Chapter 10
ten
Sahar’s Bad Berlin Bagels
Maya
The village gossip is spreading an interesting rumor.
***
Sahar
***
Harper
***
Maya
That Delilah’s been seen with Matteo outside of practices more than twice.
If I’m the last to know, consider me HURT
Nic
He has yet to cross the threshold of our apartment so don’t feel too bad.
Harper
We have to do a group call ASAP so Sahar and I can hear all about it!
Austin
If it helps, I’m the person who connected them and I didn’t know
Nic removed Austin from the chat.
Sahar
How long has the “if it helps” guy been in here?
You guys are so silly! We’re just doing what our coaches told us to do so we’re more emotionally connected for doubles
Maya
Riiiiight.
Sahar
I wish you could’ve seen the look Harper and I exchanged. Even Noah is rolling his eyes
By Tuesday, we’re almost completely in sync. If I move one way, Matteo is covering the other side. If he’s going for a cross-court shot, I’m ready to cover the alley. We hardly have to speak, moving like one entity during drills.
When Alessio tells us we can break, we plop beside each other onto the bench, breathing heavily.
“I wonder if there are any other sports where you pay someone to tell you what to do,” I muse.
Matteo leans back against a pole, entertained. “Golf?”
I nod, feigning seriousness. “Mm, good point.”
Francesca walks over and leans against the net post, practically beaming. “Allora, it’s time for practice matches. You’ve made leaps and bounds’ worth of progress in the last couple of weeks.” Her eyebrows jump, her grin widening. “Guess your coaches know what they’re talking about.”
We laugh as I reach for my water bottle. When I do, I notice I’ve just missed a call from my brother Finn. A quick scroll through my messages immediately spikes my pulse. Five texts and two calls.
Chase is missing.
My eyes burn as I swipe to call my brother back, taking a few steps away from the bench.
“Del, hey.”
“What’s going on?”
“We’re not sure. Chase has the car for school, so he usually picks Hazel up while I go to practice, but he never showed.
We haven’t seen him since last night, and he’s not picking up his phone.
Hazel’s hanging back at practice with me, and we’ll get a ride from one of the guys, but I thought I’d let you know. ”
Seasoned in stopping my tears before they fall, I bite down on the insides of my cheeks and nod, though he can’t see me.
“Alright. Keep an eye on Hazel and text me when you get home safely. I’ll find him.
” I blow out a breath, trying to calm my nervous system.
“If you’re at practice, why didn’t Hazel call? ”
“She said she didn’t want to bother you, but…”
But we know Chase. That’s what he’s not saying. Chase missing an appointment or being apathetic about something big? Standard. Disappearing for hours and no-showing to pick up Hazel is different.
“Thank you for calling. I’ll see you soon. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
Swallowing back the rest of my tears, I shake my head once, gather my bearings, and turn to the bench. Matteo stands, watching me, concern etched in his brow and clear in his eyes. I can’t take it.
“Francesca, I have to go home.” My coach looks at me, understands immediately, and nods. She says something quietly to Alessio, who has joined her by the net.
“Matteo, I’m sorry. I’ve got to go. I’ll…” We’re supposed to do singles drills together tomorrow, but I’m not sure if I’ll be back in time for that. “I’ll stay late Friday if you want.”
He steps forward, his hand coming up like he wants to put it on my elbow, but he drops it. “Let me take you.”
“No, no. It’s an hour and a half away.”
“So how will you get there?”
Typically, Sahar, Harper, or one of the Wards is more than happy to take me, though I always feel bad.
Sometimes Chase comes to pick me up if he can spare the time.
For Thanksgiving last week, I took a rideshare, but it cost an astronomical amount since the house is a good distance away.
I could call Eli or Lilian, but waiting for them would add time to the trip.
Matteo is here now.
But I don’t want him to see this. If he comes with me, who knows in what physical state we’ll find Chase. Or worse, my father.
At my silence, he says, “I insist. This was all I was doing for the rest of my day, so I’m happy to take you.” When I still don’t answer, his voice drops to a whisper. “Please, tesoro.”
