15 - Wesley #2
Dad stands a little taller. “I’m looking into contract work. Consulting. It’d be easier on my body.”
“You can’t,” Emma argues. “You need to rest.”
“I need to contribute.”
“You already did,” I say, softer. “You raised us alone.”
The room goes quiet.
We don’t talk about Mom. We don’t ever talk about the hole she left behind when she died. Instead, we let her ghost hover over all of us like a shadow we can’t shake.
It’s just another reason why coming home is suffocating.
I love my dad and my sister, but I hate it here.
Being in this house is horrible, but avoiding it just makes me feel worse. It’s a vicious cycle that I’ve concluded can only be broken by getting them out of this house.
My dad won’t consider it, though. At least, not yet.
Later, in my childhood bedroom, I lie on my back staring at the ceiling, the glow-in-the-dark stars Emma stuck up there when she was twelve are still faintly visible.
It’s past midnight, and I should be asleep, but I haven’t been able to get my mind to slow down.
My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark.
I almost pick it up to message him. For what? I don’t know. Comfort. Explanation. I manage to resist the urge.
Days pass, and I force all my focus into the house.
I stock up on groceries, refilling the pantry to an indulgent standard.
An electrician is scheduled to fix the light switch on Wednesday.
The rest of the bills have been taken care of over the phone.
Doctor appointments are scheduled. Virtual meetings with Coach Bennett to discuss next season take place in my childhood bedroom. It’s been busy to say the least.
It all should take up the full capacity of my mind. Somehow, though, when Tuesday rolls around, my mind makes space to remember what I should be doing: training with Nathan.
I wake up early out of habit, body already anticipating a workout it’s not going to get.
My muscles feel restless, like they’re waiting for direction.
My brain follows, reaching automatically for the familiar.
We’ve only been working out together for two weeks, and it feels like a staple in my routine.
The absence is uncomfortable.
I make coffee, pacing the kitchen while Dad reads the paper and Emma sleeps in.
My eyes focus on my phone for a full thirty seconds before I pick it up.
Me: Hey.
He responds immediately, and my body warms. He never hesitates to get back to me, as if the thought of playing it cool doesn’t even occur to him. I secretly love knowing he drops whatever he’s doing to text me back.
Nathan: Morning.
Me: You’re up early.
It’s 6:30am here, which means 8:30 am in Boston. To me, it’s not early at all, but he hates mornings. It’s partially why I pushed for them.
Nathan: I figure I should get used to the mornings for when you come back and run me into the ground.
I smile, taking a sip from my mug. He doesn’t shy away from my athleticism like other men have. It doesn’t intimidate him in the slightest. In fact, he seems to actually like it.
Me: Smart man.
Nathan: When will that be?
No pressure. No accusation.
I swallow.
Me: I head back tonight.
I contemplate pushing our next session to next week, but a deal is a deal. I need to hold up my end.
Me: We can pick back up tomorrow since Thursday is Thanksgiving.
There is a pause this time. It’s long enough for me to imagine him reading it. My foot starts tapping faster against the floor.
Nathan: Yeah, sure. Might be extra tired though.
Me: Why?
Before I can wonder, a photo appears on my screen.
It’s him at my stadium.
The field is empty behind him with lights turned half on. The turf’s gleaming with frost. He’s in workout gear, his hair damp with sweat, wearing a focused, slightly sheepish expression.
Nathan: The groundskeeper let me inside in exchange for tickets to a game.
Nathan: I wanted to keep the routine.
My heart gives a strange tug.
He went to the field and worked out anyway. If I hadn’t texted him, I wouldn’t have even known. He did it because it matters to him, not for show or for me. The media has this man all wrong, and so did I.
He is focused. He puts in the effort. The man getting up early on his own with no witnesses, just to sneak in an extra workout, is not the man I thought he’d be.
My throat tightens, and I set the phone down, pressing my hands flat against the counter like that will ground me.
This is what I’m afraid of.
Me: That’s proof you don’t even need me.
Nathan: Wrong. I’m not nearly as tired as I am when we do it together. Besides, I like you yelling at me.
I snort into my coffee, but quickly recover when my dad turns to me over the newspaper.
Me: I do like being in charge on the field.
Nathan: Where else do you like being in charge?
And there he is. Overly confident, flirty Nathan is back. Good. I can deal with the teasing and being hit on. I cannot deal with the rest of it.
Me: Wouldn’t you like to know…
Nathan: Yes, actually. I really fucking would.
Me: Not a chance, Wilder.
There is another pause, and I can picture him contemplating whether he wants to push my boundaries further. My stomach sinks just a little when he doesn’t.
Nathan: See you tomorrow at seven.
Me: I’ll be there.
I had come home to clear my head, but it’s more jumbled than ever. I can’t hide here forever, though. Besides, we have another friendly match coming up, and I need to be there for my team.
Who cares if staying professional with Nathan is harder than expected? Difficulty has never stopped me before, and it won’t now.
I make it through the rest of the day without thinking about him. Sure, it’s only because I decided to kill myself, scrubbing the house from top to bottom. The floorboards won’t clean themselves.
By the time Emma drives me to the airport, I’m exhausted. My joints ache from being hunched over and scrubbing so badly that I decide to count it as my workout for the day.
It’s only once I get on my flight home that I let myself think about him. Thirty seconds to let my reckless thoughts run wild before I pack them up for good.
My mind flashes to the way he had looked at me across the bar like he was seeing something he didn’t want to look away from. His kiss had felt like an answer to a question I’ve avoided asking.
Thirty more seconds, I promise myself. Thirty seconds to get it together. Thirty seconds to remember who I am and what’s important.
But those thirty seconds end, and I can’t shut it down the way I usually do.