Tiebreaker

by P. Dangelico

  “It’s just talcum powder, Mom. Not the talcum powder,” my sister drawls.

  My mother sends Bebe an exasperated glare and huffs. “Maren?”

  If my mother is anything, she is persistent. “Yeah, I got it.” I glance at my sister, sitting across from me, and her smirk gets bigger.

  “It causes cancer, honey. This is a serious matter.”

  “Okay. No talcum powder. Give it a rest, Mom.”

  My mother places her fork down, a troubled frown working on her face. “Maren Lucille Murphy––” My mother always invokes my grandmother’s name when she means business. It could be worse. Annabelle’s middle name is Maud.

  I watch my sister mouth the words in synch with my mother. “Don’t sass me, young lady. Cancer runs in this family.”

  I fight the grin prying my lips apart.

  “Is your young man coming to visit?” my dad interjects without looking up from the chicken breast he’s cutting into perfectly proportioned pieces. Nobody can figure out how he does it without a ruler. It’s a gift.

  I decide to keep the news about Oliver to myself. I wouldn’t want them to pop the champagne and start celebrating quite yet.

  “He’s almost forty, Dad. Not exactly a young man.”

  “Is he?” he muses absently. My father’s head is a black hole he frequently gets lost in. That’s actually how my parents met. Mom was a freshman at OU and Dad was a senior when he mowed her down on his way to class. He was walking with his face buried in a book and didn’t watch where he was going. That’s my father. If their story had started any other way, I wouldn’t have believed it.

  The absentminded-professor thing isn’t sitting well with me right now. Never mind that the young man and I broke up, his lack of genuine interest lights a spark of resentment. Because it’s the same lack of interest I’ve been getting from them for the last ten plus years.

  “Yes, he is. And you would know that if you’d bothered to pay the slightest bit of attention to any of our phone calls.”

  “Maren,” my mother scolds.

  Meanwhile my father looks up, expression stricken. He really is a sensitive soul––and self-absorbed at the same time. Somebody explain that one to me.

  “Sorry, Dad.”

  “It’s fine, and you’re right.” For once I have his undivided attention. “I apologize. What is it that he does again? Coaches you?”

  “He’s a trainer, Dad,” Bebe adds, sensing that this train is headed for a catastrophic derailment any minute now.

  “That’s right,” my father rejoins.

  “It’s not like we know him, Maren,” my mother supplies. Maryanne has decided to throw her hat in the ring. Welcome, Maryanne. “You hardly ever come home.”

  And there it is, her dirty shot, the same line she always uses when she wants to stick it to me. Which is enough to push me from manageable irritation to table-flipping angry.

  I have no right to complain. I’m blessed––the lucky Murphy sister. I’ve been telling myself a version of this for the last dozen or so years. Sometimes I mix it up, rearrange the words. But the message stays the same.

  The thing is, that pain is pain. There’s no lesser or greater. There are no comparisons to be made, no rankings––no weight class. Having been shut out, cast aside, for so long got to be so painful it was easier to avoid my family altogether rather than to address the elephant in the room. So I stayed away. For years.

  Should I have said something? Maybe. But it always felt petty in the face of what Bebe had endured. And yet, no matter how many different ways I tried to rationalize that I had no right to be upset, the hurt remained.

  “How come you guys didn’t come to the Open? I sent you airfare. I sent you tickets––what’s the deal?”

  My mother’s blonde eyebrows do a very quick ascent of her forehead. I think the last time I spoke to her this way I was sent to my room and grounded for a week.

  “Well, your dad had to work and Bebe had work and I had to work.”

  “Yeah, I get it! Everybody has to work. It’s not like I asked you to fly to the moon, or God forbid, to visit me in London. It’s a short plane ride to New York.”

  Three sets of semi-startled wide eyes stare back at me. I hadn’t realized I was shouting, or standing for that matter, until this very minute.

  “Are you on your period, honey?” My mother’s green gaze probes me. “Is that what this is about?”

  My meltdown goes thermonuclear. Every word after period is a loud screeching sound. A needle scraping against a vinyl record.

  “No, that is not what this is about––”

  “You’re a strong-minded girl,” she says talking over me. “You’ve always wanted to do things on your own. I don’t see why you’d get so irrationally upset about us not coming to watch you play now.”

  “This is not new, Mother! It’s been bothering me for aaages. But I kept hoping things would change. That you guys would wake up one day and figure out that Bebe’s going to be fine, and that you have another daughter that needs you from time to time.”

  “Now, Maren––”

  “No, Dad. I’m not done. You guys think because I’m strong my feelings can’t get hurt? Surprise, I’m hurt. You think because I can handle anything I don’t need your support? Newsflash, I need it just like everybody else. Just like Bebe does. It would’ve been nice for once to have y’all there without having to beg you to come. Without feeling like you were being inconvenienced and had better things to do!”

  All charged up, I push back the chair with more force than necessary. It tips backward and crashes loudly against the tiled floor. Everyone jumps.

  “I’m…I have to go.”

  A minute later I walk out the front door at a brisk pace, lest they see the tears that are falling down my cheeks.

