24 - Hand in Hand

24

Hand in Hand

" U ncle Ziah!"

Isaiah beams and catches Joey upon entering. Even Zaza hugs him first. I look over their tiny heads to Kian. "What am I? Chopped liver?"

Kian snorts. "Welcome to my world." Sophia appears behind him, hitting him upside the back of the head. "Ouch. Why am I being punished for telling the truth?"

I laugh and lean over to where Joey is holding onto Isaiah like she's never going to let him go. Me, too, girl. I get it , I think to myself. "Hiya, gorgeous," I say and place a big kiss on her cheek. She giggles, and I lean down and wrap up my mini me.

Zaza fights a smile because, you know, she's a ten-year-old and can't be bothered, but she fails. "There it is. How are we today?"

"Good! We made cookies earlier."

I raise my brows. "Cookies? Take me!"

Zaza happily does so, leading me down the hallway. When I pass Kian, I pat his chest. "Guess you're the only one left on the chopping block."

"This is outrageous." Kian sighs and enters the kitchen behind us. Mom is there, sitting at the counter. I lift Zaza up onto the stool and go over to hug my mom.

"Hi, sweetie. How are you doing?"

"Getting there."

Mom nods, blonde strands falling out of her haphazard bun. Her face warms when Isaiah walks in. Joey is still hanging on, but that doesn't stop him from walking over to my mom. "Hi, Miss Lindsey."

Mom stands up to wrap him in a big hug. "It's good to have you back."

Isaiah meets my eyes, and I give him a soft smile. "It's good to be back," he says, never taking his eyes off me. To my right, Kian places his hands on his hips and mouths, "Just friends ?", and then fake gags.

I flip him off and turn on my heel, heading next to Sophia. Instantly, I rest my head on her shoulder. "Whatcha doing?"

"I was trying to knead this bread, but now, you're on top of me," she says, and I stick my tongue out and quickly hit her cheek with it. Sophia doesn't even flinch. "You're disgusting."

"You act like that bothers you. Look at who you're married to."

Sophia snorts, patting my cheek. "You make a good point."

"Do you need any help?"

My sister shakes her head. "No. Kian's got the grill going, and everything should be done soon. Would you mind getting juice out for the girls though?"

"Got it." I skate around the kitchen, while Kian and Isaiah play with the girls. My heart does a little tug and pull inside my chest at the sight. He wasn't just missing from my life; he was missing from everyone's, and it's nice how easily he fits back in.

A knock on the door grabs my attention. "Who is that?"

Mom and Sophia share a look, and my stomach drops. "I'll get it," Mom says, practically running out of the kitchen.

"Soph."

She swallows, kneading the bread like her life depends on it and avoiding my eyes. "Please don't hate me."

"Why?"

"It was mostly Mom's idea. I just…went along with it. We figured the only way to get you two to speak was if we put you in the same room."

My lips flatten. I know they mean well, but I wanted to come here and not think about him, or the game, or anything of substance, and now, I don't have a choice. I sense Isaiah's gaze on my skin.

"Do you hate me?" Sophia asks.

I rub a hand over my forehead. "No. But I'm not happy."

Sophia frowns but doesn't push. I go and stand by Isaiah, my hand tightly wrapped around my own glass of orange juice. Kian gives a wide-eyed look over the room, where tension is buzzing like a live wire.

He tosses a thumb over his shoulder. "I'm gonna go check on the grill. Yeah… I'll be outside if you need me." I snort as he practically runs out of the room.

Isaiah leans down, placing his chin on my shoulder and placing a kiss on my neck under the curtain of my hair. "You okay?"

"I am right now. Can't say that'll be the case in a few minutes."

He squeezes my waist twice. "Say the word and we'll leave."

The sound of the front door closing grabs Joey and Zaza's attention, and they light up when they see their grandfather down the hall. Their little footfalls echo over the floor as they quickly exit the kitchen.

"Oof! Look how big you've gotten. I barely recognize you," my dad says, still not in my view. He does this every time he sees them, and it never fails to bring a laugh out of Joey. Zaza's getting harder to impress by the day. Dad comes in carrying both the girls with a big grin on his face.

He's so good with kids and so bad…with the rest of us.

As expected, his smile drops when he sees me. "Lindsey." His eyes land on my mom, who is unfazed. They may be friendly, but she has long stopped giving a shit about offending him.

"Work it out, Matthews." Mom finds her spot in the kitchen with Sophia, checking on what I hope is Sophia's lasagna.

Dad sets the kids down, encouraging them to go back to what they were doing, and approaches us. "Isaiah." He holds out his hand, and Isaiah shakes his hand in return firmly, but I see the reluctance. "Good to see you, young man. You doing alright?"