I nod once, and we pack up. Matteo pulls off his shirt and throws on a clean replica, saying something in Italian to our coaches. Francesca smiles at him gratefully.
It only takes a few minutes to get to his car, where I enter our suburb in the navigation instead of the house address. At his questioning glance, I say, “I don’t think he’s at home. When we get there I’ll guide you. I think we’re going to have to drive around and look for the car.”
Matteo throws the car in drive and follows the directions on the console.
If he tries to talk to me in the hour and a half it takes to get there, I don’t hear him.
All I hear is the constant static in my ears and the sound of my heart beating faster than it should be.
All I feel is the seat below me and the scarred skin of my cheeks between my teeth, ripped to shreds by my many anxieties.
When we finally reach the town, I direct Matteo around, searching for the car.
“It’s a silver Saturn Vue,” I tell him, embarrassed.
I can afford to buy them a new one instead of constantly paying for repairs on it, but the thought of dropping money on something new when our beat-up SUV is mostly functional physically pains me.
This is exactly why I didn’t want him seeing this. He’s never made me feel lesser than, never made me feel judged, but this situation will be on a completely different level. A level he shouldn’t have to witness. One that will almost certainly change how he thinks of me.
Plus, this is my burden to bear. I don’t want to add another item to the debt calculator hanging over my head.
As the thought crosses my mind, I spot it. “There!” I all but shout, stabbing a finger against the window. Matteo turns into the parking lot quickly, and I take in the building.
It’s familiar. So damn familiar. I’ve been here countless times to pick up my dad. Mom too, once.
It’s also hideous. Wooden planks peeling and cracked from years of neglect. Broken windows patched with cardboard and duct tape. A faded sign flickering weakly above the entrance, barely visible through a layer of grime.
Taking a breath, I say, “I’ll be back.”
“What? I’ll come in with you.”
“I’ll be fine.” I nearly choke on the last word. I need to get it together.
“Okay,” he says gently. “But if you’re in there for more than a few minutes…”
I smile at him, thankful, and jog to the bar’s entrance. The front door hangs on rusted hinges, squeaking when I pull it open to reveal the dim interior.
Quiet settles over me when I enter, which makes sense for five o’clock on a Tuesday evening.
There are a couple of people eating at tables, but it’s the slumped figure at the bar who catches my eye.
In a second, I’m beside him. His face is down on the bar, an empty whiskey glass beside him.
His light brown hair, along with his arms, cover the rest of his face, but I’d know Chase anywhere.
“Chase.” I shake him gently. He doesn’t move, and I scan the bar. No one is paying any attention to us, especially not the bartender moving around in the back, disappearing out of view.
I have half a mind to say something to them for serving someone underage, but I don’t know what kind of trouble Chase will get into if I do, and that’s the last thing I need. What I need is for Chase to be okay.
I shake him again. “Chase,” I say more forcefully. He stirs, mumbling incoherently. I pull his head up, turning him to face me, and that’s when he blinks his eyes open. They’re darker than usual, exactly like our dad’s when he drinks.
We’re the echoes of our parents.
Chase’s eyes, a stormy gray, carry the weight of our father’s gaze while my blue ones mirror Mom’s. We’re recreating scenes from two decades ago. Mom helping Dad out of the dilapidated bar he drank far too much in, me doing the same for Chase.
“Del?” he mumbles. “Wharyoudoinhere?” I just make out what he’s asking, and I have to look away for a second.
All I see in him is the little boy who followed me around, who helped me change diapers and played with the babies while I scrambled eggs or made instant ramen or mac and cheese for us.
This man, a copy-paste of my father; I don’t know him. And I don’t want to.
Chase yawns. I smell the whiskey on his breath. It sends me back to the times when Dad would talk to me from half a slumber before passing out cold, his breath teaching me the very sort of thing to stay away from for the rest of my life. Smelling it again now nearly makes me gag.
“We need to get you home,” I say when I’ve recovered. “The twins are worried, and you need to sleep this off.”
When I reach for his arm, he pulls it closer to himself, slapping the glass down the bar. It nearly topples to the floor. “Go ’way. What you’re good at anyway.”
