What was I going to say? What was I doing here? Granted it was broad daylight, but the lights inside were off. Was she even home? Maybe she’d gone for a drive. Maybe she’d stopped downtown.
I shouldn’t be here. It was too soon. Nellie and I did better when we gave each other space. Tomorrow. I could come back tomorrow. Or the next day.
Before I could pull away, my phone rang through the car’s speakers. I hit the button to answer my mother’s call. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hi. I was hoping to catch you.”
“What’s up?”
“Cal . . .” She sighed. Mom always sighed before a guilt trip. Son of a bitch. I was going to hate this phone call. “The fundraiser at Benton is next weekend. I just got off the phone with Dean Hendrickson.”
“Mom—”
“Before you interrupt me and say no, just listen. Please.”
I stifled a groan. “Okay.”
“They already announced you’d be speaking.”
“No.”
That was my father’s fuckup, not mine. He should never have volunteered me. What did he think? Now that I was retired, I had free time? The bastard hadn’t even bothered to run it by me first. What if I’d been busy?
“Cal, this is important. Don’t do it for your father. Don’t even do it for me. Do it for one of the kids who will be there. Dean Hendrickson just told me her story and it is heartbreaking.”
Dean Hendrickson knew how to play my mother, didn’t he? Like she knew how to play me.
“What kid?”
“They’ve invited some of the top students from each class to attend the gala. There will be a student at each table, a chance for them to meet some alumni. That sort of thing.”
“Okay,” I drawled.
“Well, I guess there’s a young sophomore girl attending. She’s one of those scholarship kids we all pitch in for.”
The pity in my mother’s voice made my skin crawl. The image of Nellie in her Benton uniform popped into my mind, and there was nothing about her to pity. Only admire. And if she would have been in this car, she would have cringed.
Hell, I cringed.
“This girl is apparently quite the gifted student and athlete. She’s playing on the lacrosse team and is going to be the star. But, oh, Cal.” Mom sniffled. “Her father just died this past spring. It was a freak accident at his work. This poor girl has been having a hard time. Dean Hendrickson thought it might mean a lot to her if she could hear from a fellow athlete. Maybe boost her spirits.”
I dragged a hand over my face. “I’m a football player, Mom. Not lacrosse.”
“Does it matter? Please. You won’t have to speak long. But maybe you could just give a hopeful message about endurance and hard work. Anything. And I’ve requested she be seated at our table so we can meet her. You’re so good with kids, Cal.”
And there it was. The guilt. It was so thick and heavy that not even the air-conditioning could chase it away.
“Mom—”
“Please.” There was a tremor in her voice. “I know you value your privacy. And I understand why you don’t do speaking engagements like this.”
Because I wasn’t some mentor for kids. I wasn’t a hero or man they should aspire to be. The only good advice I could give was to work your ass off. Give your life to a game.
What kind of guidance was that? Shit. It was all shit. Because once the game was gone, you’d find yourself living in an RV in a small Montana town with nothing to show for your life but a plush bank account and an addiction to an old diary.
“I don’t even know what I’d talk about,” I muttered.
“You’ve got a week to come up with something. If you wanted to come home early, I’d help you with your speech.” Mom must be desperate. She hadn’t even helped me with my speeches when I’d attended Benton as a student.
I let out a frustrated groan. No. Just say no.
“This is important to me,” she added.
No, it was important to Dad.
And if I recalled correctly, Dean Hendrickson and my parents were members of the same country club. I was merely a puppet on their twisted strings.
“Please?” I could hear her hands clasp together, shaking them like she’d dropped to her knees to beg. Regina Stark rarely begged.
Fuck my life. “Fine.”
“Oh, thank you. I’ll call the dean right now and tell him you’ve agreed. He’ll be so excited.”
“Uh-huh,” I muttered. “Five minutes. I’ll talk for five minutes.”
“I’m sure that will be wonderful.”
“I gotta go, Mom.”
“Of course. Text me your travel plans.”
“Yeah,” I mumbled, then ended the call.
My finger went to the ignition, ready to turn on the car, but I hesitated, my gaze turning to Nellie’s brick house.
What did she want from me? What did I want from myself?
I blew out a long breath and started the car, abandoning the curb as I flipped around and returned to First. I sat at the stop sign, looking right, then left. There was no sign of Nellie mixed in with the nameless faces. Yet she was on every corner, at every stop.
I pictured her at The Refinery, wearing her sexy leggings and cropped tank with her hair pulled into a high ponytail. She was at Jane’s, dressed in jeans and a tank for a night at the bar with her girl posse. She was leaving the coffee shop, an iced latte in hand, as she spent her weekend strolling downtown.
A honk from behind me had my eyes shooting to the rearview. I held up a hand in apology, checked for traffic, then pulled onto the street, driving to the motel.
I parked in the alley, in my usual spot, and looked at the Winnebago.
Nellie had left her mark here too.
She was everywhere.
Because this was her home. This was her town.
And I couldn’t take that from her. She’d come to Calamity to build a life. If I could give her nothing else, at least I could let her find peace.
So I shut off the car and rushed inside, once more pulling my suitcase from the closet. But this time, I didn’t pack for a vacation. I emptied every drawer. I filled every pocket of my backpack. I stuffed toiletries into their case.
Before I climbed in my car to drive to Colorado, I stopped by the motel’s office.
And handed Marcy the keys to her Winnebago.
-
Dear Diary,
* * *
Today was the last day of school and now I’m officially a sophomore. Only three more years to go at Benton. Then I swear on my heart and soul, I will never set foot in that school again. And I’ll never have to see these assholes again either. No more John Flickerman. No more Phoebe McAdams. No more Pierce Sullivan. And no more Cal Stark. Three years to go. Is it too soon to start a countdown? （JK. But not really.）
* * *
Nellie
CHAPTER TWENTY
NELLIE
“Pierce, do—oh, sorry.” I held up a hand as I stepped into his office and realized he was on the phone.
“Come in,” he mouthed, waving me toward his desk. “Good luck tomorrow.”
What was happening tomorrow? Who was he talking to? I walked close enough to hear a deep voice speak on the other end of the call.
A deep voice I hadn’t heard in a week.
Cal.
“Talk to you later.” Pierce ended the call and set his phone aside.