19. Wes

NINETEEN

I swallowthe bile in my throat as I drive away from Nora.

I hate leaving her like that, knowing she has questions, but just the thought of saying what I'm thinking aloud – whatever that is – is terrifying. Especially to someone who wouldn't fully understand. So I keep it hidden, push it down deep inside of me until I'm forced to deal with it. Like right now.

Meeting up with my dad was the very last thing I wanted to do today, but I need to suck it up. I've come to the point where I actually want to hear him out. There's no point in dancing around it now since it's not getting us anywhere. I'm sick of feeling angry all the time. Sick of feeling useless and like I've not been doing enough for both the team and my mom. So, I push down the resentment I have towards my dad and drive to my old house.

Everything about being here doesn't sit right with me. The porch that we'd vandalize with chalk is plain, and it's losing its color. The front yard is empty. There's not a football in sight, and the tree I spent so many years trying to climb looks sad and abandoned.

Worst of all? When I walk into the house to find my dad in the living room, a part of me feels bad for not being here. For shutting him out. For being the stubborn idiot that I am because he looks sad. I thought he had always looked like a young parent despite his age, but when I look at him, I no longer see the guy who pushed me on the swings or taught me how to kick a football. He looks like the world has torn him down, pulled him apart, and turned into someone I don't recognize.

We've been sitting in silence for almost five minutes before he blurts out, "We need to talk about your performance."

I don't get to control the laugh that escapes me. He shakes his head before reaching for the glass of bourbon in front of him, taking a long swig. "Are you fucking serious? Did you really call me over here so we can talk about football?"

My dad doesn't meet my gaze. He stares straight ahead, thinking as if he needs to choose his next words carefully. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I can tell when you're not doing well, son, and I want the best for you," he says slowly. He's talking to me like he's a saint. Like I'm a child, and he knows so much better than I do. That's all bullshit.

"You don't want that, Dad. You wouldn't have cheated on your wife with the assistant coach if you did. Unless that was somehow in my best interest," I argue. My hands are balled into fists on my knees, itching for them to do something. To grab something. Break something. To do literally anything to get this anger out of my body.

He turns to me. His eyes are bloodshot. His hair is graying a lot more than it was a few months ago, and there are hard lines etched across his face as if he's had his mouth in a permanent frown. "You want to do this right now?"

My eyes flash. "Yes, I want to do this right now because we're never going to have this fucking conversation if we keep dancing around it."

He takes in a deep breath, his eyes still on mine. His gaze feels scrutinizing. Like he can see right through me and pick out everything that I'm thinking. I fucking hate it. "What do you want to know?"

"Why?"

He reels back. "What?"

"Why did you cheat?" I ask, clarifying my question. My jaw ticks, and I try my hardest to reign myself in. "What was so wrong with mom, huh? She gave everything to you. She gave up her life for you. For us. And you threw it all down the drain for what? For a few moments reliving your glory days?"

Again, he takes his time to answer. He swishes around the drink in his glass, looking down at it before drinking some. "Your mom and I were growing apart," he says matter-of-factly. His tone is so even and sure.

"That's bullshit," I mutter.

"It's true. Ask her."

"I don't believe you."

He sighs. "We were having problems, Wes. You knew that. Which is why Thanksgiving and Christmas were hard last year. You knew that."

I try to keep track of my memories from last year. I know they were arguing more often than before. I just thought it was because my dad was so busy with work, and my mom had a million deadlines to meet. I shake my head, not wanting to think about the times I was away from my dorm and had to sit through painful dinners with my parents. "T-That wasn't to do with you. That was because of–"

"It was to do with us. We didn't tell you because you didn't need to know. You were busy with school and football, and we weren't going to load all of our problems onto you," he explains.

"So you cheated on her? That doesn't make any fucking sense. From…" I stop, remembering the night I found the messages on my dad's phone. The day I drank myself stupid to try to forget it. "Those messages were going on for years."

He takes another generous sip, shrugging lazily as if this doesn't mean anything to him. Maybe it doesn't. Maybe he's just as heartless as they come, and his excuse for cheating is that he was having problems with his wife instead of communicating like a normal fucking person.

"Maybe we were just good at hiding our problems from you. God knows we've been doing it for years," he says, his voice low and gruff. "Do you want to know why?" I just stare at him. "Because you wouldn't be able to handle it. You walk around with this idea that everything is going to be perfect and things will always work out, but the truth is, Wes, they just don't. And every time we try to prove that to you, you have a meltdown. Look how well that"s been going since you found out about this."

I swallow. Hard. "What are you talking about?"

His head drops to the space between us. "Football, Wes."

