Chapter 1 River #2
“Thanks,” I said, and for a split second, his earnest tone and serious eyes made me think I could have a real conversation with him. Then his face broke into a wide grin—the charming, megawatt smile that made him so popular with girls.
“Chance’s rager is just what you need,” he said. “Get fucked up and forget shit for a while.” He wagged his eyebrows. “Maybe that sweet Violet McNamara could help you in that department.”
“Yeah,” I said, my shoulders sinking. “I’ll see if she’s interested in the job.”
Donte whacked me on the back. “There you go! See you bright and early in the a.m., my brother.”
I lingered until the locker room cleared out, then walked to my Silverado alone. The sun wasn’t even thinking about setting; amber rays fell across the black asphalt. I revved the engine and then sat in the AC before driving home.
Home.
The word had taken a new meaning since Mom got sick. I’d grown up in that house. In this town that I loved. It had seemed safe, a place where nothing bad could happen. And it had betrayed us all.
My last refuge was the shop, fixing something broken and making it work again. I wished there were something—or someone—who could do the same for me.
***
Dinner was starting as I came into our spacious kitchen. Dazia Horvat, my mom’s best friend, was stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce and humming to herself. She’d flown in from Washington, DC, the day after Mom’s diagnosis and hadn’t left since.
Dad was already in his seat, scrolling his phone, while Amelia set the table. My fourteen-year-old sister glanced my way, then went back to the knives, forks, and spoons. She’d been a sweet, vibrant girl up until two months ago. Now she hardly spoke, barely ate, rarely smiled.
“How was practice?” Dad asked, looking up from his phone eagerly, his eyes lighting up as they only did when talking football these days.
The bulk under his grease-smudged overalls showed the remnants of his own football career, muscles packed onto his stocky frame.
“Coach Kimball told me he has a few new plays for you and Weatherly tomorrow.”
I gritted my teeth. Dad had a direct line to Coach, always texting and talking about my progress, especially now that my last year of high school had arrived and it was time to choose a college.
“Yeah,” I said, grabbing napkins from the shelf near the table to help Amelia. “He mentioned that.”
“River, darling,” Dazia cut in, her words colored with a faint Croatian accent. “You must be starving. Two practices a day is too much!”
“It’s not too much at all.” Dad beamed proudly at me. “It’s what it takes to make a champion. Isn’t that right, River?”
“Sure.”
“And this year is it. The year.”
“What does that mean?” Dazia asked. “What is so special?”
“Next month, scouts are coming to watch River play,” Dad said. “College applications come after that, and then we decide which university will highlight his talent best and propel him to the NFL.”
“Oh, is that all?” Dazia shot me a wink.
“It’s what we’ve been working for since River was old enough to hold a ball. Isn’t that right, kiddo?”
I smiled thinly. “Sure, Dad.”
Amelia let me take over setting the table and sat down, phone in hand. Her long dark hair formed a curtain, shutting the rest of us out.
I nudged her shoulder. “What’s up with you? Do anything fun today?”
She shrugged. “Not really.”
“Are you looking forward to starting at Central High, Amelia?” Dazia called over her shoulder. “Freshman year is a big deal. Like senior year. Must make them special.”
“I don’t know what’s so special about it,” Amelia muttered. “It’s going to suck.”
I set down the last napkin, and my sister lifted her eyes to mine.
She was right. Mom wasn’t likely to make it to Christmas, so I didn’t bother telling Amelia she was wrong or that she needed to cheer up.
I never let myself have any of my own feelings, which ironically made me protective of everyone else’s right to theirs.
“Hey,” I told her. “If you get Ms. Sutter for math, you’re golden. She never collects homework.”
Amelia smiled gratefully at my change of subject. “And if she does, you can do it all for me. Nerd.”
“Sure I will,” I teased, desperate to keep that smile on her face. “For a small fee. Your allowance maybe? Even better—your collection of painted doll things would get me a buck or two on eBay.”
“They’re Russian nesting dolls, doofus, and you’d have to do my homework all through college before I’d even consider letting you put your huge, grimy hands on them.”
We exchanged playful, challenging looks.
