“They’re not the good parts.” I dabbed the corners of my eyes dry. “Why does he do that?”
Pierce gave me a sad smile. “You’ll have to ask him.”
“Yeah.” I nodded and stood. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
The weight in my heart made my footsteps heavy as I returned to my office. Concentrating on anything was almost impossible because my head was stuck on Cal. After an hour of struggling through a few emails, I blew off my inbox and pulled up Google.
It took a little research but I found the boy’s obituary. Hollis York. The photo of him smiling, wearing a Tennessee Titans jersey broke my heart. A few more clicks and I landed on his mother’s Facebook page. Her profile picture was of Hollis in his wheelchair, smiling from ear to ear, as Cal knelt by his side.
That signed game ball was in the boy’s lap.
The media should have picked up on this. Cal’s agent or his manager should have shared this with the press. Or maybe they had. Maybe it hadn’t fit the image the networks wanted for Cal and that was the reason no one had seen this photo.
How many other examples of this Cal—a good, decent Cal—had been missed by the masses because they’d been too busy watching reruns of him get ejected from a game for flipping off a referee after a missed call?
Pierce swung into my office around four before he left for the day. Five minutes after he walked out the door, I did the same, saying goodnight to Kathryn who was stationed at the front desk.
I drove into town, but as my turnoff neared, I kept going straight, the downtown buildings streaking past my window as I headed to the motel. Cal’s SUV was parked in the alley next to the Winnebago.
He was sitting in that camp chair outside the RV’s door, wearing a pair of athletic shorts. His torso was tan and bare, his abs on display for no one but me. He had on a baseball hat and sunglasses. Somewhere he’d scrounged up a standing umbrella, and it cast an oval of shade over his makeshift patio.
I parked and climbed out of my car, leaving my phone and purse behind as I walked his way.
There was a beer can in the mesh cupholder of his chair. Cal lifted it as I approached. “Beer’s in the fridge.”
“No, thanks.” A beer would lower my inhibitions and today, like any day, I needed them when Cal was within touching distance. I took the empty seat beside his. “Why, when you have this nice chair, do you sit in that one?”
“Because this one’s mine. That’s Harry’s.”
The older woman wasn’t here, yet he left her seat open in case she’d stop by.
“What do I owe for the pleasure of this visit?” he asked.
“The truth.” It was my turn to make demands, and since neither of us cared for small talk, I didn’t hesitate. “Tell me why you hide yourself from the world.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Blondie. I was a pro quarterback in the NFL. As you know, I spent some time on Monday Night Football. Wouldn’t exactly say I was hiding.”
I sighed, so damn tired of the façade and snark. “You know what I mean.”
He snapped his fingers three times before lifting his beer to his lips. Trickles of condensation fell down the silver aluminum, two landing on his knee as he gulped. When the can was empty, he crushed it. Then we sat in silence, until the shade of the umbrella had shifted and the sun skimmed our toes.
Cal finally cleared his throat. “My dad is an asshole. You know that.”
“I do.”
“He cares about his image. Not his reputation, his image. The house. The cars. The money. The status. The trophy wife. The young girlfriends.”
Did it surprise me that Cal’s father cheated on his wife? Not in the slightest.
“And I’m the football-star son,” he said. “I am just a part of his image. I decided a long time ago that I wasn’t going to look the same as Colter Stark.”
“So you’re an asshole of a different breed?”
He shrugged. “It’s what I know.”
The show. He’d learned from his father to put on a show. “But you’re not really an asshole, are you?”
“Nellie.” He shot me a flat look.
“You were kind to that boy in the wheelchair. You paid for his medical bills. You helped his family. Why didn’t you tell me that?”
Cal snapped his fingers again, which meant I was unsettling him with this topic. Good. “People have their mind made up about me. You included.”
“You didn’t give me a lot of choice.” I sat straighter. “You have been awful to me more often than not. In high school, you used me. Tormented me. Belittled me.”
“Yeah, because you decided I wasn’t good enough.”
“Me?” I pointed to my chest. “What are you talking about?”
He sat taller too, twisting in his chair as he leaned in closer. “That day by the pool. Our freshman year. You remember it, right?”
Of course, I remembered that day. Girls didn’t forget their first kiss.
“You told your dad I was a dumb jock. That you hated me. Right after I confided in you. Right after I trusted you. Right after I let you in.”
Wait. He’d heard me talking to Dad? My mind raced, trying to recall the details of that day. They were fuzzy, blurred from time and hate.
Mostly I remembered thinking he was so cute. Sitting beside him, talking to him, had been such a rush. My heart had been in my throat the whole time. Then he’d leaned in, and I remembered the kiss being over so fast that my brain hadn’t had a chance to catch up.
Maybe I’d called him a dumb jock. Dad had warned me away from him, but Dad had warned me away from all boys.
“I was fourteen,” I said. “Talking to my dad about boys. Do you actually think I would have told him the truth? That the son of his client had just kissed me? Of course I lied.”
“I didn’t take it as a lie.”
Because we’d been fourteen. And I’d probably bruised his ego. Was that the reason he’d been so horrible to me afterward?
Nearly twenty years was a long time to rewind and replay in a new light. But God, it made sense. Cal had reacted like most boys at that age would have. He’d taken his revenge.
Part of me wanted to rage at him. To smack him upside the head for being so incredibly stubborn. But we’d been kids. Miscommunication was our specialty. And since high school . . .
The years of arguments, bitterness and resentment seemed like such a waste. And for the second time today, Cal Stark made me want to cry.
That fourteen-year-old bully had let me in. And I’d thrown it in his face.
“I hurt your feelings and you pushed me away,” I whispered.
He lifted his empty, crushed can, shaking it like he wished it was still full. “What would you have done in my shoes?”
“Probably the same thing,” I admitted. “That still doesn’t explain why you push everyone else away. Why you put up this front.”
He lifted a shoulder. “It’s easier that way.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” A bullshit answer, but before I could call him on it, he stood from his chair. The RV rocked slightly as he took the stairs, slamming the door behind him.
A flock of small birds flew overhead, disappearing with a swoop and sway into the sky.