11. Now
Chapter 11
Now
T here is something about a pair of ripped jeans that fit just right. The perfect hug to your curves, the right amount of stretch without falling into the mom jean category, and most importantly the confidence they give when you feel your best. But as I stare at my reflection in my floor-length mirror, it’s not the fit that pulls me in … it’s the dirt lingering on the bottom third of my legs. The mud continues to cake the denim the further down I look. Cringing, I will my favorite jeans to clean themselves for the umpteenth time in two days. If they were clean, I could undo sneaking out the other night and meeting him. I keep trying them on and expecting a different result, but they’re still grimy, and the other night still happened. Sticking the jeans in the hamper or washer before Mama sees and asks where I’ve been seems impossible. She’s stealthier than a spy. There’s no way.
“What do you think, Hy? Can we sneak out?” I shift to the side, and a glob of mud falls to the floor.
Hyla stares as if she’s considering her next move. She rolls over.
“Thanks for the support.” I groan.
The door creeks open. “Want me to throw those in the washer?”
My hand flies to my chest as I exhale quickly. “Jesus, Mama, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
“Ha!” She laughs out loud, eyebrows raised. “Says the girl with a bucket of mud on her pants. This isn’t exactly what I expected to see when I came in here.”
“Oh, I … this isn’t what it looks like,” I say. Staring at my mismatched socks, I compare the state of my life with my outfit.
Unlike me, Mama has her life together. She’s in her favorite blue maxi dress, her dark hair in a bun at the top of her head, her makeup done, and her purse and car keys in her hand. “Uh huh.”
I gulp.
Mama walks further into the room and takes a seat on my childhood bed. It bounces slightly as she sits. “You didn’t sneak out with Jase?”
I turn back to my reflection in the mirror and lower my voice. “I don’t know what you mean.”
She puts her hands on her hips faster than I expect. Her keys jingle as she drops her purse on the floor. “Bullshit.”
“What?” My head whips around. Mama doesn’t curse … not like this, anyway. “What did you say?”
“Bullshit.”
I blink at my mother.
She waves her hand at me. “Kate, come on. I know you’d sneak out every night when you were a kid. I just thought it changed when you guys broke up.”
“It did change,” I argue. Another glob of mud falls on the floor.
She cocks her head to the right.
“And it wasn’t every night,” I say.
“Give me some credit. My poor Magnolia tree had hundreds of scuff marks—not to mention the dent in the window from all the rocks. Neither one of you could bother covering your tracks, especially during the rain.”
I want to fight it, but she’s right. Back then, I didn’t care what the consequences were. I wanted to be with Jase. He was all that mattered. We were all that mattered. But now he shouldn’t get to throw a rock or shake a firefly jar to get me to run off with him. There are more important things happening here than Jase.
Mama stands and points at the dirt pile forming on the ground. “Clean the mess up before it sets.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Her hand is on the doorknob when I call after her.
“Hey, Mama?”
“Hmm?”
I fidget. “Are you going to see Dad?”
She’s quiet for a long minute. I can’t tell if she can hear me. When she looks up, her expression is guarded. “I am.”
“Can I go with you?”
“Really?” Her shoulders relax. “I would love for you to come. Maybe shower first.”
I stretch my arms around her, careful not to get my legs too close to hers.
She pulls me in.
“I’ll bring up a spray for the stain.” Mama gestures to the dirt I’ve drug through the room. “Take those pants off and leave them by the washer. They need some work.”
“Thanks, Mama. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for sneaking out.”
She shakes her head. “Oh, sweetie, I know why you did it, and I don’t blame you.”
I slump my head.
She takes my hand. “Kate, your dad’s alcoholism was enough to handle as an adult. I can’t imagine what it did to you as a child. None of what happened—the drinking, fighting, aftermath, none of it was your fault in any way.”
I stifle tears. I witnessed firsthand how much being a parent destroyed my dad, how it caused him to drink more and more. He wasn’t happy … because of me, and I wasn’t happy because of him—how poetic.
Mama pulls me in. “I’m glad you had someone here for you. I wish I could have been more present with you, but I was selfish and wrapped up in my reactions. I didn’t realize the damage it was doing to you until you left, and it was too late.”
Her admission is like a punch in the gut, and my breath hitches. “You weren’t selfish, Mama. You did everything you could do to protect me from him. Me leaving you alone with him was selfish.” It’s the first time I’ve allowed myself to think about it, let alone say it all out loud, but the weight it lifts is temporary.
She sniffles, and there’s a cut in her voice. “I’m not making excuses. You were a kid. I should have been there for you. You should have been able to lean on me instead of having me push you away to New York.”