  * * *

  Noah

  I’m taking the trash cans to the end of the driveway when the pizza delivery guy comes racing down the street. Seeing me, he slams on the breaks.

  “Hey, dude. You order a large pie with mushrooms?”

  Maren. The only person I know that ruins a perfectly good pizza with those things. I take a few bills out of my back pocket and hand him the cash. In exchange, he hands me the pie and drives off.

  I was a dick to her again today. And yesterday. And the day before that. I can’t seem to control myself lately. With all the tension building between us, it feels like we’re racing toward an epic showdown and I’m pretty sure I’m going to be the one left holding the bag this time.

  We’ve been rubbing up against each other all day long for weeks. My nerve endings are raw. I walk around with a hard-on from morning to night chaffing against my jeans. That ain’t helping matters.

  Today I had to hit the bathroom and tug one out just to get some goddamn relief so I can actually focus on my work. Talk about karma being a bitch––she couldn’t have come up with worse punishment if she tried.

  I ring the doorbell. A second later the door rips open. Any question she was expecting the delivery boy disappears. The smile that immediately slides off her face when she realizes it’s me is both amusing and painful to witness. Then I realize her eyes are red, swollen.

  “Are you crying?”

  “No.” She’s lying. This woman has never once admitted to crying since I’ve known her. I’ve never seen anyone, woman or man, cling to their pride the way Maren does. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine.”

  I give her the whateveryousay look and hold up the pizza box. “I thought you don’t eat this anymore?”

  “I don’t––usually. But I bought all this stuff and then I realized I can’t cook very well with one hand so…” Pushing the door open, I step inside and walk past her. “Hey! Where are you going?”

  Dumping the box down on the kitchen counter, I open the refrigerator in search of something more nutritious and hit pay dirt. A fresh salmon steak, and broccoli. I know how seriously she takes her diet and pizza doesn’t have what an athlete’s body
needs to repair and maintain muscle.

  “Noah?”

  I pull those out, place them on the counter, and search for the brown rice in the pantry. Finding that, I rifle through the new cabinets and grab the pots and pans I bought when I remodeled the kitchen.

  “Got any white Worcestershire sauce?”

  “Umm, no, sorry. I’m beginning to sound like a broken record. What are you doing?”

  “I’ll make do without it.” I meet her unwavering gaze. It’s intense in the same way it was when we were kids, and fuck if it doesn’t make me feel good to see that again. “Call it a peace offering…an apology.”

  A tense moment of silence follows. The debate being waged is all over her face. She’s weighing the dangers of letting me stay against the prospect of a freshly cooked meal. Which sucks. I can’t believe this is us. Worse than strangers. Behaving like one wrong move or word could blow up in our faces. Christ, what a mess I’ve made of things.

  Talking to her used to be the easiest thing in the world. It was as if I could only be myself when I was with her and now a fifty-foot wall stands between us and I don’t have the first clue how to get around it.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she says in a quiet voice. I glance over my shoulder and find her with her arms wrapped around her middle. Shifting on her bare feet, she looks unsure, wary of me.

  I take in the blonde hair in a messy bun on top of her head. My eyes move down her hoody to the tiny shorts she’s wearing and the long tan legs under them. I pause on the scar across her right kneecap that I know she got when she was twelve. So familiar it makes my chest ache. Makes me want to do stupid shit. Like kiss her, and peel away the few scraps of clothes she has on, drive into her over and over until she screams my name. Mine. Not the Lord’s name. Mine. So when she falls asleep in my arms she knows who’s holding her. Loving her.

  And if I know what’s good for me, I’ll shake those thoughts out of my head. Maren’s got her entire career ahead of her. She’s not meant to stay here any more than I’m meant to leave.

  “I know.” I spray the flat pan with olive oil and place it on the new Wolf gas range I installed last year, turning the flame on medium. “But I’m going to anyway.” I briefly glance her way and force a smile. “That’s what business partners do for each other.”

  I don’t say friends. As much as I want to, I don’t. I swallow the bitter taste down because the last thing I want is to start another argument.

  “You know how to cook?”

  I place the salmon on the pan, shake some sea salt on, add some rosemary, and cover it. Next, I place the broccoli in the steam pot.

  “Somebody had to after you left.”

  And just like that the air between us becomes stale and heavy. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. I sounded pissed, even to my own ears. Some men are born with a gift for screwing things up and I’m one of them. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and roll my tense shoulders.

  “I didn’t mean that…What I meant to say was I had to eat so I had to learn.” I check her face to see what’s going on in her head, if I managed to fix what I broke, and she nods.

  No surprise. Maren was always so quick to forgive me for all the crap I put her through…well, almost everything. “Why were you crying?”

  All I get for a good long time is silence. Then she clears her throat. “I went to my parents’ house earlier for dinner.”

  “Everything okay?”

  More silence. It drags on and I let it. One false move and she’ll shut down and ask me to leave, so I don’t push. I slide the salmon off the pan, onto a plate, take the brown rice out of the microwave and put some next to it.

  “They’ve never come to any of my matches. Not once. Not even Wimbledon.”

