Chapter Thirty-seven Vaughn
Chapter Thirty-seven
Vaughn
School has always been torture for me, but never more so than now that everything reminds me of Lacey. She’s everywhere and nowhere.
I’ve gone back to sitting at the soccer table at lunch, and I don’t linger long at my locker between classes, and since we don’t have any classes together, it isn’t hard to avoid her.
Still everything makes me think of her.
After school on Wednesday, I go out to the soccer field with the intention of practicing, but the cheerleaders are on the far field, and I find myself staring that direction instead of doing anything else.
It’s easy to fall back into my old routine, but I don’t remember it feeling quite so lonely.
I finally give up all pretenses of practicing and sit on the ground with the ball in front of me, watching while they rehearse their half-time dance.
Lacey stands front and center, leading them with her signature smile.
I can’t actually see it, but I know it like I know her.
So filled with excitement and happiness that it makes me feel worse.
I don’t know if I was happier when we were hanging out or if I just thought I was because she’s always so happy. But I’m starting to think it was the first. I’ve had a gnawing ache in my gut all week, and no matter how much time I spend practicing and working on my game, I can’t make it go away.
That’s how Dad finds me.
“Taking a break?” he asks, flicking his gaze in the direction I was just staring. He’s got his clipboard and whistle.
“Yeah,” I admit.
“Let’s run through the drills for the showcase, and then we’ll focus on some fundamentals. The skills test scores matter, but they’ll be making decisions based on game-time performance.”
I nod my agreement, and that familiar push of excitement thrums through me. It’s a reminder of what I’m working toward and what it’s going to take. And Dad, for all his faults, is here with me, pushing me to be better.
I steal a glance toward the football field. I can still easily pick out Lacey among the other cheerleaders, even though she’s no longer in the front. Her hands are raised over her head, and she moves with a grace and ease.
I’m still staring at her when Dad elbows me.
“You ready?” he asks.
* * *
Long after the football team and the cheerleaders have finished for the day, Dad and I are still on the field.
“Again!” he yells, hands on his hips as he stands five feet away watching me move around cones down the field. “You’re sloppy. Where’s your head at?”
I weave through the last cone and come to a stop in front of him. “Maybe if you stopped screaming at me, I could concentrate.”
I rarely yell back at my dad, so it catches him off guard. A flash of irritation crosses his face and then smooths out. “All right. Let’s take five.”
I bring the hem of my shirt up to wipe my face as I catch my breath.
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” Dad says while I’m still fuming at him and life and maybe a little at myself. Okay, a lot at myself.
I look to him to continue.
“The documentary is almost done. They should have all they need by early next week.”
“That’s great,” I say. We’ll finally have a TV and a couch that fits someone taller than four feet.
“Yes.” By the hesitant way he says the word, I gather there’s more.
When I don’t fill the silence, he finally adds, “They asked again if you’d like to be a part of it.”
“Me?”
“Most of the guys’ families were also interviewed, but I told Rick originally that I did not want them to bother you.”
“So why are you asking me now?”
“I’m not asking.”
“Then what the hell are you doing?”
Dad cuts me a look that tells me I’m close to being grounded. Not like I have anywhere to go anyway. Home, school, soccer.
“I am giving you the option. I talked to your mom, and she agreed you should choose.”
Him talking to Mom about me participating in the documentary is almost as surprising as this entire conversation.
I mean, I know they check in with each other periodically, but I assumed he rarely ran real parenting decisions by her anymore.
She kind of checked out of that responsibility when she moved across an ocean.
“I don’t understand. You didn’t even want to do this documentary, and now you want me to consider letting them interview me?”
His jaw flexes, and his mouth presses into a firm line before he speaks. “It could give you more exposure. I hate to give the media that much credit, but times are different now than they were for me.”
I never even considered the documentary as a way to launch my career. But if I had, this isn’t the first, or even the second, option I would have come up with. I’ve spent my whole life being compared to my dad. I’m proud of what he accomplished. In awe of it even. But I want to make my own way.
“That’s it? That’s the only reason?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Aside from the fact you’re my son and I’m proud of you, yeah.”