It’s not the full story. I can’t look at her. I’ve never been able to handle it when mama cries. It wrecks me in a way I can’t explain. My mama’s always been a superhero fighting Dad’s disease and outbursts, dealing with me acting out, and keeping the house in line, all while holding down a full-time job to keep us afloat.
“Mama,” I murmur.
“No, sweetie, please. The way I handled this was a mistake, Kate. I’m sorry. I promise I’ll make it up to you.” She wipes her tears onto her sleeve and steps out of my room. “I’ll give you some time. We can go whenever you’re ready.”
“The way I dealt with it was a mistake, too. We all made mistakes …”
She’s already gone. It’s just me, my muddy jeans, and my aching heart. When I left, I never considered the damage it would do to Mama. I didn’t consider anything. I just had to get out of Sloane.
Hyla jumps up on the bed. She sniffs my leg before curling her nose up and spinning herself into a ball right by my pillow. Even though she seems to disapprove of the smell coming off me, and I disapprove of a lot more than that, the one thing moving away taught me is how much getting Hyla helped fill the holes in my heart. And how much moving back here picked at them again.
Running down the stairs, I toss my wet hair into a messy bun and slip on a pair of strappy sandals.
Mama shakes her head when she sees me. “How many times have I told you not to go outside with a wet head? You’re going to catch a cold.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, Mama.”
She grips the door handle. “You know … if you’re not ready to see him or don’t want to go, it’s okay. Having you home over the last week has been nice.”
I put my hand on her arm and study the crease in her brow. “It’s okay. I want to go with you.”
Her inhale is longer than normal. “Okay. I should warn you, he’s not … you’re not—he doesn’t look like you remember.”
I cross my arms, and my lips turn over in a frown. “What do you mean?”
She shifts her nails to her mouth and bites down. A nervous habit she’s always had and one she passed down to me.
“What is it?”
“He’s different, is all. He’s … fragile now.”
Fragile? The word cements me in place. What does it even mean? Dad’s always been larger than life. Too big, perhaps. He’s loomed over any and everything as the tough, drunk guy, who some days would say things to push me away, and other days be calm and gentle, forgetting how terrible the bad days were for me, Mama, our family. I’ve barely been able to process the idea of seeing that guy . To see someone frail …
Mama seems to recognize the anguish on my face. “Hey, like I said, you don’t have to see him. It’s okay if you’re not ready.”
I focus on the clock over the door, on the breeze blowing the leaves on the trees outside, and the creaking of the hardwood in the upstairs hallway as Nana wakes up. I focus on anything but Mama and the heartbreak all over her face, but I can’t. It’s right there. She’s right there. As much as I’ve dodged coming down here, seeing him, for years , I know time is up.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.” I bite down on my lip. “But I’m tired of avoiding him.”
She squeezes my hand. “You’re going to be fine, but if not, I’ll be right next to you.”
The ride to the hospital has always been a ten-minute drive from home, but today, it seems like two, maybe three minutes. While Mama looks for parking, various questions and scenarios consume my mind. What will it be like seeing my dad after all these years? Will he yell? Cry? Refuse to see me? Maybe he still holds a grudge, like I do. Maybe he knows I’m in town. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he does and doesn’t care.
Mama puts the car in park and faces me. “Ready?”
Ready to be sick.
“Kate?” She places a hand on my shoulder, centering me.
I fake a smile and unclick my seatbelt, wiping sweat from my palms onto the bottom of my yellow sundress.
The automatic door slides open, and my eyes strain to adjust to the harsh, fluorescent panels in the ceiling. There’s a page over the loudspeaker calling for doctors and nurses to prep for an incoming ambulance with someone in critical condition. A man dressed in a white coat curses and straightens from where he is leaning on the reception desk, flirting with the coordinator. He dashes off toward the Emergency Room down the hall, and I stop moving, reaching for Mama’s arm. It’s a cruel reminder that life is fleeting and that Dad may or may not pull through.
My feet are planted in the doorway of Sloane Memorial while I steady my breathing.
“This way.” Mama leads. “He’s out of the ICU.”
“Oh.” I run the thought through my mind to see if Mama’s mentioned this over the last few days and if I had been paying enough attention or if I blocked it out.
“I didn’t tell anyone,” she answers my silent question. “It’s looking good, but he’s not out of the woods yet. I don’t want to either worry anyone or give them false hope.”
