Page 25

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

CLARA JUNE

I think I have whiplash from the emotional rollercoaster I’ve been riding tonight.

Earlier, I’d called Rawley to make sure he got dinner (ahem, freezer pizza) going for him and his brothers, and that Archie took a bath.

He told me they were eating and I was surprised that Rawl didn't need to be reminded.

Getting home, I found food in the fridge with my name on it—along with a note.

Clara June,

I’m sure the last thing you want to eat after a day at Goode’s is Goode’s, but I grabbed the boys their favorites—thanks for telling me—and got yours too. Hope the grilled cheese is still good reheated.

Dean

It was at that point my heart melted, the liquid remnants of it slipping through my insides, finally coming to pool in my groin.

Unadulterated heat burned between my legs.

Dean came over here to check on Tanner, as promised, and brought a meal.

I pressed my hand to my heart right there in the kitchen with the fridge light illuminating my worn work sneakers, just to feel how hard it was pumping from excitement.

Now, staring at my uneaten grilled cheese and to-go container of tomato soup, it hits me.

Dean brought food because he came over to see Tanner.

Dean was in this house.

Dean saw the inside of this house.

Cue the horror.

I rush down the hall and push open Rawley’s door—which I don’t recommend because any time you open a teenager’s door without knocking you’re running the risk of walking in on something unseeable. “Coach McAllister came by?”

He pushes his Playstation headset off of one ear. “Yeah, he brought food. Brought Tanner a jersey. Checked his homework and stuff.” His eyes never leave his screen. “One outside, one outside!” he grunts into his tiny microphone.

“Rawley, focus.” My heart is racing just imagining what he must think.

This house looks like a bomb went off. No, it looks like a bomb went off, and inside that bomb was another one hundred small bombs that were full of stinky kid socks and popsicle wrappers, and those detonated, too.

I was a little behind a few weeks ago, and had planned on catching up with the laundry and everything else.

But then Tanner got hurt, and the car, and—I take a deep breath and exhale.

Dean is just Tanner’s coach. He’s nice. And he did a nice thing. But beyond that, I shouldn’t worry about him seeing our messy house. I snatch two bath towels off the ground in his room. “Did you keep Archie away from the washing machine?”

Unexpectedly, Rawley does a double take, and his attention remains on me as he pulls off his headset and swivels away from his desk to face me. “Actually, Coach McAllister fixed it while he was here.”

My heart leaps into my throat and for a moment, my vision blurs. “What?”

He nods, leaning back in his chair, propping two size ten feet onto the edge of his desk.

“When he came over, it came up that it was broken and he offered to take a look at it. He actually showed me how to fix it, if Archie puts the wrong soap in it again.” Rawley wears a proud smile, a smile I haven't seen on him in a while.

“It was cool learning how to fix it. It was cool he showed me.”

I just stare at my son, trying to process this new bit of information. “What?”

Rawley sinks forward, the legs of his chair hitting the ground with a thud, his feet, too. “You just said that. ”

I shake my head, pushing damp strands of hair back from my face. I’m still sweaty from the diner, but the truth is, thinking about Dean and everything he’s done, my body temperature has spiked. “Coach McAllister and you fixed the washing machine together?”

Rawley nods. “Yeah.” Then he launches into the required update. “Tanner didn’t need a muscle relaxer tonight, so he took Tylenol. Archie took a bath, too.”

I step toward my oldest boy, and sift my fingers through the ends of his shiny dark hair. “Thank you, Rawl. I appreciate it.”

He nods. “I’m going to Jo Jo’s after school on Friday. I’ve been babysitting all week. The Turner’s got a pizza oven. I’m going,” he asserts, and I nod.

“Okay.” I kiss his head. “Game off by eleven. It’s a school night.”

He nods and I close the door behind me, check on the other two boys, and slip into my bedroom. Tomorrow is my first day off that doesn’t involve picking up a vehicle or being sick, so tomorrow I can worry about catching up on laundry and chaos. Tonight?

I lock my bedroom door and dig my phone from my purse before flopping across my bed on my belly, and sending a text to the number on the business card. The number which I memorized immediately.

Thank you so much for what you did tonight

I’ll be up for another two hours or so, if you still wanted to call

I’m about to lock my phone… when it rings.

“You’ve got me on the edge of my seat, here, Clara June,” Dean laughs, his deep voice rattling through me with each word.

