Hard Fall

by Ney, Sara

  With no backward glance, I leave the room, quietly closing the door behind me.

  14

  Hollis

  “Never have I ever made out with a guy in his parents’ house.”

  I peek over at Buzz, who has his eyes trained on the road, and I replay his question in my mind. Have I ever made out with a guy in his parents’ house? “Never.”

  He glances at me. “Never? Not even when you were younger?”

  “Nope.” Let’s see, how do I explain this… “I grew up with parents who weren’t all that strict, because they weren’t really around. But, since everyone knew my dad—and my grandpa—not many guys wanted to mess with me. I mean, they wanted to date me because they liked going to the stadium and sitting in the owner’s box to see the games, but none of them actually liked me. I questioned everyone’s intentions, even as a kid.”

  It’s a heavy answer for so early in the morning, but he started the game, so he gets what he gets.

  “Dang. Okay, fair enough—makes total sense.”

  We’re quiet for a few miles while I rack my brain. “Would you rather walk in on your parents having sex or have your parents walk in on you having sex?”

  Buzz opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. “Those are two horrible options.”

  “You have to choose.”

  “There is no winning.”

  “Choose.”

  He clamps his mouth shut, pressing his lips together. “I’d rather walk in on my parents, I guess—then I could clamp my eyes shut and not have to listen to my mother forever remind me that she walked in on me having sex. I would never live it down.”

  I have to laugh at that. “And you would let them live it down if you walked in on Roger and Genevieve?”

  “Rog and Gen don’t have sex.” He shakes his head. No.

  “They probably do—Rog seems spry yet,” I tease. “You boys probably take after him.”

  “First of all, don’t. Second of all, ew.”

  “Did you really just say ew?”

  He nods. “I did and I’ll say it again—ew.” Buzz continues watching the road, then says, “Never have I ever dated a professional athlete.”

  I side-eye him; how quickly they forget. “Duh, I dated Marlon for five of the worst minutes of my life.”

  “Oh that’s right, I forgot.”

  We both laugh. “I take it you haven’t?”

  “Nope.”

  Hmm. He is way too cocky.

  “Never have I ever dated a celebrity.” I’m certain I’ve got him with that one, but his smirk is confident.

  “Nope.”

  “Oh come on, you must have! Don’t all athletes date models and movie stars?”

  “Not me.”

  “I swear I saw you with some singer when I was—”

  “Stalking me online? Nice! But no. We were photographed together, but we didn’t actually date. Our agents set it up—that happens a lot, actually. Anyway, she was a nutcase. I didn’t even bang her.”

  “Bang her,” I deadpan. “How eloquent.”

  “Sorry, I meant screw.”

  He is too much. “Would you rather date someone with a high-pitched voice or someone with a masculine voice?”

  Buzz looks irritated. “Where are you getting these godawful questions?”

  I scoff. “Please, these are standard-issue would-you-rathers.”

  “I can’t imagine which one would be less heinous. Which would I want whispering in my ear…?” He shudders. “Jesus, I don’t know. Masculine? No. High-pitched.”

  “Final answer?”

  A jerky nod. “Final answer. And why do I feel like this is going to somehow happen to me now?” He smiles over at me. “I like your voice though—it’s cute.”

  My voice is cute?

  I must be scowling because he adds, “And sexy.”

  I relax into the passenger seat and wait patiently for him to ask me a question.

  I don’t have to wait long.

  “Never have I ever dated someone who wasn’t my type on paper.”

  This makes me look over at him and stare, studying his profile. He is intently watching the road, but…that’s such an odd thing to say, and I’m not sure what he means.

  “Huh?”

  “I’ve never dated someone who wasn’t my type on paper—meaning, just because they look a certain way, doesn’t mean they don’t still have the qualities I’m looking for in a partner.”

  I’m still confused. “So you’re saying those model-looking types you’ve gone out with or have slept with are secretly rocket scientists, too?”

  Buzz laughs. “I’m not saying that. I’m talking about dating someone—being in a relationship. Going out for drinks or sleeping with a person doesn’t equal dating them, being in a relationship with them. Like there are women you sleep with and women you bring home to your mo—”

  Oh god. He’s talking about me.

  I’m the kind you bring home to your mother, apparently, even if it’s for show.

  “Then I guess I usually do date my type, yes, if that’s what you’re getting at with that convoluted never-have-I-ever.”

  He seems satisfied with that answer. “So what is your type then? On paper, if you could invent the perfect man.”

  This gives me pause, though it’s something I’ve thought a lot about since the Marlon incident. ‘The Big Mistake of Last Year,’ I’ll call it. “He has to be employed. I’m not into anyone who is already retired. They have to have a purpose.”

  “Uh, do you know lots of dudes our age who are retired?”

  I roll my eyes. “Hi, my parents’ circle of friends is full of trust fund and Wall Street babies who have too much money and way too much free time. Need I mention the retired pro-athletes who get washed up by the time they’re in their late thirties and can’t play anymore? Not all of them become sportscasters. Some of them wind up doing endless yard work at their McMansions and driving their wives insane.” I would know because I’ve been around it my entire life.

  “Fair enough.”

