She cupped her daughter’s chin and gently lifted it until their eyes met. “Now, let me pay Meghan and then you and I can talk details about the party. Because it is going to be so fabulous, you won’t even miss Heath Dawson.”
Several hours later, after chatting with Emma over dinner, and sitting with her while she finished the movie she and Meghan had been watching, Camille kissed her daughter good night and gently closed her bedroom door. She then made some popcorn and tried to watch another movie, but she soon got restless. Eventually she turned the movie off but she still felt too awake to go to bed. She needed something mindless like cleaning to get her mind off of things. Things, meaning Heath Dawson. Maybe scrubbing toilets would finally get him out of her head.
It was easier to clean without Emma’s “help,” relaxing even. Although if Heath knew she was going to clean her toilets to relax, he’d laugh at her and tell her she was a crazy woman. Lighten up, Watergirl. You only live once.
She headed into the garage to grab some cleaning supplies. Flipping on the light, she grabbed the supplies, uncovering a cardboard box labeled “Peachtree Little League.” It was just one of several boxes containing her father’s things. The temptation to wander down memory lane was too great, and she found herself sitting on an old beach chair and opening one of the boxes. Inside were trophies, whistles, medals, photos, a few jerseys. Many of the items she recognized, but some she couldn’t remember seeing at all. A few random items were also in there—one of the oddest was an empty beer bottle—but otherwise they all reminded her of her dad’s legacy.
Pulling out a trophy, she read the words State Champions – Peachtree Little League, and she smiled. She remembered when the team had won the state championship. Dad had been on cloud nine for months afterward, and the team had been hometown heroes for just as long. They’d started out as a ragtag bunch of players that Dad had shaped and encouraged to become a team worthy of winning the state championship.
Camille pulled out a few more things, and then found a photograph that made her la
ugh out loud. There was Heath Dawson—he’d been on the team when they’d won state, she realized—standing at the back of the team, a wide grin on his face. She’d recognize that face anywhere, albeit a more boyish version of the man she knew now. All of the boys had signed the photo, and she read Heath’s 5th grade scrawl: You’re the best, Coach! Thanks for believing in me!
Staring at the photo, she took in each of the players—she remembered David Thomas, Mike Packer, Kenny Minton, to name a few—but her gaze kept returning to Heath then to the man standing in the middle of the group: her dad. Usually his face in old photos could make her smile, but for some reason, today the memories felt thorny. It was like if she looked too long, she’d end up bleeding. But she couldn’t not look at her dad, standing at the front of the team, his smile the widest of all.
Cal Pollert had been of average height, although he’d managed to become bulky enough to play football in the minor leagues for a number of years before he married Camille’s mom and started a family. He’d had light brown hair and a beard that he trimmed religiously, with glasses perched on his nose and a gap in his front teeth. Seeing his face now, she missed him with an ache that was unending. He’d been gone for close to a decade, but sometimes the pain was so fresh, it was like she’d attended his funeral only yesterday.
Tears formed, and Camille found herself crying as she sat in her garage, gazing at that old photo. She hadn’t thought she’d end up crying, but something about seeing her dad and their shared connection to Heath made her heart ache. Dad’s death had been a huge loss, not only for his only daughter, but for the entire community. He’d been a bastion for the young players he coached, and he’d served as a father figure for many of them.
“I miss you, Dad,” she murmured to the photo. “I miss you so much. Not just for me, but for Emma. You would’ve loved her: she’s just like you in so many ways.” One of the hardest things about Emma’s birth was the knowledge that Emma would miss out on knowing Camille’s mother and father. But while Camille grieved her mom, she’d only ever had pictures and hazy memories of her. Her dad had been her rock. He’d been both father and mother to her, and even after ten years she still felt the loss of him like it had happened much more recently.
She placed the photo back into the box, then went inside. After she splashed some cold water on her face, she let herself lie down on the couch for a few moments, thoughts of cleaning toilets forgotten. Closing her eyes, all she could see was her dad’s face—and Heath’s—smiling so joyfully at the camera all those years ago. In turn, that made her think about the sadness on Emma’s face at Camille’s refusal to ask Heath to attend her birthday party.
He’d made it crystal clear that she didn’t mean anything special to him when he’d blown her off at that last game. Even so, her father had adored Heath when he’d been a child, and her almost eight-year-old daughter desperately wanted him at her party.
Could she ask him such a favor? A part of her desperately wanted to, both for Emma and herself, while the other part of her never wanted to see or hear from him ever again. Everything about him was just complicated. Her emotions regarding him were a tangled mess, one she could barely begin to wade through. On one hand, he’d basically kicked her out of his house after they’d had sex, but on the other hand, the photos he’d taken of her at his house showed another side to him.
So which was the real Heath? The intense man who’d gazed at her so disarmingly in those photos, or the one who’d slapped her ass and said she could see herself out, then turned his back on her at that last game without a word of goodbye?
Whichever one he was, she couldn’t call him. Couldn’t have him.
