44. Chase
Chase
Mom’s gotten worse. A lot worse. I know the time is near, but none of us says anything about it. There’s nothing left to say.
She’s stopped making the little comments she always made, whether they were about me or Steele or Dad or anyone else.
Before it was only small things; it’s not small things anymore.
Dad carries her to the bathroom to help her bathe. Before she’d fight him on her independence, but now she doesn’t. She lets him take care of her. My mom has never in her life let anyone do something for her that she believed she could do herself.
She can barely tolerate more than a few spoonfuls of food in one sitting. Whatever the palliative care nurses I organized for her bring in and whatever Dad encourages her to try, her body has started refusing.
She’s lost weight she didn’t have to lose. She’s growing weaker by the day, and her complexion is sallow.
None of us say it. Not me, not Dad, not the nurses who stay the whole day, ensuring she’s always comfortable and clean. She’s in and out of conversations now, unable to speak for too long.
On the odd occasion, she’ll come out with something sharp and funny that makes us both laugh, and for a sweet second, it’s easy to pretend. But then the second passes.
Summer’s provided me more than support. She’s been a beacon of hope and light.
She doesn’t try to fix it or find the right thing to say—she’s just there.
She lets me talk when I need to talk and never pushes me when I don’t.
She’s cooked simple meals for my parents without being asked and holds me at night until I finally drift off, giving into my exhaustion.
So yeah, her smile—being the one to make her smile—is medicinal.
I’ve taken to the beach with Steele this morning.
I thought the salt on my skin would provide a good distraction, but it has done nothing to quell the plaguing thoughts about Summer and Mom.
The whole time I was out on the water, I thought about Summer, what we spoke about on the beach four days ago with the whole sky painted in flames around us.
Steele showed up at my door last night with a six-pack, and I opened up about the situation with Summer. If I can even call it that. I don’t know what the fuck we’re doing, but I do know that nothing has ever felt better.
Steele’s good like that. As rowdy and unpredictable as he might seem on the outside, he’s solid and loyal on the inside.
He acts up, but that’s all it is—he wears a mask, and I learned years ago that it’s to protect himself.
I think he’s too afraid to let people see the real him because he hasn’t even met himself there yet.
We grab a coffee and ice cream at the Melting Point and snag an outside table; the same one we’ve been sitting at since we were eighteen.
Our wetsuits are peeled down to our waists, exposing my skin to the early sunshine.
I cup my hands around my mug.
“Man,” I say, staring out at the water. “I have no idea what to do about Summer.”
Steele doesn’t miss a beat. He just shovels another spoonful of mint chocolate chip into his mouth. “Maybe,” he starts, pointing his spoon at me, “you should have come to me before last night, instead of keeping that morsel of information from your best friend for weeks.”
“And how would that have helped?”
“Because I know women.”
I shoot him a look. “You’ve never even had a girlfriend.”
“This is true.” He waves his spoon like he’s just made a compelling case on his behalf. “But I’ve spent time with plenty of them.” He pumps his eyebrows. “I have a wealth of experience to draw from.”
“Summer’s not like that.” I rake a hand through my hair. “She’s not just—she’s not someone you fuck and walk away from. She’s dating material.” I shake my head. “Hell, she’s marriage material.”
Steele goes very still and silent. Too silent.
I look at him.
His spoon is paused halfway to his mouth before he sets it back down in the cup slowly, as if he’s trying not to spook me.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“I’m not saying anything.”
“You’re thinking it very loudly.”
“I’m thinking,” he says, his voice measured, “that you are absolutely cooked.”
I don’t bother answering. He’s not wrong.
The truth is I don’t know what any of this means.
I’ve been so caught up in having her back that I haven’t let myself look too far ahead.
Neither of us has. It’s too much. We’ve been living in the middle of it like the edges don’t exist, and sooner or later, the edges always show up.
And then there’s my mom.
She’s tired, but it’s different from before.
She’s bone-weary. It takes everything in her just to get through the basics of the day—with assistance.
Eating, bathing, moving from room to room.
I’ve poured all my savings into nursing care so she can stay home, and I’d do it again without thinking. It’s the easiest money I’ve ever spent.
She belongs at home, surrounded by her things, instead of some sterile room that smells like hopelessness. She likes her coffee strong, her toast cooked on number four—not a shade past perfectly golden with thick lashings of butter and cherry jelly, spread all the way to the edges.
I don’t want her to lose the small things that bring her joy in her day and remind her she’s still alive.