Mama turns down the hallway with ease, leading me from one area to another, to an elevator, followed by another hallway, and finally through big, wooden doors, announcing the Sloan Memorial Cancer Center in bold, black letters. My breath wooshes out of my chest. Something about seeing it in print—CANCER—seems definite. Part of me didn’t believe it when Mama told me. Part of me blocked out the words, the meaning. It’s hard to do when the word’s right there, taking up space.
For something quite common, it hits a lot harder when it’s close to home, even with someone I haven’t spoken to in a long time. Especially then. What if it’s too late? Would I be grateful? Relieved? Should I have come sooner? I can’t help the tears from falling or the deep remorse in the pit of my stomach for spending all this time being angry … but I can’t help being furious, still.
We approach his room before I know it, and I take a step back. Before any interaction with my father, I would always wait and listen for a minute to see what mood he was in and what I would be getting myself into.
Mama heads in and crashes Pop’s time with him.
“Liz! You look pretty today.” My dad’s voice booms with excitement at seeing his high school sweetheart standing there, like every day before. To me, his voice sounds like a stranger’s.
I can’t see them, but I can imagine a smile spreading across her face. “You say that every day,” she replies.
“Doesn’t … make it any less … true,” he stutters.
He sounds more vulnerable than I expected. There’s pain in his voice as he tries to talk, and Mama’s words from this morning come back to me: He’s fragile now.
My feet nearly give out. Now I know what she means. Any one thing could change everything. I can’t be responsible for setting his health back. She’d never forgive me. My feet backpedal until I knock into a heart monitor and trip.
A nurse extends her hand to me. “Hey, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m great.” I lie, ignoring her kindness.
I run out of the Cancer Center as fast as I can. The world feels like it’s spinning all around me. My hand reaches out to find a wall, and I crouch down. My fingers find my temples and massage them. The stars come before I can stop them, and everything goes fuzzy before my eyes.
I sit, grip my knees, and start to rock slowly, steadily. I inhale for four seconds, hold for seven, and exhale for eight, repeating until I can peel my eyes open and find a thick, wooden hospital chair to focus on. The green plastic is stiff yet worn, with three small tears on the right side. I breathe in again, hold, then exhale.
“Kate? What happened?” Pop sits next to me and holds my hand, squeezing three times to help me come-to.
“I just …” I shift my hands to either side of my legs and push my weight up onto them.
“Woah, woah, Katie girl, take it easy.”
I blink to adjust to the hospital hallway I’m lying in. And there it is again, CANCER CENTER, as big as can be.
Pop leans down, eyebrows drawn in concern. “What’s going on, babe?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know, one second I was waiting for Mama to let me know it was okay to come in and see Dad, and the next, I—I don’t think I can handle it if he doesn’t want to see me, or if me being here makes his health worse.”
I look away, but Pop puts his hand under my chin and lifts my gaze to his. “Hey, Katie girl, you listen to me. There is nothing you could do to disappoint your daddy or make him not want to see you. Do you hear me?”
I blink but don’t reply.
“Kate?” he pleads.
“Okay,” I say, but I know for a fact he’s wrong. There is something that would disappoint him. There already was. Something disappointed him enough that I couldn’t stand to see his face full of disgust anymore. Something made me leave and made him cut me out of his life for over half a decade. Something could change everything if Mama knew, too.
“Ready to go?” Mama strolls out of the hospital room but stops when she sees me. “Oh sweetie, what happened?”
“Nothing, Mama; everything’s okay.” I take the help she’s offering and stand slowly. “What about Dad?”
She waves her hand in the direction of his room. “He’s having a good day and found a Gordon Ramsey marathon on TV—he won’t miss us until tomorrow.” She makes it sound casual, but I know this can’t be easy for her or Pop, and my causing a scene makes it a lot worse.
She gives me a warning look, and I follow her down the hallway to the elevator and through the rest of the hospital maze. I know better than to argue with Mama when she’s made up her mind and she’s decided—we’re out of here.
Mama reverses out of the parking garage spot, checks her mirrors, and turns to me. “You know, you don’t have to go to the Homecoming game tonight.”
I bring my palm to my forehead, cursing. “Fuck. It’s tonight?”
“Language.” She puts the car into drive. “If you aren’t feeling up to it, stay home in bed and rest.”
I pull out my cell phone, scroll Snap stories, and sure enough, several people in town have already posted about Homecoming. I sigh. “The only thing worse about going to Homecoming would be not going and seeing what Matilda has to say about it in her next column.”
She pulls a pair of sunglasses from the middle console. “You’re not wrong.”
I wish I was. I’d love nothing more than to stay in bed watching Friends reruns, avoiding a big-town event where all eyes will be on me. And Jase.