"My performance has nothing to do with you and Mom," I say, which is only half true. Maybe what has happened has slightly contributed to this weird something that is in my chest. This annoying ache that won't leave me alone. I shrug one shoulder, ready to rip off the bandaid. "I don't think football is for me anymore."

I was half expecting my dad to stand up, push me against the wall, and banish me from the house. I grew up on football. It's always been the main hobby in my life, and I've never stepped in any other direction. Maybe I'm missing out on something good because I'm so used to following what is expected of me. But he doesn't do that. His gaze lifts to mine, and his eyes narrow. And for once, it doesn't feel like he's ready to lecture me or tell me to get my act together.

"What makes you think that?" he asks. His voice is gentle and soft. Reminding me of what he used to be like. Of what I used to look up to.

"I don't feel like I used to when I play," I admit.

Again, with his annoying as fuck soft voice, he asks, "And why's that?"

I roll my eyes. "Come on, this isn't some fucking up family therapy session. I just don't enjoy it, okay? I haven't for a while, way before any of this shit was going on. And maybe I've been too afraid to tell you that I want to quit because of how hard we've trained and how much…" My voice trails off when something catches in my throat. "How much you believe in me."

My dad blinks at me for a second. "I wouldn't want you to do something you don't enjoy."

His words are supposed to cure everything. They're supposed to heal the wound I've let get infected for months, but nothing happens. I still feel numb. Empty. Like I've got this big gaping hole in my chest, and nothing is ever going to be able to fill it again.

"Okay," is all I manage to get out.

"Okay?"

"Yes, okay. Now, what am I supposed to do? I told you how I feel, now what? How do I get back? How do I feel something that isn't fucking sadness or anger? I'm sick of it," I bite out, feeling truly and utterly lost. No road makes sense to me. No vision of my life looks clear. And I need it too. Badly. Desperately.

"I can't just hand that over to you. It doesn't work like that. If I could, I would, Wes," he says. "You navigating how you feel about football and your career, whatever that may be, is something you need to find. I can't push you because, clearly, that didn't work the first time. And I know you're angry with me and at the situation, and I am in no position to tell you what you can and can't do. You're… You're on your own, kid."

His words feel like a brick being thrown through my chest. It feels like my body is caving in on itself. I did not expect to have an existential crisis today. I reserve those for weekends or a long shower.

Suddenly, everything I had once envisioned for my life didn't exist. Everything that I do is constantly going to get messed up, and I'm never going to get anywhere with my life. Maybe I was born to just fuck everything up and have no real purpose than be the friend people lean on, the person people come to when they need some comedic relief because, beyond that, I'm nothing.

The words don't leave my mind on the entire ride back to my house. Music doesn't help, like usual. There's just a constant buzzing sound in my head. A constant reminder that I'm going to become a failure. A reminder that this feeling is going to last forever. The only thing that calms me is the sound of heavy rainfall on the hood of the car.

I step out of the car, my hands and legs shaking as if I've just run a marathon as the harsh raindrops beat down on me. I need a hot shower and to faceplant into my bed. Human interaction is the last thing on my mind, so when I hear the soft sound of Jarvis meowing in the yard, I welcome the distraction. I bet Connor left a window open, and this fucker has managed to get outside again. It's only when I listen closer that his meows sound more distressed and… higher up.

The automatic lights in the yard turn on, and when I look up at the massive tree, there Jarvis is, casually sitting in the tree in all his glory. Of course, today is going to get worse. The poor cat grips onto the tree branch for dear life, his fur completely drenched in the rain.

"Jarvis," I call up to him, thinking he'd respond. Of course, he doesn't. He's a stubborn idiot, and he's dumb enough to get himself killed. He's only got one eye, for God's sake. He's clearly not the sharpest tool in the shed. "Get down, boy. I'll even let you play with the laser if you do."

He doesn't budge.

I consider the option of climbing the tree myself. It's tall enough to reach the second-story window where the bathroom is, but too tall for me to climb. I don't have the traits of a cat to be able to grip onto the tree the way Jarvis has. The last time I checked, we didn't have a ladder long enough to reach him.

I try to encourage him to get down again. I'm practically choking on the amount of rain that is pouring down on me. "Come on, Jar-Jar. You can't stay up there all night."

He doesn't move or even meow in response. He just grips the tree tighter when the wind shakes it, and he lets out a distressed cry. The noise almost breaks me. I'm having a shit day as it is, and the last thing I need is for something to happen to him. If anything happened, I'd never forgive myself.

As I'm about to say fuck it and climb the tree, the door swings open.

"Wes? What are you doing?" Nora's soft voice forces me to take a deep breath. I face to look at her and she's still wearing the same outfit she was earlier. Skin-tight jeans and a sweatshirt. The only difference is that her cute hairstyle from before is now a mess as if she's been rolling around or something.