I knew perfectly well what they were called, and she knew it.
The shelves in Amelia’s room were lined with the brightly painted wooden dolls, each holding a small doll inside the other, smaller and smaller, until the smallest was the size of a thimble.
She saved her allowance to buy sets from different sellers all over the world and received them as gifts at every birthday and Christmas. They were her prized possessions.
“You sure?” I asked. “You’re passing up a pretty sweet deal.”
“Touch them and die, lunkhead.”
I laughed and she grudgingly laughed with me, grateful for the small moment of levity.
“Is it true that you’re something of a math whiz, River?” Dazia said, coming to the table with a bowl of bread.
“Math nerd is more like it,” Amelia said. “River’s the nerdiest jock in school.”
I gave a lock of her raven hair a tweak. She stuck her tongue out at me.
“Is that so?” Dazia laughed, then discreetly removed one of the table settings I’d put down. “Your mom isn’t coming down for dinner tonight, darling. She’s a bit tired today.”
“Oh.”
The light moment crashed to the ground like an anvil. My father stared at Mom’s empty chair, his eyes heavy. Amelia retreated behind her hair with her phone.
That’s some math for you: We were a family of four. Subtract one mom, and what did you have left?
I don’t know who we’ll be when she’s gone.
“I’ll go up and say hello,” I said.
“Good boy,” Dazia said. “She will love that.”
I strode through our big house quickly and took the stairs up two at a time. Not because I was in a hurry to further witness what cancer had done to my beautiful mother but to prove I wasn’t as scared as I felt.
I knocked on the master bedroom door softly. “Mom? It’s me.”
“Come in, love,” came the faint reply.
The shades were up and the window open to let in the fresh air and golden twilight. Mom lay in the center of the king-size bed, looking small and frail, swimming in man-style silk pajamas. A scarf covered her head, and she set down the book she was reading to smile at me.
She’s still beautiful, I thought fiercely. Fuck cancer.
“Hey, Mom.” I kissed her on the forehead. “How do you feel?”
Not that I’d get a real answer. She’d finished a course of chemo and targeted radiation last week that left her weak, nauseated, and exhausted. But she never complained. Not once.
I wish I were as brave.
“I’m fine, sweetheart. Just a little tired today.” She reached up to cup my cheek as I sat down on the edge of the bed. “You look tired too. How was practice?”
“Fine. Same as yesterday. Coach is aiming for another championship.”
“I’m sure he is. What about you? What are you aiming for this year? Your senior year.”
To somehow survive if you don’t.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Look good in front of the scouts. Get into Alabama, I guess.”
“And make your father proud.” Mom pursed her lips. “I’ve been thinking a lot about his football dreams and yours. Sometimes I get the feeling they’re not the same.”
It should’ve been so easy to tell her the truth, but I’d been boxing up my emotions and putting them away for years.
Stuffing them in the attic where they were growing dust so that Dad could be happy.
He’d been a star quarterback for Alabama, almost assuredly a first-round draft pick to the NFL. Until disaster.
I still remember watching the replay. Once.
One viewing was all my stomach could handle.
Dad dropped back to pass, his O line fell apart, and two defenders took him down in a pile.
Then the guys jumped up and frantically waved over the medics, because my father’s leg was bent at a sickening angle no human leg was meant to bend.
Career over.
“He wants it so badly for you,” Mom said. “Mostly because his dream is unfinished. He sees the potential for you to have everything he couldn’t. But do you want it for you? Sometimes, I’m not so sure.”
The truth was waiting to be released. Like setting down a thousand-pound weight.
Or unpacking all those boxes I’d carefully stored out of sight.
But if I told Mom the truth, she’d insist Dad know too.
It’d crush him, and then he’d have to deal with me and losing the love of his life. It was too much.
I was too late.
“Nah, I’m good,” I said. “Just tired. Lots of practice. But forget that boring shit. What about you? Can I bring you anything? Dazia’s making spaghetti…”
Mom’s clear blue eyes narrowed. She knew I wasn’t saying everything, but she let it go. For now. “That woman is a whirlwind, isn’t she? I’m so glad she came.”
“Me too. But she has to go back to DC soon, right?”