I hear the unmistakable sashaying of pom-poms before I see them. Nana’s running down the hardwood stairs, shaking the poms back and forth wildly as we step into the living room. “Hey, look at what I found!”
“You look festive, Mags!” Amy takes in Nana’s Spartans jersey and cherry red corduroy pants. Her signature Firetruck Red lipstick is well on display.
“Thanks.” Nana spins, showing off the French braid she made with some pom-pom strings threaded throughout. Nana’s nothing if not on-brand.
“Well, look at all of you; you have to change.” Nana shakes her finger between the rest of us, gesturing for us to get ready for the Homecoming game.
Amy leans in. “Oh, I, um, what should I wear? This is my first time at a high school football game.”
“Is it now?” Nana’s eyes light up: project!
“Hurry up. We don’t want to be late!” Mama shouts.
“Be there in a minute,” Nana calls back. “Besides, we haven’t been late in years.”
“We were late to the last home game,” Mama mumbles. It’s no good fighting with Nana. Out loud, anyway.
Pop sits on the arm of the sofa to wait.
A few minutes later, Amy emerges in my old cut-off Spartans emblem T-shirt, jean jacket, and pair of ripped dark blue jeans. She holds her hands out to the side. “So … what do you think?”
“Gorgeous. Now come on, let’s go.” I grab Amy’s hand and rush out the door.
“What the heck?” Amy asks.
“You’ll see.” I glance over my shoulder.
“Why do you look like you’re trying to keep tabs on a stalker?”
I turn and face my best friend, right hand on her hip, eyebrows arched.
Nana and her pom-poms start lunging out the front door, and Amy does a double take. “Um, Mags, what is happening here, exactly?”
Nana’s breathing is a little staggered. “Have. To. Stretch.”
Amy purses her lips. “Okay, but we’re going to a high school football game—not the Olympics.”
“You’d be surprised.” Mama locks the front door. “They do this all the time.”
“Do what?”
Nana straightens. “All right, girlfriend, are you ready or what?”
I crack my knuckles. “Ready.”
“On your mark, get set, go!” Nana shouts. She takes off before she finishes saying go.
I give Nana time to set her pace before I let my legs carry me down the sidewalk, catching up to her in a few strides. I nod as I pass and hear Amy whisper, what the hell? But Nana’s dammit is loud and clear.
The band is playing the fight song as the pep rally wraps up. Nana, Pop, Mama, and Amy are still a while back when I approach the gate. I take a moment to catch my breath and study the scene in front of me: gray stands packed with nearly everyone in town, the brass section of the band echoing through the stadium, scoreboards lit up: set to zero-zero, cheerleaders huddling, the home team in their red and blue, eye black painted on, putting on their helmets, chanting and getting ready to go. It’s enchanting.
“Wow,” Amy says behind me. “This is really something.”
My gaze meets hers. Trying to see things through her eyes, I can see the wonder, the spark. My first home game made me feel that way, too. Hell, most of the home games made me feel the same way.
Nana coughs behind me, almost dropping pom-poms at the call for the National Anthem. Instead, she moves them both to her left hand and puts her right across her chest.
“This is serious, huh?” Amy breathes.
I place my hand over my heart.
The singer approaches the mic. The way she belts out the Anthem is even better than I remember.
“You know,” Mama says. “I hear her sing each week, and I always forget just how talented she is.”
“Me, too.” Nana sniffles.
Pop mumbles he’s going to go see if the coaches need any backup. They probably don’t, but will welcome him, anyway. After four state championships, Len Dailey is a coaching legend in Sloane.
Needing a distraction from who he helped coach, I eye up the snack stand, “Nana, why don’t you and Amy find some seats, and Mama and I can grab the snacks.”
Nana shakes her poms and grabs Amy’s hand as if she’s five and not twenty-six. “Come on,” Nana says to Amy. She winks and lowers her voice to me. “Hey, Katie girl, grab me some of the good stuff, okay?”
I laugh. “Walking Tacos with nacho cheese, side of Reese’s?”
Nana smiles. “That’s the stuff.”
“Sounds amazing,” Amy agrees.
“I’m gonna get a full round, y’all,” I call back.
The walking tacos are the best thing on the menu by far, and according to Nana, anything salty must be accompanied by something sweet at major events. Make no mistake about it: in Sloane, Tennessee, the Homecoming Game is a major event.
It’s halfway through the first quarter when we get back into the stands.
“What took you so long?” Amy smacks Nana’s hand out of her taco.
Nana huffs. “This is nothing. The line can get long, but it’s so worth it.”
