Chapter 6
6
Charley
“ C an you warm me up a couple of Hot Pockets?”
I check my phone for the time, the Lysol still lingering in the air from cleaning up the kitchen from Dad’s early dinner. “I’m going to be late…”
He moves his stare toward me, eyes beady. “Why aren’t you planning better? So, I get to stay here and be hungry while you get to go out? How’s that fair?”
“I did plan. I was about to leave.”
“But I haven’t eaten.”
I want to scream that he just fucking ate. I literally cleaned off his plate three minutes ago. “Can it wait until I get back? I thought you were done with dinner, and I have to be there on time.”
“You know what, Charlotte? I’m hungry. It’s not my fault. I have a fucking disease. I guess I’ll go and make it myself.” He attempts to lift from the chair, arms straining to assist in pushing him up.
He doesn’t get very far.
“Dad, it’s fine,” I snap, rubbing my forehead and cringing at the attitude laced in my words. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Maybe adding one more task to my plate has tipped me over the edge. Or the fact that I don’t want to let Coach down by being late when he already reprimanded me. Or the fact that I’m constantly seeing Cade around and he goes out of his way to annoy me every time.
I liked being invisible.
Dad’s face scrunches up, turning red. He falls back into his chair, and it rocks violently. “I don’t know why you act that way toward me. I’m trying!” He takes deep breaths, rubbing at his arms. “I wouldn’t even be this way if it weren’t for you!” he wails.
His thick hands come up to shield his face, and my stomach twists. He blubbers some more, and I fight the urge to feel bad for him. Up until a few years ago, it would break me if I saw him like this, but then it occurred to me that his face was always dry after a supposed sob session. No tears. No apologies. He throws a temper tantrum, then returns to normal when he gets his way…and right now, he really wants me to cook his food. That’s it. It’s forever about food.
I should leave. Let him figure it out.
I grab my bag and start to walk toward the door but stop when his voice comes out weak. “Why don’t you love me? No one’s loved me since your mom. I sit here all day by myself. I can’t do anything, and no one cares.”
My shoulders sag. “Dad, I do love you. You got me this job, and I already got a talking to from Coach T about being on time, and if I make the food for you, I’m going to be late. In fact, I’ll have to run to get there on time now.”
“Well, you should’ve thought about that before!” And just like that, his sobbing morphs into sharp words like whiplash.
My hands ball into fists. We have a stare-down session, and I’m ashamed to admit my mind wanders to what it would be like if I didn’t have to take care of him. Then guilt settles in like a torrential downpour, and I turn on my heel, return to the kitchen, and throw two Hot Pockets on a plate to warm up.
If Coach realizes I’m not there, he’s going to be mad. He might even fire me, and somehow, my dad won’t see that it was his fault. He’ll tell me how I do everything wrong. I mean, why wouldn’t he? He already blames me for killing my mom.
My nerves fray as the microwave counts down. I try breathing evenly so I don’t curl into a ball and have a meltdown.
I’m getting it on all sides right now. Taking care of Dad, the new job, and there was a note hanging on our fence when I got back from school asking us to mow the lawn.
One of the neighbors, I’m sure.
The microwave beeps, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Preemptively, I retrieve another soda from the fridge, set everything on his tray, and walk right out, grabbing my bag where I dropped it on the way.
The gate squeaks when I close it, then I take off, my feet hitting the sidewalk in a jog as I try to defy the laws of time and space and get to practice before Coach notices I’m not there. Fat chance.
Luckily, my house is on the opposite side of campus from the practice field, so I don’t have to cross it in order to get to the locker room. I slip through the locker room door without seeing anyone, then drop Coach’s refreshed calendar on his desk before looking for the Gatorade jug. It’s not where it usually is. I search the entire area, and my heart sinks when I come up empty. Quickly, I store my bag inside Coach’s office and head outside. It’s time to face the music.
Once I hit the grass, I jog up the hill toward the practice field, then I hang in the background until it looks like there’s a break. I move right up to Coach T. “Hi, Coach. Is there anything you need me to do?”
Behind him, I spot the Gatorade jug in its place. Well, that’s interesting. Someone else must have brought it up.
“My calendar?”
“On your desk, sir.”
He side-eyes me. “Did you grab something to take notes with like I asked?”
Notes. Notes? I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Um… I?—”
“Charley, you dropped these on the ground over there.” Cade walks by, shoving a notepad into my hands along with a pen.
“Oh, um, thanks.” I turn to Coach, my hands now full. “All set.”
“Great.” He walks away, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to follow him or not, so I do. What I’m supposed to be taking notes on, I don’t know. Everything, I guess.
Coach walks past Cade at the Gatorade jug. He catches my gaze, and with a small cup nearly to his lips, he says, “Coach wants you to take notes on the D-line. We’re competing against a great offensive team this week, and he wants to make sure everything he notices is documented so he and the other coaches can go over it.”
“Oh, okay.”
“D-line is defensive line.”
“Right. Yeah.”
I scurry after Coach, my head swimming. Why is this guy helping me? The notepad, the instructions? I basically told him to get lost earlier.
There isn’t time to think it over because Coach immediately starts mumbling to himself while he watches the defense practice. At first, I thought he was only talking to himself, but then I caught what he was saying and started scribbling furiously.
Torch slow off the line.
#63 needs to read the run better.
Lots of golden nuggets. By the time he’s watched them for an hour, I have three pages of his observations.