"What are you still doing here?" I ask, shouting over the relentless wind.

"I fell asleep when I was watching a movie with Cat and Connor. They let me sleep on the couch." That explains the messy hair. "What are you doing?"

I sigh. "Jarvis is stuck, and I… I can't get him down."

"Just call a firefighter or something. Come inside. You're going to get sick." She's shivering just by being in the doorway and I fight the urge to just shove her back inside to where I know she'll be warm.

"Thanks for the concern, Sunshine, but he's my cat, and I'm going to get him down. I can't– I can't just leave him."

She steps out of the door, and I hold my hand up to her, making sure she stays put. "Wes."

"Just go back inside, Nora." I don't mean to sound harsh or rude, but it comes off that way, and the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. She flinches, but she listens, taking a step back. I feel like the biggest asshole, but the last thing I want is to drag her into my shit with me. "Please."

"Okay," she says quietly. She glances up to the tree and then back down to me. "Okay."

After she shuts the door, I spend the next ten minutes freezing my ass off, trying to get this dumbass down from the tree. Maybe this is my calling. Maybe this is what I was made to do. I was made to try to convince my cat to jump into my arms by bribing him with all of his favorite things. Even that isn't going well. I need to do this one thing right. Just one thing.

When I've had enough of standing in the rain, moving around the tree, I run up into the house and to the bathroom window. He's still closer to the spine of the tree than the window, but it's worth a shot. I crack open the window as best I can, trying to move the smaller branches out of the way. I call his name a few times, urging him to get closer to me. Why the fuck is this so hard? He's supposed to trust me. He's supposed to want to come to me for safety. I'm supposed to be his beacon, and he's holding on to the branch, frightened as fuck as if I told him we're out of treats.

"Come on, buddy, you're killing me here," I shout, my voice wobbling from the cold. I'm pretty sure I have hypothermia by now. Jarvis just meows in response, but it's louder than before. "Come on. You can do it, Jar. I believe in you, okay?"

As if he can understand my words of encouragement, he slowly starts to shuffle a bit closer. He's still gripping onto the branch with all his legs, but he's making sure progress towards me.

"That's it," I coo. "You're almost there, Jar."

He continues moving. Just a tiny bit further, and I'll be able to reach out and pull him in. For both of our sakes, I hope he doesn't look down because even from the safety of the house, this height is terrifying. He keeps scooting and I finally reach out and pull him inside. I shut the window, blocking out the cold as I pull him to me.

"Jesus Christ, bud. You gave me a fucking heart attack," I sigh, pulling his cold body into mine. He nuzzles his chubby cheek into my chest, and I think that's his version of a thank you.

I place him down into the bathtub and do my very best to clean him up. Bath time is the worst with this one, but he seems to have learned his lesson and doesn't put up much of a fight. Once he's all washed and dried, I crack open the bathroom door and let him wander out. I follow behind him to go to my room to pick out some clean clothes until I bump into Nora.

"Jesus, woman," I mutter, pulling apart from her.

She just blinks up at me. Her eyes are dark and serious. I don't know why she didn't just go back to sleep when she went into the house. I didn't even bother to look in the living room when I came up to the bathroom. I just want today to be over with.

"What's going on, Wes?" Her voice is quiet within the silence of the house.

"Nothing."

I try to turn away from her, ready to go to my room and sleep, but she stops me. Her small hand rests on my damp cheek, and she lifts her head up to mine. I'm a few inches taller than her, so I have to crane my neck to look at her as she whispers. "Don't lie to me. You don't have to hide from me."

That's what does it.

Those words.

Those eyes.

That mouth.

I shake my head, but she only holds on to me tighter. "I'm just so fucking tired, Nor. Like, my brain is just exhausted."

Nora's mouth lifts. "I know. Being a cat dad is hard."

I narrow my eyes. "No, I mean–"

"I know what you mean," she says, laughing slightly. "You don't have to be perfect all the time, Wes, or feel like you have things together. That's impossible. Life is messy. Sometimes, things don't work out, or you lose your head a little and get into a dark place. I saw the look on your face when you left earlier, and I didn"t say anything, but I've been beating myself up about it since you left." She shakes her head this time as if she needs to clear her thoughts. "When you get into a dark place, you've got to let the light in."

The tightness in my chest slowly starts to deflate. "That's what you are, Nora. The light."

I can't tell if she laughs or cries, but her arms are around my middle in an instant. She presses her head to my chest, and I can't help but hug her back. I hold her so close to me that it fucking hurts. My arms tighten around her as if she's the anchor weighing me down. As if she holds the answer to every problem I'll ever have. As if she just gets it. Gets me.

"You're going to get sick," I murmur, swallowing the lump in my throat as she snuggles her head deeper into my chest.

