Second Chance: A Military Football Romance

by Claire Adams

  The large dining room table had been cleared off and the caterers had covered it with all sorts of dishes. There were crab cakes and oysters on the half shell; several types of cold pasta salad, some sort of meats on a skewer with an assortment of glazed vegetables. Lots of salads, both of the fruit and vegetable type. Vegetarian sushi, although if you were going to have sushi it seemed pointless to have it without the fish. And, of course, plenty of alcohol. Champagne, wine, even some beer, and my dad’s scotch.

  I put a smile on my face and did my best to mingle, though I’d never been any good at just inserting myself into a conversation that had already been started. Not like Tara, whom I saw across the room, talking with a few guys who I didn’t recognize. She had an animated expression on her face and both of the guys were laughing at whatever it was she was saying.

  But other people didn’t seem to have much of a problem coming up to me.

  “So, what is that you do?” This question had been posed to me several times tonight, this time the person asking was a man whose name I forgot, who was in real estate.

  “I’m in art school,” I said.

  “Oh?” He actually looked somewhat interested when I said this, which was a bit surprising. Most of the other people just smiled vaguely and said something along the lines of, “That’s nice, dear,” before moving on to talk to someone else whose ambitions might be set a little higher.

  “And are you enjoying it?”

  “I am. I’ll be starting my senior year next year.”

  “Art is a very subjective business,” he said, frowning, as though he was genuinely concerned that I had chosen a subjective business to be interested in. “Not like real estate.”

  “I’d think real estate is very subjective, too,” I said. “I mean, just because one person likes a house doesn’t mean everyone will, does it?”

  The man smiled. “That’s a very simplified way of looking at it. Yes, we all have our own personal tastes, but there are some things everyone can agree on. A waterfront property is always going to be worth more than something located in the bad part of town.”

  “There are no bad parts in this town,” I said, even though I understood the point he was trying to make.

  “Exactly.” He swirled his wine around in the glass. “Your parents have an impressive wine collection. Anyway, my point being—art can be a difficult career to find success in.”

  I tried not to roll my eyes. He was acting like he was telling me some great, earth-shattering revelation.

  “But if it’s something that you’re passionate about,” he continued, “you should pursue it. See my son over there?” He nodded his head and I turned to look. “That’s Parker. He’s around your age. He knows he wants to be successful and he knows he wants wealth, but he hasn’t found his passion yet. Some people go the majority of their lives before they actually find their passion.”

  I wasn’t sure if this was supposed to be an inspirational talk or what, so I just smiled and nodded. What did I care what another of my parents’ rich friends thought? They all thought they knew best, they all thought that money was the sole marker of success. I thought about Graham, who wasn’t wealthy, but was doing pretty well, but more importantly, doing something that he really enjoyed, on his own terms.

  “I know someone, actually,” I said, “who isn’t rich but he’s happy. And he knows what his passion is, and he gets to live it every single day.” I could’ve stopped right there, but I didn’t. “He’s a tattoo artist.”

  The expression on the man’s face changed, but only for a second, and so quickly that I might’ve imagined it. Of course friends of my parents wouldn’t approve of a tattoo artist, but I didn’t care.

  “Well, he sounds like one of the lucky ones, then,” the man said. “Where does he work?”

  “It’s called On Point Tattoo, I think.” I realized that though I’d seen the sign plenty of times now, I wasn’t completely sure what it said. I could see the black lettering, the sans serif font, and I was pretty sure it was called On Point, but I wasn’t 100 percent positive. “His name’s Graham,” I said. “Graham ...” Shit. I didn’t even know his last name.

  “Walker,” the man supplied. I couldn’t quite read the expression on his face, almost as if he were recalling a fond memory.

  “Do you know him?” I asked.

  “I know of him. I’ve never visited; no tattoos for me.”

  We both laughed, and then he excused himself to go get a refill on his drink. “Good luck with your art,” he said, before he walked off.

  *****

  Later that night, from across the room, I saw the realtor’s son, Parker, talking with my father. They appeared deep in conversation, but I was too far away to make out what they were saying. It seemed serious, though, judging from the expressions on their faces, though right as I thought that, my dad said something and Parker’s face broke out into a grin.

  I’d always wondered if my father wished he’d had a son. My mother was fond of telling me that the reason they didn’t have other children was because they wanted to be able to devote all of their parenting energy toward me. As a kid, that used to make me feel kind of special, but as a teenager, I’d always wished there had been a sibling to help alleviate some of their expectations.

  “Your mom throws a way better party than my mother does,” Tara said, jarring me out of my thoughts. She was carrying two flutes of champagne, one which she handed to me. “Cheers.” We clinked glasses and I took a sip. It tasted like bitter, bubbly water. I made a face.

  “Oh, come on!” Tara exclaimed. “This is the good stuff.” She downed her glass, her eyes going across the room. “Hey, your dad’s over there talking to Parker. Damn, he’s hot. Parker, not your dad. Well, your dad’s not that bad, either.”

  “Ew!” I said, elbowing her. “Shut up.”

  “I wonder what they’re talking about.”