Coach calls practice to an end and turns, nearly running right into me. Two strong arms reach out and pull me out of his way as he marches past.
The touch lingers, and I stare down, already knowing who the fingers belong to. Cade. Obviously. He’s the only player who knows I’m alive.
He squeezes me once. “You should watch out. Coach has blinders on when his mind is working on something.”
“Like the D-line?”
“Like the D-line.” He smirks. “Did you know what that meant before I told you?”
I almost snort. “No, but I might’ve figured it out.”
Cade leans over, trying to read my notes. “Did Coach say anything about me out there?”
I crush them against my chest. “You’re not on the defense.”
“Oh, so you do know some things?”
“Maybe when you ran me over on the sidelines, part of your brain transferred to mine.”
“That’s a scary thought.”
“Terrifying,” I deadpan.
“I had your back, by the way. Coach asked where you were. I brought up?—”
“—the Gatorade jug?” I nod to it, and we stop in front. “Thanks.”
“I don’t think he believed me until he noticed the jug up here.”
“I…appreciate that,” I say, peering at my shoes. For some reason, the sudden urge to tell him everything rears up, but I squash it down. People like football players don’t care about other people’s baggage. He’s either being nice to me to get into my pants or he’s…psychotic. I haven’t figured it out yet. “I got caught up.”
“Are you always late or?—”
“I’m not always late,” I snap, then cringe. Not only was that too harsh, but it was also a lie. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Some things are out of my control. I was going to be here on time, and then…I wasn’t. Family commitments.”
“Oh, well, that’s understandable. I miss my family, too.” He looks away, but it doesn’t last long. “Do you have any siblings?”
I blink at him. This is starting to feel like an actual conversation. Time to bail. “Listen, I’m grateful you helped me out with Coach. Really, I am. But I’m not looking for a friend and definitely not anything more.”
“I was only being nice. Maybe have a little back and forth with the cute assistant.”
I swallow the sour taste in my mouth. “I’m not looking for fake niceties.”
“You don’t want people to be pleasant to you?”
His teasing grin grates on my nerves. “No, because that’s not the real world. The real world is loss and heartbreak and living with the consequences of other people’s actions. It’s turmoil and the slow, agonizing death of everything you’re supposed to love until you can’t remember why you’re supposed to love it.”
The longer I talk, the more my tirade deflates his bubble. The smile melts off his face like burning plastic.
Good.
“I know a thing or two about that.”
“About what?”
“Heartbreak.”
“Please,” I scoff. I mean to say it in my head, but I don’t. The word is just out there, and I bring my free hand to my lips, wondering once again what’s gotten into me. I don’t usually have an attitude problem. Maybe I am slowly losing it?
“My best friend,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. It takes me a minute to realize what he’s responding to, and then I remember he stated he knows a thing or two about heartbreak. “A few years ago. During a football game, actually.” He scratches the crown of his head. “So, I get pain and turmoil and whatever else you said.”
“Well, I’ll raise you a dead mother.” I smile like I’ve always wanted to one-up everyone in the losing-loved-ones department.
I wait for him to say he’s sorry for my loss or something similar. Something I can roll my eyes at because I’ve heard it a thousand other times.
He doesn’t.
“I get why I’m attracted to you now.”
My center skews a little, like the ground tilts right underneath my feet. A warmth takes hold of my lower belly as Cade’s eyes lock onto mine. For a moment, we just stand there, peering at each other. His brown eyes sincere, telling.
“You understand the dark moments.”
I swallow, an uneasiness creeps up my shoulders. His words affect me more than I want them to. “You don’t look like you spend much time in the dark, Cade Farmer.”
“You don’t know me, that’s all.”
“Maybe we should start a club.”
“Like a grieving club?”
“No, sounds too victim-ish. We should name it something cool, like The Death Club.”
He chuckles. “You’re weird.”
I shrug, smiling at my feet. I can’t help myself. Normal conversations aren’t something I have every day. “I know.”
“Wait. Did you just smile? You did!”
“I didn’t!” I protest, knowing I full well did and trying like hell not to let it happen again.
“You so did. It suits you.”
“Listen,” I say, walking around him. “This doesn’t mean we’re buddies now.”
“We are. We’re in a club together.”
“I don’t join clubs.”
“It was your idea!”
“Call it a moment of insanity,” I throw over my shoulder as I walk toward the jug.
“Charley, hey.” He reaches out and pulls on my arm. “I’m sorry about your mom.”
Okay. Now it’s time for the eyeroll. Sympathy is so tedious. “And you were doing so well, Cade Farmer.”
His face scrunches up, but I shake my head. My thoughts start to turn toward my mom, but I push them away. It’s strange to think I have this connection with someone I’ve never met, and worse, I’m usually mad at her for dying. For leaving me here with this life. For Dad constantly blaming me.
I wonder if he has similar thoughts about his best friend. If we were actually in a club, I might ask him, but this is about as far as my social activity will take me.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “Oh, you know what? Coach did say something about you, actually. He said he wishes you would stop talking to his new assistant.”
Cade’s eager eyes shadow over. “You made that up.”
I shrug, turning so I can grab the Gatorade jug and lug it back down to the locker room. Cade cuts in front of me. “I got it, Charley-not-Charlotte.”
“You don’t have to.”
“What are fellow group members for?”
“We’re not actually in a group.”
He turns, winking at me. “I get it. The first rule about The Death Club is that we don’t talk about The Death Club.”