37 - Fallon
~ 37 ~
FALLON
“You think you can beat me, but you can’t,” Emerson said coldly. “And do you know why?”
“Why?” Casey challenged with a smirk.
“Because you’ve never driven a real car,” Emerson went on. “All your driving experience comes from playing video games.”
His little brother still looked unimpressed. “So?”
“So you don’t know the feeling of your tires on the road, slipping beneath you,” explained Emerson. “Drifting you sideways, as you jerk the wheel just far enough to hug the wall, but not far enough that you actually kiss it.”
Emerson’s brother threw back the rest of his Sprite, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He didn’t look the least bit fazed; as he stared back at his brother with those same beautiful, emerald eyes.
“I get it,” Casey grinned. “You’re afraid.”
Emerson laughed. “Me?”
“Yeah. You.”
“I’ve never been afraid of anything in my life.”
“Good,” his little brother said poking him in the chest. “Now prove it.”
He stood up, gathered up our empty food containers, and took all three of our trays to the garbage like a true gentleman. The grin plastered across my face went from ear to ear.
“Looks like the gauntlet’s been thrown down, huh?”
Emerson grunted. “If he thinks for a minute I’m gonna let him win…”
“He doesn’t, I assured him. “He’s as competitive as you are. Maybe even more so.”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely.”
Emerson leaned back and sighed. He was enjoying this, I knew. I saw it at the batting cage, when he was correcting his brother’s stance. It was in his eyes, as he taught Casey how to throw a more perfect spiral. We’d spent the entire day with this happy-go-lucky, well-mannered teen, who was the spitting image of his older brother in every way. I could see Emerson’s walls dropping. His guard, coming down.
“I admire his confidence, anyway,” Emerson said offhandedly. “The kid’s got balls.”
“Sure does.”
“He reminds me of myself.”
“Gee,” I teased, chewing my pinky finger. “I wonder why?”
Emerson threw an errant french fry at me just as his brother returned. Casey stood between us and planted his hands on the table. The blinking lights from the nearby arcade played off his handsome young face.
“I’ll be on line for the next race,” he grinned, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. He held up two bright red go-kart admission tickets. “I’ll save you a spot.”
He stomped off, running his free hand through his hair exactly the way Emerson so often did. I wondered if it was something he’d done his whole life, or if he got it from watching his older brother.
“Have you talked to your father?” I asked finally. I’d been trying to work the question in all day.
Emerson shook his head. “No need to.”
“Yeah, well, if you’re going to have a relationship with Casey—”
“Then I’ll have a relationship with Casey,” he cut me off. “And that’s that.”
“But, your father moved out here for you,” I pleaded. “He uprooted his entire family from Florida, just to be nearer to you.”
“And where was he when I needed him?” Emerson scoffed. “Huh? Was he nearby? No. The asshole was nowhere to be found. He ‘uprooted his life’ back then too, just so he could abandon me.”
I thought instantly of my mother, flying out to California because she desperately needed some ‘time to herself’. Days stretched into weeks, and weeks into months. I remember the pain in my father’s eyes, when he sat me down and tried to explain to his ten-year old daughter that her mother wasn’t coming back. Ever.
In some hollow part of my heart, that pain was still there.
“Look, I know what he did,” I commiserated. “It sucks. Believe me. But for the sake of living, you move on.”
Emerson sighed and shook his head. “I have moved on. That’s why I don’t need this man — this complete stranger — to have anything to do with my life.”
“Your father was hurting,” I reminded him. “Your mother just died.”
“I was hurting too.”
“I know,” I admitted. “And he should’ve been there for you. A stronger man would’ve been.” I swallowed dryly. “But he wasn’t strong, and you know why.”
Drugs. Alcohol. These were the vices Emerson’s father had turned to, in the wake of his wife’s brutal passing. The diagnosis had shocked everyone, and the disease spread so fast, so aggressively, there wasn’t time to even grieve. She was gone in just weeks, plunging the man into a hopeless spiral of depression. No amount of drugs got him high enough to escape it. No amount of alcohol could dull the pain. And so he’d left, not only because everywhere he looked reminded him of sorrow, but because being high, being drunk, being borderline suicidal — none of these things were conducive to raising a little boy.
Emerson had told me all of these things and more one night, curled up in bed, lying in the crook of my arm. He felt safe there, revealing his secrets, as I twirled my fingers through his hair. And most of his secrets were things he hadn’t told anyone, ever.
“There’s zero excuse for what he did,” Emerson said, shaking his head. “I was a boy, and he was a man. The coward ditched me before my tears were even dry. He got to forget, and heal, and move on.”
“Or maybe he didn’t,” I pointed out.
“Oh he moved on,” Emerson swore. “A new life, a new wife, new kids…” he jerked his chin in the direction of the line for the go-karts. “A whole new family.”
“Eventually, sure,” I conceded. “But you said it yourself, there were years of drug abuse and alcoholism first. Program after program. Multiple relapses. A long road to recovery.”
These were all things Emerson had learned after speaking with his father, back on campus. But too many years had passed. Too much time had been lost without caring, without communication, without love. The man that had once been Emerson’s father was long gone. But the man who remained — who’d battled entire hordes of his own demons, and somehow come through the other side — that man was still here. And now, he was begging forgiveness.
“You weren’t the only one who lost your mother,” I told him gently. “Your father lost her too. He took drugs to dull the pain, and maybe that’s on him. But it was the drugs that took him from you. And I can’t imagine how hard that was for him; losing his wife and leaving his son behind, rather than putting you through the hell of living with a drunken addict.”
Emerson turned to look at me slowly. “You give him far too much credit.”
I shrugged. “Possibly. But consider this: that man is Casey’s father too, and the only one he knows and loves. Maybe one day you’ll reconcile, maybe you won’t, but right now he’s doing the right thing. He’s keeping his distance, and giving you full access to your brother, whenever you want it.”
“I know, but—”
“And if you want a relationship with Casey, you won’t be able to badmouth his dad.”
Emerson’s eyes lost focus. He seemed to consider this, even if he didn’t like it.
“You don’t have to forgive him,” I went on. “But for your brother’s sake, you might need to forget.”
He grunted again, but now it was less aggressive and the anger was gone. In the ensuing silence, I could sense his turmoil. Supportively, I squeezed his hand.
“Your father lived his own life, Emerson. You need to live yours.”
A shout reached us, from deep in the line. Casey was grinning and waving him over.
“You’re pretty wise for a wallflower,” Emerson said, standing up. “Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Oh, I don’t need to be told,” I grinned. “I’ve known for years.”
I stood up also, and began dragging Emerson with me. He looked at me skeptically, as we melted into the line.
“And where do you think you’re going?”
I held up a bright red ticket of my own.
“To beat both your asses,” I smirked. “Hate to break it to you, but the two of you are racing for second and third.”