  “They’re probably talking about their bank accounts or something completely boring like that.”

  “Parker is seriously hot. Do you think he has a girlfriend?”

  “He probably has 20 girlfriends.”

  “I’m going to go see if he’s interested in one more.” She winked at me and then sauntered off, and I just shook my head, wondering what on Earth it must be like to have that sort of confidence in yourself.

  *****

  My plan the day after the party was to spend a big chunk of time working on my sculpture, and then go surprise Graham at work. I was thinking I might swing by Sweet Treats and bring over some chocolates for him.

  I finished my bowl of cereal and rinsed it out then put it in the drying rack. I was just about leave when my mother breezed in from the backyard. “Oh, there you are,” she said. “I thought I heard you rummaging around in here.”

  “Hi, Mom. I’m about to leave; going to go work on my sculpture.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, before you go, there is one thing I’d like to chat with you about. It won’t take too long.”

  “What?”

  “Riley’s mom mentioned that she saw you the other day,” Mom said. “She went out for lunch at ... what is that place called? Lorraine’s? It’s that rundown-looking place, on the right as you’re heading out of town. I didn’t know you went to places like that?”

  I paused, my hand on the doorknob. “Places like what? A restaurant?”

  “If it could be called that. I mean, it’s certainly not fine dining.”

  “So? You might find this hard to believe, but I’ve been to plenty of restaurants that aren’t Zagat-rated. And I don’t hear you giving Riley’s mom a hard time over it.”

  “Well, you know dear,” Mom said, shaking her head a little, “Riley’s mom likes to expose herself to all sorts of different lifestyles. She even likes to go camping. But! That’s not why I brought this up. She mentioned that she saw you there. With a guy?”

  “Oh.” I shrugged. “I didn’t see her.”

  “Who was this guy you were with? She said he had a
beard. And tattoos.”

  “Um ... just someone.”

  “Does this ‘just someone’ have a name?”

  “I’m really late, Mom, I’ve got to get going.” I didn’t want to have to lie to her, but I also could take a pretty good guess at what her reaction would be if I told her the truth.

  “Chloe, please just answer the question.”

  “He’s just a friend,” I said. “Not even a friend; someone from the art center. We were just talking about our projects is all. Geez. I feel like you’re interrogating me. Am I not allowed to go out and have lunch with a friend?”

  “Oh,” Mom said, visibly relieved. “Someone from the art center. Well, that makes perfect sense. No, sweetie, I’m not trying to interrogate you, and I don’t want you to feel that way. It’s just ... your father and I want you to have standards when it comes to who you date. That’s all.”

  “And standards about what restaurants I eat at, apparently.”

  “Chloe. We just want what’s best for you. And I admit—I’m a little concerned about you, all right?”

  I stared at her. “Concerned about what?”

  “Sweetie, have you ever had a boyfriend?”

  “Mom, I really don’t feel like talking about this with you. I really don’t.”

  “You’re a beautiful young woman, Chloe. You have a lot to offer someone, and I’m just afraid that you’re neglecting that part of your life.”

  Oh, if you only knew, I thought, but I tried to keep my face neutral.

  “I’m focusing on school, if that’s what you mean. I didn’t want to be one of those people who goes to college and just screws around for four years while their parents foot the tuition bill. I mean, shouldn’t you guys be proud of that?”

  “Of course we’re proud of that! And we’re not saying that we wanted you to go and mess around for four years, either. But, I have to admit, I do find it a bit strange that you’ve never had a boyfriend. You’re 21, sweetie.”

  “Oh, I am? Because you’re treating me like I’m 14 or something.”

  “If you were 14, I would not be nearly as concerned with the fact that you’ve never dated anyone!” my mother replied, completely missing the sarcasm in my voice.

  I rolled my eyes. “Okay, great, Mom, I’m glad you and Dad are so concerned about my dating life.”

  The whole thing kind of pissed me off, though. Aside from the fact that she was completely interfering with my life when she shouldn’t be, I also knew the undercurrent of what she was saying without coming out and saying it: they didn’t want me to date anyone that they considered beneath me, which a tattooed, bearded local clearly was.

  My mother then invited me to go to the yacht club with her, which was about the last thing on Earth I felt like doing. “I’m going down to the art center,” I told her. “I’ve still got a lot of work to do if I want to have it ready for Claudia’s show.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “How is that going?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “It was awfully nice of Claudia to agree to give you a spot in the show, wasn’t it?”

  “It was. Which is why I want this to be as good as it possibly can. Which means I have to spend time on it, so I can’t go hang out at the yacht club.”

  “Okay, okay, I get it. Well, one of these days you’ll have to. And if you’re hungry, Chloe, I can give you some great recommendations for restaurants. That place you went to isn’t any good.”

  “Do you know this? Have you been there?”

  “No, but I can tell just by how it looks from the outside. Now, if you want to try a really great menu, there’s this new place that just opened ...”

  I completely tuned her out. I let her finish whatever it was she was saying, smiled, said goodbye, and then left.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Graham

  Someone was knocking at the door.

