Page 22

CHAPTER

TEN

DEAN

I really wanted to watch Clara June at Goode’s the entire time I was there. In fact, it took work to not watch her and the only reason I didn’t was fear that she’d catch me and think I was a total creep.

I watched Dolores spill a cup of vitamin D milk when some kid threw a crayon at her feet when she was walking.

Turns out crayons are a lot like banana peels in cartoons.

I stared out the window, watching the door at Ink Time open and close, people leaving with plastic wrapped appendages protecting new ink.

I stared at the surface of my coffee, which I sipped slowly as I waited for my order.

I tried my hardest, and still, I found my eyes gravitating toward her.

I know she’s gotta be exhausted, what with everything that’s been going on in her life, and yet she strides up to each table with a smile, happy and sweet.

Her chestnut hair, which was in a ponytail when I arrived, ended up in a bun with a pencil shoved through, enticing little tendrils hanging free.

She’s tiny, and I’m certain I could toss her over my shoulder or knee with ease.

Despite her petite stature, she fills out that uniform like something else.

Her breasts put that singular button to the test.

Once my order is delivered in two large paper bags, I leave a few bills on the table, tip my hat to Dolores for her colorful service (she definitely dropped an F bomb a time or two in our casual chatting), and head to the other side of town—to Clara June’s house.

Twisting the key to kill the ignition, I look across the cab and out the passenger window out at the small, cottage style house.

The light blue paint is faded beneath the windows, where water runs off after long rains, and the gutters look like one strong wind will take them away.

The lawn is mowed, but dying in spots, and several pavers up the path to the front door are missing.

Her garbage cans are still out—empty and upturned in the road—and in the planter boxes are weeds, dead flowers, and an old plastic Baja Fresh drinking cup.

Archie’s bike is lying on its side in the driveway, and a few pairs of filthy boots are piled up on the porch, where I stood the other night.

Despite its imperfections, something deep in my marrow burns at the sight, leaving a trace of sadness in my veins. This is a home, full of responsibility, stress, adoration, anger, love—all of it. A real home, and it’s metaphorically what’s missing in my life.

I hop out of the truck and make my way to the front door, sidestepping the empty sand bucket and shovel before stepping over a Ziploc bag full of mud.

I glance at my watch when I get on the porch, grateful there’s no digital doorbell camera to give me away.

I take a second and ready a response, in the event Tanner or either of his brothers thinks it’s weird that his football coach brought them dinner.

I stopped off at Goode’s, and your mom mentioned you guys were here.

Had to bring the jersey by, so I thought I’d bring some food, too, you know, since it’s dinner time.

After running through a few lines like I’m practicing for a damn job interview in front of a mirror, I knock on the door and bite back my smile at the immediate commotion.

“I’ll get it!” a small voice shouts. That’s Archie, and if I was a betting man, I’d be willing to bet that he likely isn’t allowed to answer the door.

“No way dude, I’ll get it,” another voice booms, sounding a lot like Tanner but… older.

The door swings open and Rawley stands there, still sporting the insane swim trunks and pink hoodie, but the boots are now in a heap next to the door.

“Coach McAllister,” he says, bobbing his head, almost like he isn’t surprised to see me here.

I hold out the bags of food. “Hey, Rawley. How are ya? I thought I’d come by and see your brother, and I brought some dinner with me.”

Rawley takes a single look at the bags and then back at me. “You brought us Goode’s.” There is not much excitement in his tone. Then again, he’s a teenager and I am not Jo Jo Turner. Or a guitar. Or a video game remote.

“Yeah,” I say, passing him the bags as I scratch at the back of my head, unprepared for this.

“I saw your mom at the diner, she mentioned working late and I said I was gonna come by, so I figured may as well bring you guys some food.” I swallow against the discomfort forming in my throat, because I can’t get a read on Rawley.

Is he annoyed I’m here? “Your mom told me what you guys like.” I nod to the bag. “Club with extra bacon,” I tell him.

He looks into the bag again, then pulls the door open, and gives me a singular nod of approval, I think. “Come in.”

I take a step inside, blinking a few times to let my eyes adjust to the sudden lack of light. It’s not bright outside, not at this time in the afternoon, but it’s certainly brighter out there than in here.

“Coach?” Tanner’s voice comes from a void in the room, and I can’t help but slide my hand up and down the wall, searching for a switch plate. Then I find one, and flip it on.