Isaiah pockets his hand, standing staggered behind me, our shoulders touching. "Doing good, sir. Best as I can."

Dad looks at me, his eyes completely unreadable. "Talk outside?"

"Sure." I clear my throat and follow him out to the porch. The porch where Kian is lying flat on his back in the sun. "Kian."

He jumps up, sheepishly smiling. "Nice to see you, sir."

Dad chuckles. "You, too. We're gonna talk out here, if you don't mind."

Kian holds up his hands. "Not at all. Have the whole yard if you need it." My brother-in-law gives me a kiss on the cheek as he passes. He's all too aware of what these conversations look like, how these fights go.

"You wanted to talk?"

I frown, crossing my arms. "I didn't ask for them to invite you here. I certainly didn't want to do this today."

"So, then why are we?" Dad looks bored. Like he'd rather be doing anything else than acknowledge he has done something wrong.

"You literally just asked if we could talk outside, but somehow, this is my choice?" I huff. The laugh that seeps out of my mouth is dry. "What is your problem?"

"I don't have a problem, Aurora."

Exhaling, I will the fury tightening my chest to leave. There is nothing and no one else that can hit my anger like a light switch. I don't know if it's the indifference or the blasé attitude, but I can't take it. He knows exactly what buttons to push and pushes them even more when he acts like he has no idea what he's doing. Like if he can manipulate people into being angrier, he's proven to himself that he's right.

And I lose it. "You have got to be fucking kidding me."

Dad's eyes snap to mine.

"How do you do this?" I wave my hand between us. "How do you walk around like nothing's bothering you? Like nothing is wrong?"

He fucking shrugs. "Never said nothing was wrong. You haven't called, haven't come to the house."

"Why would I have called you? I asked you to tell me that you're proud of me. Not my accomplishments, not what I do, who I am . And you said nothing. Better yet, then I get selected for the National Team. And you said nothing. Then, I got hurt. And you said nothing. Not as my dad and not as my coach. What am I supposed to do with that? Beg you to give a shit?" My eyes prick with hot anger.

"I'm not asking you to do that." He rocks back and forth on his feet, exhaling. "You know, I only ever wanted what's best for you. Didn't know that was a problem."

It's like talking to a brick wall, though I'd prefer that.

I scoff. "You know, that may be partially true, but you don't just want what's best for me. You want and have always wanted for me to be the best. And I have tried my hardest. But anytime I've ever fallen short, you don't give me any grace. The pressure never stops. You don't let me reset; you don't let me breathe. It's always, go-go-go. Trying to keep up with your expectations is running me into the ground."

"So, me wanting you to be the best there is—that's a problem?"

I press my fingers against my forehead. "You are infuriating."

Anger flares in his eyes. "You have so much potential; do you get that? You always have, and you still do. Pressure is what drives people to keep fighting. To keep learning and to keep improving. Why is it so wrong of me to expect more of you? To push you to be better? Pressure is a necessary factor of life and especially as a professional athlete. It's not my fault you can't handle that."

My jaw clenches. "I can handle the pressure, Dad. I cannot handle the fact that you might never look at me the same if I don't succeed."

He just…stares at me.

"Why didn't you come check on me after I got hurt?"

"Didn't think you needed me there. You had Sophia, Isaiah, your mom." He shrugs.

"I needed my dad. And nothing I've ever done has made it seem like I don't need you. So, why can't you show up for me?" I swallow, feeling my heart break off into tiny fragments. If he was holding a glass statue of me, he's dropped it and watched it shatter on the floor. "Or is it that you don't know how to talk to me if it isn't about soccer or a goal I can reach? If that isn't there, what would you even say to me?"

We stare at each other. A dad and a daughter who used to do everything together. The movies, coffee and hot chocolate at the bookstores, shopping for new cleats, running—we even used to laugh together. Now, where has that all gone? Is it because I grew up and life got bigger? Is it because I grew up and needed him less? For so long, I was his little girl, and then one day, something changed. And I don't know how to fix it. I can't stop getting older, and I can't force him to care.

I meet his eyes. "Do you even like me?"

"I love you, Aurora."

"Do you like me?" I plead, wondering if I even want to know the answer. Wondering if I even like him anymore. Dad stands there unflinching and silent.

I'm pretty sure anyone listening can hear the shattered pieces of my heart breaking.

He can't admit or can't accept that he's done anything wrong. That he's hurt me. And I'm no longer willing to stand by and apologize for his own missteps. No longer going to sweep up the pieces of me and give them back to him only for them to be broken further. If I do, soon enough, I'll only be specks of glass on the floor too small for anyone to see.

