Nineteen
Heath
Seeing my mom always puts me in a good mood. A Saturday afternoon, right before the sunset, the breeze is refreshing at the end of a long, hot day. With just a couple of hours before I get to see Teagan, the smile on my face is fueled by many things.
“You look so happy,” my mom says. Her arm loops through mine while we stroll across the yard in the shade of the sycamore trees. “Did you have fun last weekend?”
Ryan’s wedding reception was trash, but the rest of the night was not. My smile grows. “Yeah, I had a lot of fun.”
“Oh, good. Tell me about it?”
I try to think of an explanation that doesn’t involve closets and leaving with panties in my pocket, but nothing come to mind. Just a stupid grin on my stupid horny face.
“You’re blushing!” she says.
“No, I’m not.”
“Oh, yes, you are.” She pats my cheek. “I know when my son is having a good time with a woman.”
I gasp. “Mom!”
“What? Am I wrong?” Her dimple appears.
“No, but . . . it’s not . . . it’s just . . .”
“Complicated?” She finds the word for me.
“Well, yeah.”
“Don’t be embarrassed. You should enjoy summer. It’s the best season.”
My mom lives for the humidity and heat that summer brings. It reminds her of home on the island. It’s a surprise she can stand the winters here at all. For her, it’s not only cold, but lonely. My dad’s busiest times are from the playoff season through the big game in February. He is gone almost every day, with a small break before the drafts. We used to go to the island in the winter when I was out of school, but that changed when my grandmother got sick. Mom moved her in with us so she could care for her in her last days, but it turned out that she didn’t have many left.
Her death took a toll on Mom, making the winters colder, lonelier, and making her old coping habits return. I’ve always hoped she would leave Dad and move back to the island, let the sun heal her and free us of this endless cycle with her health, but that’s a pipe dream.
When we walk inside the house, reality hits. My dad stands in the hallway, on his phone, and smiles when he sees Mom. She leaves my side for his, letting him pull her close. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence—maybe he doesn’t notice I’m here at all—but it doesn’t matter. When he looks at me, I don’t feel anything but his disappointment.
“I’m gonna head out, Mom.” She returns to me for one last hug. “Ou te alofa ia te oe,” I tell her again. She grips my hands in hers as I step away. The smile on her face is the opposite of my mood.
“Son. A word, please?”
Fuck . Apparently, he finished his call just in time to ruin my day. “Sure.”
He motions for me to follow him. My blood pressure instantly goes up. Every moment we’re together I count down the seconds until he says something that will make me feel like shit.
We have never gotten along. He has always been career driven, not family driven like my mom. A celebrity in the sports scene, he didn’t have to pressure me into being an athlete, but he did anyway. He gave me the legacy for football, but my passion was soccer. That wasn’t the first of my decisions to disappoint him, but it didn’t help.
After my injury, he couldn’t seem to understand why it was hard for me to return to the game I loved. My leg had bolts in it, I had to relearn how to walk, and yet he thought I would go right back to it after I healed. I couldn’t have a defender sprint toward me without cowering in fear, but fuck my trauma, I guess.
If I couldn’t play, he expected me to be a sports agent or accountant for one of his many companies. He didn’t say anything the whole time I was getting my degree in sports medicine, then had the nerve to act shocked that I decided on a doctor of physical therapy rather than going into the family business. The DPT program was just as hard to get into, but he didn’t care. That was the last connection we had other than Mom.
Following Dad into the foyer, I already know what he is going to say. He stops walking when the front door is in sight, and I consider running through it to avoid this conversation. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
“I shouldn’t see my mom?”
“You shouldn’t sneak around behind my back the way you did before.” He knows I took her out of rehab again.
I won’t say she called me and asked me to pick her up. If he wants to blame me, he will, and I’ll let him. “I would have told you to your face if you were here. But you weren’t. You never are when you send her away.”