“Hey Coach,” Tanner yawns, lying shirtless on the couch, a baby blanket draped over part of his long legs. He reaches for the table next to him, and grabs the remote, flipping on the TV. He pushes himself up to sit, and pats the couch next to me as Rawley unloads clamshells from the food bags.

“Archie, get out here!” Rawley shouts, and as he unpacks and sorts out the food, I have a minute to take in the place.

Laundry covers nearly every surface, from piles on the floor, to items draped over the backs of chairs, to a simple pair of spurs and lassos underwear draped over the lampshade. There's a floor in this room, because the clothes have to be sitting on something, right?

“You guys playing the floor is lava?” I tease, my brows raised .

Tanner looks confused as he pops open his meal. “No, why?”

Rawley ignores me, instead turning the TV to some drama, one that apparently Archie likes.

“Arch, get out here and eat. I put your show on!”

On screen, a man in fatigues appears, a gun at his side.

He salutes another man, a civilian of sorts, I guess?

And a moment later— “gnarly,” Tanner chides around a mouthful of food as the soldier blows the head off the other man.

The head, CGI as all hell but still creepy, rolls down a ravine where a wolf claims it, running off with it by the tongue.

“This is Archie’s favorite show?” I ask, expecting a joke. But when he runs out, not even noticing I’m there because his focus is immediately on the screen, I realize, it’s no joke.

Rawley, mid bite, looks at me. “Don’t tell mom he watched this.”

I don’t have time to process that the boys are asking me to keep a secret, because Tanner thumps his fist into my thigh. “Thanks for the food, Coach.” He bites into his chicken tenders, spotting the other bag, the small one I didn’t pass to Rawley. “What’s in the bag?”

A commercial flashes across the screen, and it’s then that Archie turns, Reuben in his hands, and spots me. “Hiya, Coach,” he offers.

I lift a hand and say hello, impressed by the amount of Russian dressing already on his face after just a few bites. He smiles, then turns, and falls entranced by the psoriasis ad.

I pass Tanner the bag. “It’s your new jersey. The replacement. Your mom said–”

“Oh shit, Coach, that reminds me. Thanks for fixing my jersey. It looks so dope.” He extends his hand, and I clap mine to his. “I appreciate it.”

I’m not surprised by Tanner’s manners. I’ve always known Tanner Colt to be a good kid.

One of the best to come through my classroom and field.

But in contrast with so many other students I’ve come into contact with, it does always blow me away a little.

His maturity for his age is astounding, and I have to think that Clara June is the reason for that.

“He almost cried,” Rawley teases, and I notice that it’s just a light jest—not the mean, bullying way teenage brothers usually fight. There’s a certain respect there, one they have for one another, and maybe they don’t even know that’s what it is yet, but I can see it.

“For real,” Tanner says, shoving way too many french fries into his mouth.

“I brought you this, too,” I tell him, pulling the empty shadow box from the bag. “Thought you could put the original in it, and hang it. That way when you’re a famous football player, you have your first varsity jersey to show MTV Cribs when they come visit your mansion.”

At that, Tanner and Rawley both erupt into laughter. So much laughter that Rawley wipes at his eye, and I think for a split second, damn, I’m funny.

“ Cribs ? That’s like, retro TV, Coach,” Tanner finally says, shaking his head.

I shrug. “You get the idea.”

He smiles, their laughter fading as they refocus on food. “Yeah, I do. Thanks.”

“ Cribs ,” Rawley laughs. “Yeah, I’ll watch him on Cribs , just as soon as Three’s Company is over.”

“Totally different decades, not even the same thing,” I counter, but the boys just laugh. And I do, too.

Then I spot a glass perfume bottle, the liquid inside no longer a tame amber or pale pink, the way perfume is typically colored.

This perfume is… dark blue? With… “What's floating in that bottle?” I ask, a little bit of fear in my voice beca use— “Did it move?” I bend down, staring at the bottle, gold letters in cursive telling me it’s something called J’Adore.

Something inside that bottle definitely moves.

Archie turns, abandoning the violent TV drama to face me. His little blue eyes narrow, prodding me like a bayonet. “You didn’t see nothin’,” he warns, his voice fierce as it can be for five years old.

Rawley presses a fist to his lips to prevent his laughter from spilling over.

Tanner nudges me. “You heard the man.”

I raise my hands and show Archie my palms in complicit innocence. “I didn’t see anything.”