Chapter Three
Lily
Saturday…
Mom and I moved to Midland, her hometown that she hadn’t been back to since leaving for college three decades ago, in hopes of a fresh start.
I fully supported Mom’s choice, knowing how difficult it had been for her to constantly see places that reminded her of my father and the life she thought they’d had. Midland held none of that for her.
When she’d brought it up, she made me promise to choose what was best for me, not what I thought she needed or wanted.
Honestly, it was an easy decision. Unlike my father, my loyalty is with my mom and I wasn’t too keen on staying in Springfield.
People I’d known my whole life treated me differently, like I was fragile and my mom was na?ve.
Some were sympathetic to our plight, offering a supportive hug or never touching on the subject to be sensitive to our situation.
Both were hard to endure. Others had the gall to imply that my mother should’ve known my father couldn’t be faithful because of his job.
As if that excused him for betraying their vows.
We looked for jobs and residences, mom urging me to find my own place, declaring that we each needed space to process the cause and effect of all the changes we’d experienced in a brief time.
I saw Midland as a chance for us to start over and hoped, eventually, she could find a man worthy of her. I never thought that might happen for me, too. I’m not saying I’m all in or that Keaton is nothing like my father, only that each are a possibility.
Hence, needing my mom.
I’d waited until Keaton left for a workout he and his best friend, Gareth Bach, had scheduled, something I insisted he keep despite his offer to cancel it.
He’d informed me of it while we ate the dinner we’d prepared together last evening and discussed our weekend plans.
Since I only work five days a week, and I don’t have any volunteer hours today, I didn’t have any to share other than hanging out, putting away what I did bring, and maybe working on a few sketches.
I don’t design tattoos as much as I used to, but I’ve been contemplating visiting a few of the local shops to see if they have a chair I can use for limited appointments.
Plus, I wouldn’t mind adding to my own personal artwork.
Mom even expressed interest in getting matching ink, created by me.
I’ve been messing around with a few ideas involving a phoenix.
I know it sounds cliché yet it’s very on point.
I wonder if Keaton has any. Perhaps I should ask, strictly for research purposes, of course. I can critique the artist’s technique, all while hating the fact someone else permanently marked him.
Come to think of it, I hope he doesn’t. I’d rather he was a blank canvas. Maybe I can talk him into letting me be the first.
My fingers are aching to put pencil to paper and get started on it. Even if he declines, the desire to draw is getting to strong to ignore.
But I need to do something else first.
Grabbing my phone, the second my mom answers I declare, “I need help.”
“Bail money or a shovel?” I laugh and the pressure in my chest eases just a bit.
“Why are those always your go-to options?”
“Because they’re extremes and I’d bring either should you need them.
If neither are necessary, then the actual problem is solvable.
” There’s a strange logic in that. “I’m assuming this has to do with your quarterback.
” We don’t keep secrets from each other, a vow we made after my father’s were revealed, so she knows all about how I met Keaton and the sleezy reporter.
What she doesn’t know is me being bombarded by a ton of them at my place last night, Keaton rescuing me and bringing me to his, and our decision to make the pretend engagement a real marriage.
Well, to at least keep that option open.
Once she’s updated on the new happenings, she chimes in with, “If either of you are doing this only to save your careers…”
“I like him, Mom, and I think he likes me.”
“And that’s why you need help. You’re scared.
” She can’t see me nodding, but she doesn’t have to in order to know she’s right.
“Because of what your father did.” Are all moms this smart or did I get lucky getting her as mine?
I realize the distinction doesn’t matter because both can be true in this case.
“I saw the picture of you two. Saw how that man looked at you and you him.”
I’ve stared at it more times than I care to admit. I might have even saved a copy to my phone and made it my wallpaper. They say the heart is in the eyes and if that’s true, Keaton is showing me his and it’s pure. Good.
Keaton isn’t just a man to me, he might actually be the man.
And that’s what made me say yes when he suggested we get married.