Grabbing her phone anyway to charge it before she went to bed, she frowned when she saw she’d received a text; it must have come in while she’d been in the garage. She swiped her finger across the screen, then sucked in a breath.
It was from Heath.
How are you, Watergirl?
Equally thrilled and confused, she considered ignoring his message, or deleting it altogether. Why would he be texting now? Was it possible he’d been thinking of her as much as she’d been thinking of him?
Biting her lip, she typed in, All good here. What’s up?
As soon as she pressed send, she cringed. Talk about setting herself up. But instead of jumping on his chance to make a sexual innuendo, he responded: I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye before you left. Things were crazy.
Her heart fluttered, but she told herself not to get carried away. If he’d really wanted to talk to her, he could have made the time, or at the very least not waited a week to get in touch with her again. What was this? His messed up way of initiating some kind of booty call?
No problem at all, she typed back.
How’s your daughter? Bet she’s glad you’re back.
She raised an eyebrow. Now he was asking about Emma?
Did you need anything, Heath?
Three dots blinked on the screen, indicating he was typing a reply. Then, Just wanted to say hi.
She waited for him to say he missed her. That he wanted to see her again. When no such texts came through, she sighed.
Well, thanks. It’s late, so I should be going. Take care, Heath.
You too, Watergirl.
She stared at their message exchange for several minutes before finally putting her phone down.
She thought about going to bed, but was afraid she’d lay there thinking of Heath, placing too much importance on him reaching out to her, so she turned on the TV and flipped channels before landing on some show on HGTV. A man wanted to remodel a house extensively, while his long-suffering wife looked on. But she barely registered the show so she turned off the TV.
She kept glancing at her phone as if willing Heath to text her again. She kept thinking about just how much he’d been on her mind, how she’d been considering reaching out to him again only to discover that he’d obviously been thinking about her, as well.
Abruptly, she grabbed her phone then texted him before she could change her mind.
I know you probably can’t make it, but my kid is in love with you and would really love it if you could come to her party in a couple of weeks.
As soon as she hit send, she made her way upstairs, put the phone on her dresser, then ran a quick bath and got ready for bed. When she picked up the phone again and he hadn’t replied, she groaned. Why had she sent that message? He probably thought she was some desperate weirdo, asking him to her daughter’s party like they were dating or something.
She tried to read a book, but an hour later, when he still hadn’t replied, she gave up. It was when she was sliding into bed and about to turn off her light that she heard her phone ding.
In love with me, huh? The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
He’d added a few ridiculous emojis for good measure. She could just imagine him waggling his eyebrows and grinning that stupid grin of his.
Right now, though, she was torn between relief that he’d replied at all, and annoyance that he could never be serious about anything. Keep telling yourself that, Dawson, she replied. Whatever lets you sleep at night.
I sleep fine, especially since I dream of you most nights. Do you want to hear my latest one?
Just like that, it was as if they hadn’t been apart for the past week. His easy confession that he’d dreamed of her made her heart beat faster, but she told herself that he just couldn’t help himself. It didn’t mean anything.
Not particularly. So can you come or not?
The dots blinked for a bit, and she had to restrain herself from asking him what he’d dreamed about. Part of her wanted to know if her dream self could measure up to what had happened on that afternoon together, and then she felt silly for wanting to know. They weren’t going to sleep together again, so what did it matter? If or when she saw him again, it would be in a purely professional context. Well, excepting if he somehow came to Emma’s party.
You’re missing out
. Then the dots again before he added, I’ll see if I can come. Should I bring a gift?
Camille was about to say no, but then she shrugged. If he wanted to bring a gift, who was she to say no? It’s a pirate tea party, so anything like that would work.
He replied with a few laughing emojis. I like this kid of yours. Pirate tea party it is. If I can’t come, I’ll send her a card.
They texted a few more lines, although nothing that alluded to sleeping together that afternoon. Eventually, she told him she needed to get to bed. The blinking dots popped up, and his reply read, Dream of me, will you? It would only be fair.
She didn’t know how to respond to that. She had assumed he wanted nothing to do with her now that she was two hours away—out of sight, out of mind, right?— but maybe she was wrong. Then again, what did it matter? Did she really want to risk being with him again, given that having him walk away from her once already, after slapping her on the ass, no less, had been so painful?
She sent back an eyeroll emoji before texting, I hope I’m not enough of a masochist to dream of you. I see enough of you in real life, thank you very much.
You never fail to inflate a man’s ego. Good night, Watergirl.
She replied with a rote “night” and then plugged in her phone before turning off her light. Tossing and turning, she once again tried to get him out of her head, but it was useless.
At least for now, Heath Dawson was there to stay.
Chapter Twelve
Heath threw back his beer, his third one this afternoon. Alec had invited him to hang out by the pool that afternoon, and the two men drank beer and ate hot wings as they lay in the sun. It was a hot, muggy day, a usual kind of afternoon for summer in Georgia, but Heath loved the sun beating down on him, and the sweat that broke out just from sitting around, and the feeling of a cold beer going down his throat as he wasted time doing absolutely nothing.