The wrinkles deepen between his eyebrows and his blue glower grows darker. “It wasn’t your choice to make,” he says.
“That treatment facility doesn’t help her—it’s a glorified spa retreat. She goes in, feels lonely and miserable, then comes out the same. She’s better off at home where she has people around her and I can come visit.”
“Better off? You don’t know how bad it has gotten.”
“And you do?”
“Heath—” He pinches the bridge of his nose in his frustration. The feeling is mutual. “You have no idea what she needs, and even if you did, these decisions are simply not up to you. I am her husband. You are the son she continues to coddle like a child.”
He’s always this way, making it clear that I am my mother’s son, not his. He barely talks to me outside of holidays or when Mom makes him, and we butt heads constantly. People always say my dad and I are the same person—that we can’t get along because we are too much alike—but I pray that isn’t true. All I see in him are the parts of myself that I hate. The selfish parts. The mistakes I’ve made. The callous ways I’ve treated people I care about.
“Whatever,” I say. “I will always do whatever she wants to do. You should try that sometime. You know, when you’re not too busy to pay attention to your fucking wife.”
I walk out the front door, not looking back.
~
The next morning, I wake up early after a fitful night’s sleep and decide to grab some coffee to help me wake up. The line is long, and now the woman in front of me can’t decide what she wants. My phone buzzes in my pocket. When I pull it out to look, I grin.
Teagan: 12-hour notice
Teagan: My plans were canceled. Are you free later?
Me: Definitely. My place at 3?
Teagan: Sure
The best news ever. I had a lot of frustration to work out last night. A lot . I wasn’t sure her spine would still be in alignment after what I did to her, but here she is running back for seconds. Or thirds. I lost count.
I feel my not-so-little man swell. The woman in front of me moves away and I step up and back into the real world.
“Twelve-ounce Americano with room, please.” I realize I never ask anymore. The please is just for flair.
The total comes up and I tap my watch against the machine to pay. An X shows on the screen along with an offensive beep.
“It didn’t accept it. Here.” The barista clears the screen. “Try again.”
My watch must be broken because it fucks up again. I give up when the person behind me sighs. I pull out my wallet and try my card. Still, nothing. What the fuck?
“Is something wrong?”
“Sorry, I’m having issues.” I pull out another. Is this card linked to where my paychecks go? Declined again.
“Sir, is there something I can help you with?”
Explain to me why I can’t pay for a fucking six-dollar coffee? “No. Sorry, can you cancel my order? Thanks.”
Embarrassed, I leave the café, avoiding the gaze of everyone in line behind me. Once outside, I climb back into my car and hang my head in my hand. That was fucking embarrassing. My bank app loads slowly, but once it’s done, my jaw drops.
Savings Account: Current Balance - $0
Flex Account: Current Balance - $0
I pull up my credit card app and log in with my fingerprint. In the tab for my accounts, the only thing it shows is Click HERE to Sign Up . And in my statement history, a zero-dollar balance followed by Account Closed .
What. The. Fuck.
I fume the whole way back to my apartment, knowing damn well what is going on.
Dad. He’s a piece of shit. I know this is some sort of punishment, but for what? Caring about my mother?
The door slams behind me. I lock it while I call him. He answers with a generic, “Reynolds.”
“It’s me.” He says nothing back. “Why are all my cards cut off?”
“You know why, Heath. Why would I continue to support you when you go against me at every turn?”
A chill settles heavily on my skin. My anger forms words I know I’ll regret. “You can’t fucking do this shit, Dad!”
“Except I can. Either learn some respect or learn how to pay your own bills.”
I hate him. I fucking hate him. “If you think I’m going to side with you over Mom, you’re an idiot.”
“You are so na?ve,” he says with a sigh. “I’ve made my decision.”
Rage burns away my chill until I burst. “Cut me off then. I don’t give a fuck. I don’t want your blood money anyway!” I hang up on him and throw my phone against the wall.
Shit. I don’t know if I can afford to fix that.