She sighs deeply. "Don't care."

I don't know how long we stay like that, just tangled up in each other, but it feels glorious. For a minute, I forget about everything that happened today. I forget about my dad and the team and football and my future. I forget about the noise in my head, and I'm only left with her. She clears my thoughts just by existing in my orbit.

I don't know which one of us pulls apart, but one of us does, and I clear my throat. "I was going to take a shower, but you can, uh, you can use it if you want? I didn't mean to get you wet." Her eyes sparkle. "Not like that. I mean–"

"Sure you didn't, big guy," she jokes. I let out a laugh, and she shakes her head. "I don't have any clothes here."

"You can wear something of mine."

Her head quirks as if she's thinking about questioning me on what I just suggested, but she thinks better of it. "Yeah, okay."

"I'll grab you a towel and some fresh clothes from my room," I say, and she nods, just standing there in the hallway. I turn to walk back before turning back around. "Oh, and bring your stuff from downstairs. You're sleeping in my room tonight."

She blinks at me. "What?"

I shrug. "I can't have my girlfriend sleeping on the couch."

I sweargirls take their sweet time when they're in the shower. She must be having a fucking pamper party in there because, by the time I'm in and out of the ensuite, she's still in the bathroom down the hall, humming softly.

Part of me thinks she's stalling so she doesn't have to sleep in the same room as me. We've slept in the same bed before. A lot of the time, we're drunk, and it's never a big deal. But me invitingher to sleep in my bed is a big deal. I don't like the thought of her sleeping on the couch when I'm dozing off on my king-sized mattress. It's just not fair. It's the gentlemanly thing to do. The friendly thing to do.

"Okay, don't laugh at me." I hear Nora's voice from the other side of my door.

"Why would I laugh?"

"Because you have ugly pyjamas," she grumbles.

"I'll have you know they were a great Secret Santa present from Sam," I say proudly. She huffs out a disbelieving laugh before she slowly pushes the door open. My jaw hangs open. "Holy shit."

The set she's wearing was indeed a gift from one of my teammates from a few years back. The white pants she's wearing have cut-out pictures of my gorgeous face on them, and the top is the same. They're a few sizes too big for her, and she's tried to roll up the pants, but she just looks ridiculous. Her hair is tied up into a messy bun, and it looks damp which could explain what was taking her so long. I don't think I've ever seen her look hotter. Which says a lot more about me than it does her.

"I told you not to laugh." She sulks, stalking towards me. I flip open the left side of the bed so she can get in.

"Oh, I'm not laughing, Sunshine. Trust me," I say, biting the inside of my cheek. She just rolls her eyes at me before she reluctantly slips in the bed. The big light is already off, so when she slips in beside me, the orange glow from my lamp gives her this whole dreamy look like she isn't real. Sometimes I don't think she is. As she makes herself comfortable, I get a whiff of her shampoo. Or… "Did you use my shampoo?"

She presses her lips together, her cheeks heating. "I had to take my chance to figure out why your hair is so soft."

I wish I could tease her about it, but all I can think about is Nora Bailey in my shower, using my shampoo on her hair. I adjust to lay on my back, letting out a noncommittal "Huh."

She turns to me. "You do know you could have let me sleep on the couch, right?"

"I know," I say, still looking at the ceiling.

"Then why didn't you?" I open my mouth to respond, but she cuts me off. "And don't say it's because of the whole fake dating thing."

"Fine," I bite out. "I just want you close to me. Is that a crime?"

"No," she giggles. I can feel her wiggling under the covers. She still manages to be chaotic even when she's sleeping. "It's like we're having a sleepover."

"An adult sleepover," I say, and I turn to wink at her. She scoffs, turning her back to me. Lucky for her, I just get another smell of the shampoo and my body wash that makes her feel like mine.

"You're disgusting," she mutters, and I can just tell she's smiling.

I turn my back to her, too, staring at the blank wall. Just knowing that she's in my bed with me relaxes the nerves in my stomach. I settle in the moment for a second, and when a thought pops into my mind, I hope she hasn't fallen asleep.

"Hey, Nora?"

She shifts under the sheets. She lets out a soft snort as she mocks, "Hey, Wes."

"Ryan's an idiot."

"What?"

"Ryan's an idiot, Nora," I manage to say, my voice low and quiet. "If I had you, I'd never let you go."

She's quiet for a beat. The silence stretches over us, and I feel like I've said the wrong thing. I know her brain is over analyzing everything I just said, and all she says is, "Oh."

"Yeah, oh," I tease, shaking my head to get rid of whatever stupid thing I was about to say next. Instead, I settle on the only sane response. The friendly thing to say.

"Goodnight, Sunshine."

"Goodnight, Wes."