  I realize how harsh that might have sounded. “I just mean I’d love to be with someone who has goals.” God, now I sound fickle. “Any goals.”

  Shit. Stop talking, Hollis—you’re making it worse.

  “Yeah, me too. I don’t want to be with someone who wants to stay home and look pretty all day.”

  I scrunch up my face. Is he being serious? I know he’s said he wants someone to want him for him, but, “Never have I ever not wanted to be married with a family.”

  I immediately want to slap a hand over my mouth; did those words really come out of me? We’re ten minutes into the ride back, for crying out loud! What are you saying, Hollis?? This is supposed to be lighthearted and fun, not serious!

  Unfortunately, he’s puzzled.

  “Wait—are you asking if I’ve ever wanted to be married with a family, or are you asking if I’ve never wanted to be married with a family? I’m confused.”

  I want to die. “Forget it. It made no sense.”

  He repeats the phrase a few times then takes a breath. “No, I think I get what you’re saying. And yeah, I’ve always wanted a family and kids.”

  “Kids, or a wife and kids?”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “I think so. Some guys want to be dads but not husbands.”

  He rears back a bit. “Uh, okay…like who?”

  “I don’t know—guys?”

  Buzz laughs. “Not this guy. I want to be a dad and a husband, just like my dad.”

  “But when would you have the time?” I’m stereotyping him again; I know it, and he knows it, but I can’t seem to make myself stop, and I suddenly loathe Marlon Daymon for doing this to me.

  Don’t blame an ex for something you allowed to happen, and don’t hold it against every man after him. It’s not anyone else’s fault Marlon is a bag of shit.

  “When will I have the time? When does anyone have the time? You make time.” He looks over at me. “
Are you asking this because your dad was too busy to spend time with you growing up? Or because you dated a piece-of-crap ballplayer who didn’t know your worth?”

  Both. Neither.

  Both.

  Damn him. Why is he so insightful? Yet another remarkable trait emerging after spending more time with him. Ugh. STOP BEING AMAZING, DAMMIT! I’m trying not to like you!

  “My dad was too busy for us growing up.” I squirm a little in my seat, not wanting to badmouth my father but honest enough to admit life at the Westbrooke house was far from a fairy tale. “He wasn’t around, and…I’m pretty sure he probably cheated on my mom.” Only she’d never admit that she knew, and my brother and sister and I would never ask.

  We have our suspicions though.

  Everyone in our household lived in my father’s shadow, and I will not live like that any longer.

  Which is why I won’t date an athlete working for him. Which is why I am paving my own path. Which is why I am keeping my distance from Buzz Wallace—he’s dangerous to my future plans.

  Cute, but dangerous.

  Don’t be so dramatic, Hollis. He’s hardly a danger.

  He isn’t genuinely interested…is he?

  “You’ve gotten real quiet over there. Is everything okay?” His voice is low and gentle, his hand on the center console. I stare down at his long fingers, the tan hands peppered with dark hair.

  “I’m good. Just thinking. I didn’t mean to get so serious, sorry.”

  “Hey, don’t worry about it. We all need to vent sometimes.”

  “Do you?”

  He shrugs. “Not really. When I need to blow off steam, I work at one of the properties I’m fixing up.”

  That’s right; I forgot he does that.

  “What are you working on now?”

  Another shrug. “A bungalow in Walnut Creek. It was a real shithole, but it’s coming along.”

  Walnut Creek is a suburb of Chicago, up-and-coming with a decent school district. Cute little town.

  “Did you gut it yourself?”

  “Mostly. I have some help on occasion, but nothing blows off steam like demolition work, or pounding a nail into a two-by-four, or grouting tile.”

  Wow. “You can do all that?”

  “Yeah—I’m a licensed contractor.”

  “What!”

  “I went to school for business, but a few years ago went and got my contractor’s license in the state of Illinois so I’d have something to fall back on. Just in case.”

  Huh. “Just in case what?”

  “In case the baseball thing didn’t work out.”

  For some reason, I find that funny and laugh. “Um—it’s working out.”

  “But you never know—nothing is a sure thing. What if I get hurt and break my hand tomorrow? Then what?”

  “Well, then you’re screwed because you won’t be able to do demolition or swing a hammer to drive a nail into a two-by-four.”

  He tilts his head. “Shit, I never thought of it that way.”

  I preen. “That’s what I’m here for.”

  “That’s more doom and gloom than uplifting motivation.”

  We laugh.

  “Do you have more than one project going?” I’m sincerely interested.

  “Three.”

  “Three?!” Why do I keep shouting? Tone it down a notch, for crying out loud. He’s going to think you’re a lunatic.

  But he laughs instead, and I relax. “Yup, three. The one in Walnut Creek, a studio downtown, and a brownstone in Bucktown.”

  “And you live closer to Noah Harding?”

  He nods. “My house isn’t as fancy as his though.”

  As if that matters. “Does that bother you?”

  “Empty houses bother me.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re not supposed to be empty—they’re supposed to be filled with people. Families and shit.”

  There he goes again, melting my ovaries with this roundabout talk of wives and kids and white picket fences.

  It makes me shiver, and he notices. “You cold?”