Having Summer back has been the best distraction. Not in a way that makes me forget or dismiss what’s happening, but in a way that softens the pain. Like something to lean against when the weight of it becomes too heavy to carry alone.
I could lose myself in Summer forever.
“So, what are you gonna do?” Steele asks, scraping the bottom of his dessert cup.
“I just said, I don’t know.”
He shrugs. “Well, the way I see it, you have three options.”
I lift my brows expectantly, and he ploughs on. “First.” He holds up a finger. “Long distance. Hard. It’s not ideal for everyone but can work for some people.” He holds up another finger. “Second …”
I point a finger at him. “Don’t.”
“Break it off.”
I groan.
“Before you have a full-on bitch fit, let me get to the third.”
My arms fall limp at my sides. “What’s the third?”
“You go with her.”
He says it so plainly. Like it’s an actual possibility.
“What?”
“Go with her.”
“To New York?”
“No, to the moon.” He gives me a flat look. “Yes, New York.”
“What the fuck am I going to do in New York?”
“Hear me out.” He pushes the empty cup aside, planting his elbows on the table. “You’ve been here for a long time. You love it, I know you do. But the garage won’t fall apart without you. You’ve got Simon on the floor. He’s learning and doing a good job at it. Maybe you could give him a shot?”
“At running the shop?”
“Sure. Why not?”
I lean in. “Because he’s twenty. Because he still punches the air when it’s time for him to clock off, and he calls me Sarge. He’s nowhere near ready to run the show. No way.”
“What if—”
“I can’t, man.” My shoulders sag. “It’s not that simple. Besides, everything with Mom … I can’t leave Dad here after she’s gone. I would never forgive myself.”
“Chase. We’ve been friends forever. You’ve always given so much of yourself to other people. When is it your turn?” His tone is level. “When do you get to want something and actually go after it?”
I blow out a breath. “She’s got a whole life back in New York. Her team, her apartment, everything. I can’t just land in the middle of that.”
“What would be worse?” He clasps his hands. “Picture yourself ten years from now. Twenty years from now. What does it look like?”
Her. All I see is her.
My jaw tenses.
“Which would you regret more—having a shot at something real and failing, or living with the fact that you never tried at all? Never knowing what could have been?”
Before I can put together anything resembling a thought, a shadow falls over the table and we both look up.
A kid—late teens, maybe—stands there with his cell already out. He looks like he’s seen a ghost.
He’s staring at Steele.
“Sorry, I just …” He exhales. “You’re Steele Hewitt, right?
Dallas?” His eyes are wide. “I watched you in the playoffs last season, man. I just wanted to say that I think you’re unreal.
” His gaze falls to the ground before snapping back up.
“Would you mind if I get a photo with you? My brother’s a big Cowboys fan and is never going to believe I saw you. ”
And just like that, the version of Steele I was sitting across from vanishes, replaced by the one stitched together by expectation and performance.
He’s out of his chair before the kid finishes his sentence, slinging one arm around his shoulders, smiling at something he says before taking a selfie. The kid’s face lights up before he strides back to his table.
Steele drops back into his seat.
“Does that ever get old?”
“The attention?” He considers my question. “No. The attention is fine. But the weight of it?” He turns to face the shore. “Different question.”
All I wanted as a teenager was to play football professionally, and Steele got there. But seeing him now—after his fans take what they want—I’m not sure he looks like someone who got everything he ever wanted.
Is success enough to make a person happy? That remains to be seen.
Steele watches the waves. “Just tell Summer what you want.”
“You gonna take your own advice with Addie?”
He huffs a laugh, sucking in his bottom lip, and his gaze falls to the ground. “That’s done, man.”
“You know it isn’t too late.”
“For what?”
“To be yourself.”
He hums thoughtfully and we both go quiet.
I think about what I’d tell Summer and what I’d actually say if I let myself articulate it out loud. That I want her to stay—God, I want her to stay—but wanting that feels like the most selfish thing in the world. She’s meant for more than Ocean Grove.
That life she wants? Damn, do I want to give it to her. But she could have anything and anyone anywhere she pleases. She could have a whole world that matches the size of what she is.
Why would she want to be tied to me?
I’m just a mechanic.
“I don’t even know what I want,” I say finally. And even though the words slip past my lips, I know they’re not entirely true. They’re just easier to voice than the alternative.
Steele is silent for a beat, but when he speaks, it’s with certainty. “Yeah, you do.”
I stare at the ocean pounding the sand.
He’s right.
I only want her.