“You do not need to thank me, Chase. You’re such a dork.”
“Your dork,” I correct, and she laughs and it feels like the best sound in the world.
We stay like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the world outside this room fading away. For the first time since Mama knocked on my door this morning, I don’t feel the weight of why we’re here and what I have to do tomorrow pressing down on me.
Serena lifts her head, hair falling over my chest. “I meant what I said, Chase. Whatever happens, I’m here. I’ll always be here for you. With weather reports, trashy movies, cheesy pop songs, and burgers. Whatever you need, I’ve got you.”
My throat squeezes shut. I can’t speak as I drop a kiss to her lips.
I hold her tighter, letting the silence wrap around us like a blanket. I want to tell her how much she means to me. I want to tell her that last night wasn’t just sex and the blurred line of fake dating. It meant something to me. It means everything. I want to explain how terrified I am of hurting her, but that I can’t imagine her not being by my side. I want to tell her this is it for me. That I love her.
But the words lodge in my throat, tangled in the wounds of my past I’m no longer sure will ever heal.
TWENTY-EIGHT
CHASE
MAMA:Leanna’s landlord will be waiting for you this morning.
MAMA:I love you, Chase. Please don’t forget that!
CHASE:Mama, what’s going on? You don’t text!
MAMA:I do when it’s important and you don’t answer your phone.
CHASE:Mama just sent me a message.
DYLAN:She got Madison to show her how.
JAKE:Jeez, she must be worried. You OK?
CHASE:Yeah. Serena is here. It’s weird. Not sure how I feel to be honest.
JAKE:Don’t go blaming yourself for stuff you had no control over. You do that on the field and it’s dumb.
CHASE:Is that your pep talk?
JAKE:More like a big brother threatening to kick your ass for being stupid.
DYLAN:Make that two of us!
I throw the truck into park and we climb out onto a run-down street. The air is heavy with exhaust fumes and the faint tang of something fried from a fast-food place down the block. The sidewalk is damp from last night’s rain and there’s litter in the gutters. The apartment block in front of us is dull concrete with peeling window frames and a metal door at the entrance. There’s a chill to the air as I step around the hood of my truck. Beside me, Serena pulls her jacket tight around her. I follow her gaze to the sky, where low-hanging clouds stretch in a blanket of gray.
“They’re not going to rain,” she says before I can ask. “Just brooding.”
A squat man with thick, red hair and a windbreaker several sizes too large waves at us from the entrance to the building. “Chase Sullivan, I’m Kenny,” he says as we approach, holding out his hand for me to shake and speaking like he’s halfway through a conversation I didn’t know we were having. “I meet all sorts in my job, and I take people as they are. But if I’m honest, I didn’t believe Leanna when she said she was your mother. I thought it was a harmless fantasy, but here you are in the flesh. The famous quarterback for the Denver Stormhawks. It’s a real pleasure to meet you.”
I force a polite nod as I grip his hand, trying not to let it show how much his words have affected me. I never imagined Leanna telling people about me.
The entrance door is stiff, and it takes a firm yank before it’s open and Kenny is leading us up a narrow flight of stairs that creak underfoot. “I left some boxes in there for you,” he says, stopping at a door on the second floor. “I’ve got a meeting down the street. I’ll leave you to it. Take your time.” He hands Serena the key and heads off without waiting for a reply.
Serena glances at me, a question in her eyes. She’s asking me if I’m ready for this. I’m not. The apartment is small but clean, and nicer than I expected based on the outside. Sunlight slants through half-closed blinds, dust motes dancing in the air. There are fresh white walls, a worn, comfortable-looking couch, a bookshelf with mismatched spines and carefully arranged photo frames. There are plants on the windowsill. It’s clear, someone cared for this space. The ache in my chest is sudden and unwelcome.
I move to look at the photo frames on the bookshelf. The last face I expect to find staring back is my own. But there I am, in every photo. The first six are from when I was little, before Leanna left me with Mama. A swaddled baby, a laughing infant sitting in a pram. Then a jump forward in time to photos from a local Denver newspaper, detailing a high school win. Then photos of me playing college football. Professional shots taken on media day. Me holding up the white jersey when I was drafted to the Kansas City Trailblazers. The final photo is from last year, me in my red Stormhawks jersey. Every single photo is framed in a simple light wood and clean. No layer of dust.
On the bottom shelf are thick albums. I slide one out, expecting to find a clue as to who my mom was, what she did with her time after she left me. But what I find is a scrapbook. Dozens of pages filled with newspaper clippings,printed screenshots, photos of me at every stage of my career, all neatly cut out and stuck down. There’s even a blurry shot of me from the sideline of a college game, the caption clipped from a local blog. My name highlighted in yellow. Pieces about me I didn’t even know existed. I pull out the next album. And the next. They’re all the same.
“Wow,” Serena says softly behind me. “That’s a lot of you.”