Loving my father almost destroyed my mom, and I fear that not giving Keaton a chance will haunt me forever.
“Yeah,” I confirm, letting her know I’m aware of what are gazes were saying.
“I don’t want what your father did to me to warp your views on love.”
“How could it not?” I’m not trying to be rude, but there’s no way it wouldn’t impact me.
“Aren’t you mad at him?” Of course, she wishes my father were the man he portrayed himself to be, but she’s never expressed regret about her time with him.
Only that she didn’t question him when she first became suspicious.
“Lily girl,” she sighs. “I’m disappointed in him, but I will forever be thankful for him.”
“How?”
“He gave me you. I would go through every ounce of emotional pain he caused me a thousand times if it meant I still had you.. And, though it’s harder and hurts to remember them right now, your father and I did have some good times.
I choose to focus on what I gained in that marriage rather than what I lost.” If a woman who’d been cheated on, publicly betrayed in the worst way possible, can still be hopeful about love, then what right did I have to disagree?
As if she’s reading my mind, and she just might because that’s what moms do, she urges, “Give him a chance, sweetie. The risk might just very well be worth the reward.”
“I want to,” I finally confess. “But what if…”
“My sweet daughter, not every man is your father. Treating them as if they are isn’t fair to them or you. I know you’re trying to avoid being hurt, but what if, in doing so, that’s exactly what happens?”
Am I hurting myself if I avoid taking a risk with Keaton?
I mean, I know he’s not perfect, nor did May try to portray him as such, but neither am I. For example, I’m scared to be loved. Scared I won’t be enough to keep that love.
“I looked him up,” I tell her, to which she said she isn’t surprised.
“What did you find?”
“Nothing.”
I know how thorough people can be, so I’d braced myself while I waited for the results to pop up.
I hadn’t needed to. Every single one showed him to be an absolute gentleman with nary a hint of any scandal or behavior that’d besmirch his character.
By all accounts, he can do, and has done, no wrong.
No pictures with him and any woman.
No rumors of drug use, drinking, nor buffet style dining…if you get my drift.
My father sure couldn’t resist the variety at his fingertips.
There wasn’t even a mention of Keaton and a female in his younger years.
Doesn’t mean there wasn’t or hasn’t been since, only that it’s not common knowledge.
My kiss with him may have been my first period, but I highly doubt the same can be said of him.
“Are you upset his mom never told you what he does?”
“Not in the least,” I tell her, meaning it. “I know some would exploit that for their own gain and, though I’m nothing like that, it’s probably become instinctual for her to protect him.”
“She had no way of knowing that you’d like him in spite of his profession.”
“Truthfully, I’m proud of what he’s accomplished. The discipline it must’ve taken to set a goal and achieve it is awe-inspiring. But I’m more interested in who he is rather than what he does.
“I don’t regret falling for your father, but you may regret not letting yourself for Keaton.”
That warning sticks with me long after we hang up and is still there when Keaton returns, bearing gifts of lunch.
Italian. My mouth waters at the smell of pasta and I realize I skipped breakfast. I’d intended to eat when Keaton was gone but got stuck in my head.
The need for sustenance got knocked out by what my mom had to say and figuring out what’s best for me.
Now, though, it’s come roaring back and I’m wondering if Keaton brought enough for himself.
“Thank you,” I tell him, hoping he understands I don’t just mean for the food. As I sit, Keaton insisting he’s got it under control as he arranges everything on the table before taking his own seat. “How’d training go?” I ask after taking a bite. Fine, two disguised as one.
Watching me in amusement, Keaton chews his own, which was much bigger than mine so there, and swallows before answering, “Good. We focused on cardio today.”
“How many times a week do you work out?”
“Every day, some longer than others. As the season nears, that will change. My entire schedule will.”
“I feel like you’re preparing me for something.” When Keaton doesn’t instantly refute that, I know I’m right. “Walk me through it?”