  Her face is tight as she speaks, brows drawn together in deep thought. I want to kiss it away, press my body against hers and hold her, tell her it’s gonna be okay. I am trash for this woman, but I’ll be whatever she needs me to be if only she’d give me the chance.

  “It’s been bothering me for a long time…I finally told them tonight.”

  I fish the broccoli out of the steamer and dump it on the same plate. Already seated at the counter, I place the plate in front of her and she smiles.

  “This looks amazing. Thank you.”

  I grab the utensils out of the drawer, hand them to her. Our fingers tangle as she reaches for them and our eyes meet. It’s still there. There’s no denying it. I know she feels it too. And I know without a doubt she does when she pulls away quickly.

  “Why didn’t you ever say anything to them?”

  She takes another bite of her salmon, stalling. “It felt petty. What right did I have to make demands when Annabelle had lost so much…I was ashamed to say anything.”

  I know something about shame. “Maren, it’s okay to need people. You don’t always have to be the strongest one in the room…you shouldn’t feel guilty about that.”

  Our eyes hold for a beat, then hers slide down to the food and I get lost watching her eat it. Glistening with a smear of olive oil, her lips wrap around the fork. Her pink tongue darts out to lick it away and I nearly bust a nut.

  “This is sooo good.” Her green eyes flash when she catches me staring at her mouth. I turn away and put the pots and pans into the sink, fill them with soapy water.

  “Anyway, I lost it tonight. Stormed out in the middle of dinner…very dramatic,” she drawls sarcastically. “I’m sure my mother will let me have it tomorrow.”

  I finish cleaning the pots and place them on the dish rack. Turning, I lean against the counter with my arms crossed, keeping a safe distance between us. I’m liable to do anything in the state I’m in and I don’t think she’d appreciate it.

  “That Wimbledon match was––” Pride fills my chest, a smile spreads across my face just thinking about it. “You were really something.”

  Her gaze slams into mine, curious, disbelieving. “You watched?”

  “’Course I did. I always watch.” The words hang between us loaded with meaning, and as deadly as a gun pointed at my heart.

  Her cheeks turn pink under her tan.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I don’t wait for her to reply. I’m already pushing off the counter and on my way to the door by the time the last word leaves me.

  I know my limits. Having Maren so close now––it’s too much temptation and the truce between us is still fragile. I’ve told her I’ve changed, that I’m no longer the guy that jumps first and looks after. Now all I have to do is prove it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Maren

  When I started traveling on weekends for tournaments, my parents got me a cell phone reserved strictly for emergencies. Way before the time when every kid over five had one, this was a big deal. Except for family, only one other person had the number. Besides, it’s not like anybody else was going to call me.

  So when the phone rang late one night toward the end of my freshman year, I knew who was calling. And more importantly, I was glad it hadn’t woken my parents up otherwise there would’ve been hell to pay that I had given him the number.

  “Maren, it’s me. You gotta come get me.”

  I bolted upright in bed and immediately checked the cable box. It read a little past midnight.

  I was surprised to hear his voice. Except in passing, we hadn’t spoken in months. He’d been doing a great job of avoiding me and I was doing a great job of pretending I didn’t miss him with every piece of my soul.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in jail. D and J are here, too.”

  “What?! What happened. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, we just got in a little trouble.”

  “What kind’a trouble?”

  “Thought it’d be funny to let out Dutton’s bull, let him stretch his legs a bit,” he mumbled, the first time I’d ever heard Noah sound sheepish.

  I’d find out later that Dutton owned a prized rodeo bull called Watch Out, and a house party
held that night next door to the Dutton ranch gave a couple of drunk idiots the bright idea that Dutton’s bull was, in Noah’s and Dane’s words, “Lonely and needed to get out to meet some lady cows.”

  Jermaine was too smart to open his mouth.

  “You gotta get me out, Mare.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Call your father.”

  “Can’t. He’ll kill me.”

  “What about Crystal?”

  “She can’t. Her daddy will kill her if she sneaks out again.”

  I almost hung up on him right there and then.

  “I’m fifteen, Noah. How am I supposed to get you out?”

  “Can you call Rowdy?”

  As soon as we hung up, I called my grandfather and he came right over to get me. By the time my grandfather and I walked into the local police station, he was silently stewing and a silent Rowdy was a scary one.

  After he spoke to the deputy, we were led to a small cell where the boys were being held, the three of them seated on a metal bench next to a drunk who was fast asleep and snoring.

  Noah was bent over with his elbows on his knees and his hands in his hair. He looked up and saw me and a huge grin split his face. As bright as a polished penny, his copper-colored eyes flashed with humor.

  I did not smile back. Even though my stupid, stupid heart skipped a beat.

  He walked over to the bars and grabbed hold of them. “What are you lookin’ at?” he murmured, one corner of his lips lifting in a sexy, crooked smile.

  I couldn’t stay mad at him if I tried.

  “An idiot,” I told him. Then, glancing at Dane and Jermaine, added, “Or three.”

  Thanks to Rowdy, Mr. Dutton, who was a friend of his, decided not to press charges. In exchange, the boys had to work on the ranch for a month shoveling bullshit.