“What’s the score?” Mama squints to see the scoreboard in the distance.
“Mmm,” Amy exclaims, salivating over her first bite of what I’m assuming is her first real walking taco.
Mama cranes her neck. “Does the board say fourteen-nothing? It was hard to pay attention in line.”
“It does. Been an awful start, girls,” Nana replies.
“It doesn’t look like it’s about to get any better,” Amy mumbles. She ducks, focusing on her taco and her taco alone.
I bump her shoulder. “What?”
She avoids eye contact.
Mama taps me on my shoulder. “Over there.”
I follow the direction of her head tilt and see Jase standing at the bottom of the bleachers, his eyes lost, searching the stands.
When his gaze finds mine, the world around me freezes. He’s the last person I want to see, but after today, he’s also all I want to see. I shouldn’t have snuck out the other night and put six years of building a wall around my heart at risk for Jase and catching fucking fireflies. It was stupid.
Jase’s lips curl up in a smile, and he walks by the bleachers and around the fence.
My breath quickens, and I watch him as he backs away.
“Go,” Mama says, loud enough for only me to hear.
I rush down the bleachers but focus on each step, trying not to trip and be the center of Matilda’s next column. Maybe she’ll assume I need to use the Ladies’ Room. One can hope, anyway.
Turning the corner around the bleachers, I run straight into a firm six-pack with an old wide receiver’s jersey over it.
“Guess the fireflies were a better move than I thought.” Jase laughs.
I cock my head and place my hands on his chest, trying to distance myself from him, but I only end up pulling him closer.
His smirk stays in place as his gaze drifts to the sideline, where members of the Homecoming Court fuss over their dresses and tuxes. The matching hues are perfectly on-point, corsages straightened, and anxious smiles frozen on their faces. It’s almost time. “Remember when that was us?”
I sigh, lost in the memory of us then, being crowned King and Queen at eighteen in our matching emerald green, smiles brighter than the stars in the sky … I clear my throat. “Looking back, I don’t know how we won.”
Jase turns his attention to me. He moves a stray strand of hair away from my face and tucks it behind my ear. “We won because this town loves a good love story.”
Goosebumps prick my skin. “Were we, though—a good love story?” I blink away the tears, and the strain in his left eye tells me he knows exactly what I’m asking and why.
“We were the best love story this town has ever seen.” He rests his hands on either side of my face and leans down, slowly moving closer to me.
I’m drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Always have been … and maybe I always will be.
My phone buzzes, jolting us away from each other. I pick it up without looking and gesture one second to Jase. “Hello?”
“Kate!” Nick’s voice booms loud over the line, loud enough to hear over the announcer sharing the five-minute countdown until it’s time to announce the King and Queen.
Turning my back to Jase, I lower my voice, “Nick? Is everything okay?”
He laughs awkwardly through the receiver. “Depends on how you feel about my news.”
My stomach drops. What news?
“We have a trial coming up, and some witnesses need to be deposed … in Nashville.”
“My Nashville?” I ask. Nashville is thirty minutes away from my hometown. He’ll be thirty minutes away from me … and Jase.
“Your Nashville, huh? You never mentioned owning the whole metropolitan area.”
“Oh, you know me, just a city princess.”
“It tracks.” His laugh is infectious, and I’m so distracted by it that I almost miss the rest of what he says. “So, my boss asked me to come down to take care of the case, and if you are up for it, I’d love to take you out for a nice fancy dinner while I’m there. But, you know, as I say it out loud, it could be adding too much to your plate right now.”
I don’t answer right away, not sure what to say.
“Kate?”
“Um. I mean, yes, of course, I’d love to see you.” I’m physically talking to Nick, but I can’t focus on anything he’s saying until he ends the call with see you tomorrow.
“Wait, see me when?”
The call drops, and “out of service” flashes on the screen. I turn around to talk to Jase, but he’s nowhere in sight. Where did he go? Why did he leave?
“Hey, there you are! Come on, they’re about to crown the King and Queen.” Amy waves her hands. “Kate, are you okay? Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
“Ni—Nick’s coming to Sloane,” I mumble. Nick is New York. Jase is Sloane. Where is Jase?
“Kate? Really, you don’t look good; maybe you should sit down.” Amy places her hands on my shoulders, and while I feel her there, I’m lost in the nostalgia of King and Queen, of clinging to Jase like he’s the one person who can save me while he simultaneously breaks me … and why did he disappear? The world starts to fade before my eyes, and I hyperventilate for the second time in one day.
So much for avoiding Matilda’s column.