I’m telling him about the first time Archie broke an appliance. It wasn’t the washing machine but the microwave, and I’ll never forget the smell. “He was trying to shrink one of his toys because he believed the name micro meant it was a machine to make things miniature.”

Dean laughs again, and every time he does, my heart leaps behind my ribs. It's such a nice laugh, genuine and happy. I love it. I could listen to it every day. “I suppose that does make some sense,” he offers in defense of then-three-year-old Archie’s choice.

“Long story short, those little army men, they don’t get any smaller but they do catch on fire.”

He laughs again, and I roll onto my back, settling my head on the pillows.

I glance at my phone. Seventeen minutes and twenty three seconds and counting.

I feel like a teenage girl getting giddy at the fact we’ve been talking so long.

“I wouldn’t have expected fire. Melting, yes, but fire… that’s interesting.”

“Oh it melted, and the puddle caught flames,” I explain, remembering that morning in my mind very well.

Rawley had the stomach bug, and Tanner was all out of whack over some missing Pokemon card, and Archie was oblivious to the chaos and proceeded to attempt army man miniaturization.

“Needless to say, our microwave is only two years old.”

“He watched us fix the washer, and brought your tool kit, too. He was a good little sidekick to his brother,” Dean says, the laughter draining from his voice, a tenderness taking over.

I lick my lips and watch the ceiling fan spin lazy circles for a moment before answering. My throat is suddenly dry. “Thanks again for fixing it. I mean, I’m absolutely mortified that you saw our house like that, but really Coach McAllister, I appreciate it.”

“It was nothing. And like I said, Rawley helped a ton. Truth be told, should Archie do it again, I think Rawley could handle the fix on his own,” he says.

I can’t help but picture the three of them crouched by the machine, Dean showing Rawley what to do as Archie stands by, his little hands on his hips the way he always does.

Warmth rushes through me at the thought of it.

We’ve spent most of this phone call talking about the boys—starting with Dean telling me that Tanner was happy to receive his new jersey, and that he’d given him the shadowbox if he wanted to frame his old one.

That turned into football talk, which led Dean to ask me why Rawley never played ball, and before I knew it, I’d explained each of my son’s sport preferences from the time they were three until now.

I clear my throat, and bring myself to ask about how Tanner’s doing in his recovery, in his opinion as my son’s coach.

Because I know, wonderful conversation and playful banter aside, that this is why Coach McAllister asked to talk to me tonight.

It wasn’t to hear my kids' life stories or to find out how my day was—he’s a sweet man, but he’s calling about his player .

“So,” I start, holding the phone to my ear with one hand, using the other to smooth through the cool, unmade sheets on my bed. “We should probably get to Tanner. How do you think his recovery is going?”

He doesn’t reply for a moment, and I wonder if Tanner is recovering slower than he’d hoped? He’s off of the muscle relaxers, and moving around with more ease than before. Still, he has a mandatory three weeks left of recovery. A lot can happen in three weeks.

“Did you want my opinion on Tanner’s recovery?” he asks, and this question temporarily stumps me. Not because I don’t want to know what he thinks about his star player’s recovery, but because he seems confused that I brought it up. And now I’m confused, too.

“I—well,” I start, pushing up on the bed to lean my head against the wall. “I thought that’s why you wanted to talk tonight. To update me on your assessment of Tanner’s recovery.”

More silence, and my palms grow clammy with nervous sweat.

“Tanner’s recovering really well. He’s doing great.

And I’m sure you know this but, he’s way ahead on his schoolwork.

He could use some help with his history paper, but he’s doing really great, Clara June,” Dean says, but there’s a lift in his tone, like there’s more he wants to say, but not about Tanner.

“Good,” I say decidedly, nodding my head even though he can’t see me. “That’s good.”

Dean laughs lightly. “It is good. But updating you on Tanner isn’t why I asked you if I could call tonight.”

My heart is beating so hard that stars explode in my periphery, and I swallow against the knot of excitement in my throat. “No? ”

“Clara June, I wanted to talk to you.” He takes pause, and all I can hear is my pulse in my ears, hammering away. “I’d like to get to know you better, but only if you’d like that, too.”

“You… want to get to know me ?”

There’s no soft chuckle, no pause to buy time, no hesitancy. “Yes. I do.” Then, “if you want to.”

Like a bride wearing white, I can’t help but reply quickly and eagerly, not even caring if he knows I’m either. “I do.”