“In a bit, but she promises to come back as soon as she can.” Mom’s thin hand squeezed my strong one. “It’s been easier having her here, I know. Not that anything about this is easy.”
“Least of all for you,” I said, my throat thick.
Mom smiled. “I’m sick, but I’m still your mom, even if I can’t take care of you the way I want to. I never want to be a burden—”
“Impossible,” I said fiercely. “You’re not a burden.”
“And you’re a sweet boy growing into a good man.
” She pulled out an envelope from the day’s mail.
“I’ve signed myself up for the Medical Center’s patient care program.
Twice a week, a promising student from your school will spend the afternoon here, helping around the house and taking care of things for me. ”
I flipped opened the letter. “Violet McNamara? She’s going to be your patient care…person?”
“Volunteer. Do you know her?”
“She’s been hanging around our crowd lately. She’s very pretty. Smart. In fact…” I cleared my throat. “I was thinking about getting to know her a little better. Maybe ask her out.”
Mom’s eyebrow ridges rose. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. I…I like her.”
Jesus, I sounded like a terrible actor giving the world’s worst line reading.
My mother regarded me closely, as if seeing right through me.
I wished she could. Maybe she could tell me what she saw, because when I pictured myself on a date, I couldn’t see who with.
Only a nameless, faceless girl who made me laugh, whom I could tell all my shit to, and she’d understand. No judgment. Only connection.
And maybe not a girl at all.
I quickly boxed that thought up with the rest and tucked it away.
“I’m happy to hear that you like her,” Mom said. “I can’t remember the last time you mentioned being interested in someone.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Football takes up so much time. But yeah, Violet is…nice.”
Christ.
“Well, I’m looking forward to meeting her. Now go on downstairs and eat before your dinner gets cold.”
I practically jumped off the bed, eager to get away from this convo. “Can I bring you anything?”
“Maybe a Hot Pocket later?”
I rolled my eyes, laughing. “You and your Hot Pockets.”
She grinned. “Nutrition at its finest.”
But the fact that she was willing to eat at all was a win in my book.
I went back downstairs to a quiet dinner with the tension of perpetual worry strung between Dad, Amelia, and myself like wires, pulling us tight, ready to snap.
The air was different now in the house, every second tainted because each one brought us closer to a time when Mom wasn’t going to be here.
Dad left dinner early to seek refuge in the den with his football highlights.
Amelia took her phone and went to her room while I cleaned up so that Dazia could sit with Mom.
After the dishes were done and the kitchen dark, I went to my room, stripped down to my boxer briefs, and tried to get some sleep for yet another early practice.
But my body was wide awake and exhausted from the strain of repressing my deepest longings at the same time.
I’d been playing a role, lying to myself for so long that I had no idea who I was.
How did it get this far?
Except I knew how. I’d let my own life—my own self—slip out of my grasp the first time I lied to my dad. I didn’t want to repair his broken dreams of a future in the NFL, using my life as a kind of do-over. But that ship had sailed, leaving me stranded on an island of my own making.
And now Mom was sick, and that island felt even more remote. Isolated.
I needed relief. I needed a feeling that was all mine, even if it only lasted a few moments.
I grabbed my phone and pulled up a porn site. My thumbs hovered over the categories, lingering over one in particular, and then quickly moving on.
I picked something vanilla, and the video snippet started. As usual, my eyes drifted from the raw act with the woman to the guy’s face. I concentrated on his reactions and movements, telling myself that was okay. What I truly needed wasn’t physical anyway. I needed eye contact. The connection.
I watched for a few minutes, then shut it off and slid my hand into my underwear.
I was already hard. I gripped myself, stroking fast, filling my mind’s eye with the guy’s expression, the way he moved, how he gazed into the woman’s eyes with intensity.
In my fevered imagination, the woman vanished altogether, and it was just the guy, stroking himself to finish while I watched…
I came so fast I nearly didn’t have time to grab a tissue.
Breathing hard, I lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. My release faded quickly, washed away by guilt and shame.
What is wrong with me?
Sleep started to drag me down. My hand reached across the empty space of my bed for something—or someone—to hold on to and found nothing.