An exasperated sigh leaves me, even as my heart rate drops a few beats a minute at the knowledge that he’s okay. He might not be okay, but he’s here. I see him, and I can get him home.
“Chase, come on.”
“No,” he answers harshly, thundercloud eyes turning stormier. “I’m fine. Leave me ’lone. ’m not hurting anyone but myself.”
The door pitches open. When my gaze slips over, Matteo stands there, out of place here in a tennis shirt and shorts. He finds me and covers the distance between us quickly. Whatever he sees on my face pinches his own expression into one of concern with a hint of something else.
Softly, I say, “Please, Chase. Let’s go home.”
Chase scoffs. “Wha’ do you know ’bout home? It’s”—he hiccups—“not yours anymore.”
My lips twist to the side, chest aching as if he’s taken a sledgehammer to my sternum. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” Now people are watching, and I shouldn’t care, but I do.
Chase finally notices Matteo beside me, and the fight leaves his body. He glares at Matteo but stands, staggering off the bar stool and into our arms.
“Hey! He hasn’t paid his tab.” The bartender comes rushing out, glaring at us as if we’ve done something wrong.
Matteo fumbles in his back pocket, producing a few bills and tossing them onto the counter.
I note how much so I can pay him back later.
He looks exactly like he used to before an explosion on court, jaw clenched, eyebrows pinched.
Menacing. But he just tucks his wallet back into his pocket and puts one of Chase’s arms around his shoulders.
I do the same, and we walk him out of the bar.
“I’ll take him in the Saturn,” I tell Matteo. “Chase, where are the keys?”
“Pocket,” he grumbles.
When we get him to the car, I pull the keys from his pocket and Matteo does all the work of getting Chase into the backseat.
“Do you feel like you’re going to throw up?” Matteo asks gruffly. Chase mumbles something I can’t hear. “I’ll be right back,” Matteo says to me, walking quickly back into the bar. When he reemerges a minute later, he has a paper bag and puts it in front of Chase. “Use this.”
Bending Chase’s knees so he fits, I pat his leg before closing the door. Matteo’s already hopping into his car, ready to follow me. If his opinion of me hasn’t changed, it will when he gets into the house. I grind my teeth, trying not to resent Chase for this.
I shouldn’t be upset with him. It’s not entirely his fault.
Dad was the singular male role model Chase ever had, and he became what he is long before Chase’s memories begin.
And then, his only other role model, who once was such a bright light in our home, even when she came home tired from working double shifts, slipped into the same patterns, joining Dad at bars.
Partaking in whatever drugs he had at the time. Then she left.
So it’s not Chase’s fault. I should have done a better job of shielding him, but god he isn’t making any of this easy. And a part of me, a part that grows with every one of these situations, is very upset with him.
Then I feel bad for thinking that way.
When I check the rearview mirror and see Chase passed out, I allow the tears to fall for a second.
All I’ve ever wanted is to give Chase, Finn, and Hazel the best life I possibly can.
To prevent them from becoming like either of our parents, cut that sort of thing off at the source.
When Chase got into fights at school, I took care of his busted knuckles and black eyes and talked him down, helping him see how fraught with challenges that path would be.
Yet here we are.
I wonder about his classes. Has he actually been going to them? Is this a one-time thing? Or is this what he’s doing now? Does he even care that this could impact his chances at a state school? I sigh, turning onto our street and swiping the tears from my cheeks.
“How did you get in there?” I ask quietly, not expecting an answer.
“Fake.” That one word is confirmation that he’s either done this before or has plans to do it again. What other reason would he have for getting a fake ID?
I swallow over a boulder as I pull into the driveway.
The old house sits low, faded beige siding warped and cracking under the Florida sun.
The stucco beneath shows through in spots, discolored from years of storms and heat.
The small front yard appears smaller thanks to the overgrowth of weeds, and the front door sags crookedly in its frame, like it’s been forced shut too many times. Or slammed.
We moved a few times growing up, but I spent nearly half a decade in this house and it’s never really felt like home. Not in the way my little apartment with Nic feels.
Shutting off the car, I wrangle my emotions and shove them into a box somewhere deep in my chest.