  Instead of admitting that his words turn me on the slightest bit, I lie. “Yeah.”

  He leans forward and hits the air conditioning, turns it off. “Better?”

  Great, now I’m hot. “So much better.”

  Satisfied, he drives on.

  * * *

  Trace

  Mom: Hey sweetie! Hope you made it home okay, haven’t heard from you in a few hours…

  Trace: Hey Mom—yup, made it home about an hour ago.

  Mom: And Hollis? Is she with you?

  Trace: No, I dropped her off at her place.

  Mom: Oh.

  Trace: Lol you sound disappointed. Should I run and bring her back?

  Mom: Haha very funny. Don’t be cheeky.

  Mom: Did she have a good time?

  Trace: Yeah, she thinks you’re a great cook.

  Mom: Well we loved meeting her. When will you bring her back?

  Trace: I don’t know, Ma. I could have done without you dragging out the photo albums and TUCKING US INTO BED.

  Mom: I was just making sure she was comfortable.

  Trace: What if I had been naked when you opened the door?

  Mom: I knew you wouldn’t be. I raised you better than that.

  Trace: But I could have been.

  Mom: Why are you so stubborn? Just like your brother.

  Trace: Mom…

  Mom: What’s her number, dear? I was going to invite her to sit with us at your next game

  Trace: MOM DON’T YOU DARE

  Mom: Why are you shouting?

  Trace: MOM DO NOT

  Mom: I’m sorry. Did you say something?

  Trace: MOTHER. DO NOT.

  Trace: MOM.

  Trace: Answer me!

  Three hours later…

  Trace: I hate myself right now.

  15

  Hollis

  The last thing I wanted to do was another lunch with Dad, but—here I am. Correction: here I am at lunch with my dad, brother, and sister, who are all at the stadium this week, working on whatever it is they work on up in their offices.

  Like the last time, Dad wants me to walk him back to his office so we can chat privately, without my siblings listening in.

  He goes straight to his desk and plops down, checking his phone and email before giving me his attention, so I grab a magazine on the table next to my chair and thumb through it.

  “Give me one quick second,” he says while tapping out a text message.

  I wait.

  And wait.

  He sets his phone down, folding his hands in front of him on the surface of his desk. “There.”

  I wonder what he’s about to say, assuming it’s important since he dragged me all the way up here to say it.

  “So.” The word lingers in the air between us. “Trace Wallace.”

  Ah. There it is.

  To be honest, I’m surprised he’s bringing this up. Dad has never really shown a vested interest in my dating life, personal life, or otherwise. He cared where I went to college. Cared where I got my master’s. Cared where I bought my first house (using the money I inherited when my grandmother died).

  But he’s never said a word about men because he’s never been privy to their identities. Not to mention, I’m not actually dating Buzz Wallace, and if he’d done his homework, he would know that. He wouldn’t be ambushing me for information.

  There are a few ways I can go with this.

  Play dumb: Trace? What about him?

  Play really, really dumb: Trace who?

  Or, sit it out and wait for him to elucidate his point, forcing him to spell out what information he’s looking for me to spew.

  I choose the latter.

  “I hear you’ve spent some time with him.”

  I nod. “We’re friends.”

  Dad studies my face with an unwavering expression. Poker face. Stone-faced. Whatever you want to call it, that’s how he
’s looking at me. Watching me.

  The clock on his bookshelf ticks; I can actually hear it. It’s one of those wooden numbers you bring back from Europe and have to wind in the back with a gold key. Shiny, polished, worth a small fortune, and someone will inherit it when he dies.

  It ticks.

  It tocks.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  See, if there’s one thing I learned from my dad, it’s this: the less you say, the less you give away. People talk when they’re nervous. People talk when they lie. People talk and give more information than they should, because they’re nervous, and that’s what he wants me to do right now—talk.

  So. I say nothing at all.

  I have nothing to defend; I’ve done nothing wrong.

  He had no problem with me dating Marlon Dickhead—he had to have known, though we never talked about it openly. So why would he care that I’ve hung out with Buzz Wallace a few times? And how the heck did he find out?

  There are rats scurrying everywhere.

  “Well?” he asks.

  “Well what?”

  Wrong thing to say. “Why are you friends with him?”

  “Why not? He’s a nice guy.”

  Dad’s lips press together and turn white. “He’s the best closer we’ve had in ten years—he doesn’t need distractions.”

  Ah. So this isn’t about my best interests; it’s about the team’s.

  The whole thing makes me laugh. “I’m hardly the kind of girl men get distracted by, Dad, but thanks for the compliment.”

  “Do you think this is a joke?”

  “Um, kind of?” The words slip out before I can stop them, because honestly—this is the most ridiculous conversation. If my father thinks Buzz Wallace—one of the best-looking and best players on our team—is interested in me romantically? He’s delusional.

  But even if he was, what difference would it make? Does Dad not want me to be happy? Does he not want me to find love?

  Evidently not with one of the Chicago Steam.

  I’m insulted.

  “I’d love it if you weren’t friends with him during the season.” Or the off-season. He doesn’t say it, but there’s no doubt he’s thinking it.