I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him say he was proud of me before and it catches me by surprise. I don’t know what it says about our relationship that I never even considered he wanted me to do it because he’s proud of me. I sit with that for a few seconds, which I guess he takes as my disinterest.
“I’ll let them know you’re not interested.”
“It won’t hurt the show or anything?” I ask.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Worst case they’d just leave me out of it completely, which would be fine by me.”
I nod.
“It’s settled.”
Despite being angry at him, I still feel bad for not agreeing to do the interview. Those feelings only last as long as it takes for him to start yelling at me again when we restart the drills. I’m sloppy and making mistakes I haven’t made in years.
I feel like the biggest joke who’s ever been invited to a showcase.
And the worst part is, I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.
All week I’ve done nothing except eat, drink, sleep, and play soccer.
I’m working harder than I ever have before, and it’s like I’ve taken ten steps back instead of progressing.
When Dad’s voice is hoarse and he’s given up on me getting my head out of my ass (his words), he heads home to meet with the film crew, and I text Rowan. If anyone can cheer me up right now, it’s him. When he doesn’t answer, I text Austin.
Me: Seen or heard from Rowan? He isn’t answering my texts.
Austin: He left school after sixth period. He wasn’t feeling well.
Me: Shit. That sucks. Thanks.
As I head out to my Range Rover, I send Rowan a text to check in on him and see if he needs anything.
I go home to shower and eat dinner, but Rick and some film people hover around shushing me politely every time I breathe too loudly. Ten minutes later I’m heading back out of the house.
Rowan still hasn’t responded, so I decide to go over and check on him.
The drive to the other side of town is nice.
Rowan’s family lives in the richest neighborhood in town.
It’s the kind of place people probably expect Dad and me to live, but Dad moved here hoping to make a quiet, ordinary life for us.
Big sprawling mansions are scattered around ten or twenty acres.
Each one has a paved driveway lined with hedges and ornate fences.
Statues and fountains adorn the immaculate landscaping that looks like it requires an entire team of gardeners.
It’s the kind of place that screams generational wealth.
I turn in to Rowan’s driveway. Rowan’s old truck is parked in the middle of the circle, outside the massive brick home. His beat-up truck looks as out of place as Rowan does here. He rarely talks about his parents having money, but then again, he rarely talks about his parents.
I park my Rover behind his truck and approach the house slowly. A few lights are on, but there aren’t any signs of movement inside.
After ringing the doorbell, I step back and wait. Several long minutes pass before the front door swings open and Rowan appears.
“You’re not Uber Eats,” he says, staring at me blankly. His hair is messy, and he has on sweatpants with a blanket thrown over his shoulders in lieu of a shirt.
“You look terrible.” I offer a small smile.
“Feel worse.” He steps back and holds the door wide to let me in.
The entryway opens up to a massive foyer with a spiral staircase on the right and a kitchen almost as big as my entire house directly in front. Rowan heads in that direction, and I follow behind him through the kitchen, noting the takeout containers, to the living room.
The TV is on, and cold medicine bottles and Kleenex are strewn about one side of the couch.
“Parents home?” I ask as he slumps down onto the tissue-covered area of the couch.
I sit in a chair across from him.
“No. They’re in Italy for the month.”
“The month?”
He opens his mouth to speak, but then sneezes three times instead.
“Bless you,” I say.
“Thanks.” He wipes his nose with a tissue and reaches for a bottle of orange liquid. He unscrews the top and takes a long drink before continuing. “They’re doing some traveling. They were in England, then France, Amsterdam…”
“And now Italy for a month?”
He nods.
“How long ago did they leave?” I glance around the house. I’ve only been here a few times, but I remember it being tidier. There’s a stack of mail on the dining room table that looks like it’s been accumulating for a while.
“I’m not sure. A few weeks ago. Maybe a month.”
“And they’re going to be gone another month?”
“They’re coming back in time for Christmas.”
I try very hard not to show my emotions, because what the fuck?
“I thought they were working.”
“They are.” His voice takes on a slight defensiveness. “They’re meeting with clients while they travel.”
“Dude…”
“It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s not like they’re around that much when they’re here anyway.”
“And you’ve just been staying here by yourself?” I ask.
“Aww. Are you worried about me, Cap?” He grins. “As you can see, I’m fine.”
Then he sneezes again.