  I was lying in bed, half-awake, enjoying how comfortable I was and having a rather convincing argument with myself that I should stay in bed a while longer. Then the knocking started. At first, I thought it might’ve been Chloe, but the knocking quickly morphed into banging, and I knew there was no way in hell it would be her.

  “Hold on!” I shouted, throwing the sheets back, feeling fully awake—and irritated—now. If it was the fucking mailman with a package that was too big to fit in the mailbox, I was going to lose my shit.

  But no, it was not the mailman; it was my mother.

  “Hi! Good morning,” she said as I opened the door. I had to refrain myself from asking what the hell she was doing here. Why all the visits all of the sudden?

  “Is there something wrong? Is there some sort of emergency I’m unaware of?”

  My mother bustled in, looking around. Looking for clues of the presence of someone else, I knew immediately. “There’s no one else here,” I said. “Except now, you. What exactly is it that you want?”

  “I’m here for a tattoo.”

  I smiled thinly. “Ha ha, very funny. I don’t work out of my home, so you’re SOL, sorry. What are you actually here for?”

  “I’m not just allowed to stop by? I haven’t been over here in ages. This is such an adorable little cottage.”

  I stifled a yawn, wishing that I’d just ignored the banging on the door and stayed in bed. “I was thinking about running into you the other day at Lorraine’s,” my mother said. “Been thinking about it a lot, actually. She’s not the right girl for you. A mother knows these things.”

  “Please. You know, despite all your talk about wanting grandchildren and all that shit, I have a feeling that it wouldn’t matter who the girl was—you wouldn’t approve.”

  “That’s simply not true. I don’t think you realize how badly I want grandchildren. Even if it would make me feel old. But you need to be with someone who’s not ... how should I put this? So much of a goody-goody. She just seems so ... vanilla.”

  “You don’t even know her. You met her for what? Five minutes? Less than that? And you think you know her?”

  “I’m a good judge of character.”

  I snorted. “Right. If by ‘good’ you mean ‘totally horrible.’”

  “I’m just saying, Graham, that I don’t think she’s the right one for you.”

  “Weren’t you just saying how you were going to be supportive of me? This doesn’t sound very supportive. You shouldn’t just get to drop that support because you suddenly don’t agree with me.”

  “It’s like me and your father,” she said.

  I held my hand up. “Just stop. I don’t need to hear anything about you and my father.”

  She continued as though I hadn’t said anything. “If I had been a rich summer resident, or some tourist with a mansion out in California, do you think he would’ve just walked away like that? You bet your ass he wouldn’t have. But because I was a local girl he met at a strip club, he saw me as beneath him. Just a bit of fun for him, something that he thought he could just completely forget about once he got tired of it.”

  I was tempted to put my fingers in my ears and start humming. “Really, Mom, just stop. I don’t need to hear your theories about this.”

  “That’s exactly what he did, though he hadn’t been planning on you. Well, neither of us had. For a few days, I thought that this might be a turning point. You see, I actually really liked your father—he could make me laugh. I thought maybe that he was the man I’d been waiting to meet, and I’d be able to start on a different path, have the sort of life that I always imagined I’d have.”

  “You could’ve had that,” I said. “It didn’t need to be dependent on some guy.”

  She shot me a warning look. “I don’t need you to give me any feminist lecture.”

  “It’s not actually a feminist lecture—it’s just common sense.”

  “The point here being, I don’t want to see the same thing happen to you. These people are different than we are. They think different, they see the world differently. People like us, we’re disposable to
them. They’re used to getting whatever they want, when they want it. Sure, your girl seems nice and charming, but that’s just because she hasn’t gotten bored with you yet. You’re like a novelty to her. Same way I was for your father.”

  This sure as shit was not the fucking conversation I’d planned to start my day off with. I rubbed my temple, which was starting to throb.

  “You know, Mom, as much as I appreciate this heart-to-heart, I’ve really got to get going. I’m late for an appointment.” This was a blatant lie and I was pretty sure she knew it, but I didn’t care.

  *****

  I went out and got two coffees, and then two chocolate croissants because they were fresh out of the oven and looked damn good. I didn’t know if Chloe would be down at the art center or not, but I figured I’d at least stop by and see. Her car was in fact there, so I parked next to her and walked inside. The lobby was quiet, and I managed to make it down the hallway to her studio without having to run in to any pretentious art people.

  “Oh, hey!” she said when I stepped through the door, a smile lighting her face. “I wasn’t expecting to see you now.”

  “I come bearing coffee. And chocolate croissants.” I put the pastry bag on the table and handed her one of the cups.

  “You are the best,” she said. “This is exactly what I could use right about now.

  She probably wasn’t trying to look smokin’ hot, but she did, in a pair of paint-spattered cutoffs and a curve-hugging, black tank top. Her hair was piled up on top of her head, wispy pieces falling across her face. She had a smear of dried clay on her cheek; I reached over and tried to wipe it away.

  “How’s the work going?” I asked.

  “There’s been some false starts,” she said, gesturing to the table where there were several pieces of clay that might’ve been something at one point but had been squashed back.

  “So, you’re still going with the mermaid?”