~
The fear of financial instability ruins my whole day. Hours of anger and worry leave me emotionally drained. But none of that matters while I’m lounging on my couch, having the hottest lazy sex of my life.
Teagan, naked on my lap, balances herself with her hands on my chest, her tits bouncing right in front of my face while she strokes that snug pussy up and down my cock.
Whatever shit she went through this morning, I’m glad for it. She hums her approval, but her eyes stay closed tight. She’s in her own world, taking what she wants from me. I’m a dildo with a pulse and I am not complaining. It’s good. So fucking good.
“Uhn.” I try to hang on, to savor every second I can have, but it’s too much. She curls up, her hips shaking in my hands as she comes. I follow right after her, moaning while my soul pours from me and into the condom. Holy fucking shit.
I’m spent and I didn’t have to do anything but drop trou. My thank-you is a weak spank and a grip of her ass.
“That was good,” I say, sounding as spent as I feel.
With a happy sigh, she slides her hands down my chest. She won’t compliment me back. Not for a while, at least. For some reason, she thinks not saying I rocked her world means I won’t know.
Too soon, she lifts herself from me and I slip from her warmth. My cock instantly misses her. She sits beside me, that cute little post-orgasm look of stupor on her face. I take that as a win.
“Can we make Sundays an official part of our schedule yet?” I ask.
“Shut up,” she says between labored breaths. She reaches for the throw blanket and covers herself with it. My fun is over. “Did you book your flight yet?” she asks.
“Are you serious?” I look at her with a laugh. “That’s where your brain goes when we fuck?”
“No, I just remembered. It’s the after-sex brain thing.”
“Post-nut clarity?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
That’s where her brain goes when we fuck—to mush. That’s a hand job’s worth of stroking to my ego.
After another calming breath, she sits up. As I watch her pick her clothes up from the floor, I can tell she’s in business mode again. “Did you book it or not?”
The blanket hangs low when she stands, exposing her again, teasing me until she lets it fall to raise her arms and slip her shirt back on. In profile, the smooth lines of her body move like falling silk. A path of perfection from her chest to the narrowness of her waist to the swell of her ass, and down those long, long legs. My eyes trace every inch of every curve.
She hops to help get her jeans over her ass and I have to appreciate the sight. She fastens them around her waist and looks down at me with a glare. “Heath!”
“Huh? Yeah, I paid for that after we decided which club to go to.”
“Not the flight to Vegas. The flight to Valencia.”
Oh shit. I haven’t, and I already know how she’ll react when I tell her. “Um.”
She groans in a less enjoyable tone than she did a few moments ago. “I told everyone about this weeks ago.”
“I thought Brett was flying us out on his plane.”
“No. We’re flying to Valencia and he’s taking us from there to the island. He hasn’t bragged to you about his new yacht five thousand times already? Because he has with me.”
“No, he has. Sorry, I meant to do it this weekend.”
“Well, do it now.”
She lifts my phone from the table and tosses it to me. I don’t know what to tell her. I don’t know if I want to tell her at all. Not only am I lost over how to navigate this, I’m fucking embarrassed. When has anyone in our group not had money? We were born with silver spoons in our mouths and a drawer full of more right beside us. Paying for something as small as a commercial flight? That’s nothing. When you have a working credit card, at least.
Teagan grabs her little purse from the table and slings the strap over her head. She looks ready to leave, and I’m holding my breath hoping she does. But, as always, she scowls at me, crossing her arms over her chest.
“The second I walk out you’re going to fall asleep and forget again.” When she’s right, she’s right. “I’m staying until you do it.” Then you better get comfortable, babe .
I don’t want to tell her what happened. I definitely don’t want to tell her why it happened, either, but she will be pissed if she finds out I didn’t book it. “I would, but . . .”
“But what?”
I take a deep breath for courage. Telling her the truth is going to suck. But here goes nothing.
“I can’t afford it right now.”