"When you want to fix this, you come talk to me. When you care enough to remember at the end of the day, I'm your daughter, you can come find me. Decide whether you like me enough to care."

I turn away before he sees the tears pooling in my eyes—not that he would care—and head around the yard. Going inside isn't an option for me right now, to face all their wondering, pity-filled eyes. Even the thought feels suffocating.

So, I walk down the street and through the neighborhood, wiping away tears that won't quit until I come upon the playground. It's empty today, so I plant myself on the swings.

I blow out a series of short breaths, trying to quell the anxiety pooling in my gut. When did I get here? A person who begs for her father to treat her like a person? Why do I have to beg for that? What do I have to do to get his attention? This idea of being the best…of having to be at the top is like a friend that I can't separate from. It's bad for me, it haunts me, and I can't shake it. I can't get it off of me.

And it's so frustrating when everyone else thinks I'm doing enough and am enough. But it's Dad's opinion that is stuck to me like glue—no matter how much I peel and scrape, it won't fucking leave my skin. It's Dad that makes me second guess myself.

I want it all to stop.

I want my self-worth to stop depending on my dad.

I want my dad to be my dad. Not my friend. Not my coach. My dad.

I want to not second guess people. To not worry they're all eventually going to leave.

Sighing, I let my head fall forward into my hands. No one's left in a long time; logically, I know that. But what if they, like Dad, decided that one day, I'm not meeting their expectations, their conditions? And it all stops.

What happens if it all stops?

I force myself to inhale. To take deep breaths and actually take in the oxygen. To stop the spiraling thoughts, but I don't know how to get out of my own head.

I want out. I want out. I want—

"Aurora?" Hands land right above my knees, strong fingers wrapping around my thighs. "Baby, can you look at me?"

Isaiah's tone has me listening. I blink my eyes open, tears rolling down when I do, and find him crouched in front of me. There's anger in his eyes, but when it dims, I know it's not directed at me.

"I'm a fucking idiot."

Isaiah shakes his head, a hand moving up to cup my cheek. "Hey, stop. That's not true."

"He's never going to see me. I'm not sure he's ever tried," I say, though the words come out with a sob. Isaiah doesn't say a word, just brings me to my feet and wraps his arms tight around me.

I'm losing track of how many times I've sobbed into his chest, but I can't stop.

His hand buries itself in my curls. I'm pretty sure in my teary haze, he's carrying me, my toes not even touching the ground, and I see I'm right when he lowers us. Isaiah adjusts us. Another time and I might be embarrassed that he's cradling me in a neighborhood playground, but I've lost all my common sense when it comes to him anyway.

Gently, he tugs my head out of the crook of his neck, his thumb swiping under my eyes. "I know he's your dad, but it's his loss. Choosing not to give you what you need, choosing not to see how wonderful and intelligent and funny and all other things not related to soccer you are, is his loss. I'm sorry that you're suffering because of his actions. I'm sorry that he's causing you pain." Isaiah sighs. "I wish I could take it away, make it hurt less."

"You are," I say, my thumb circling his inner wrist. "You being here, holding me, is taking the pain away." Isaiah is leeching the pain out of my veins, making the air breathable. I reach for him and press our lips together. It's soft, tender—a caress that encompasses more than I could ever express. "Thank you," I murmur against his lips. "You've got to stop letting me sob all the time."

"Oh, so now your tears are my responsibility?" Isaiah smiles against my lips, leaning in for another kiss.

"I think so, if you don't mind adding it to the list."

Isaiah kisses my cheeks, my nose, my forehead, and my lips again. "You are the entire list, Aurora." He sets me on my feet in front of him, his hands running up the outside of my thighs and resting on my hips. My hands find his shoulders, thumbs running over the strong column of his neck. His heartbeat moves with my own. Solid, steady, in sync. Like we are. In a burning room, we'd still be standing if we were holding onto each other.

"You are too good to me, Isaiah Bryant."

"That's not possible. You deserve to be cared about, Aurora—unconditionally. Me doing so isn't doing anything extraordinary."

Oh, but it is. His hand finds my bad knee, wrapping around the back of it. It's those moments—those small, maybe insignificant moments—that make it extraordinary.

"It is." I press my finger over his lips before he can argue. "I guess we should head back?"

Isaiah looks around. "Or we could hang out here for a bit. Be kids again."

"Will you push me on the swing?"

He gives me a small laugh. "Anything you want."

We make our way to the swing set hand in hand, like little kids. I sit down, and he moves behind me. Isaiah bends down, placing a kiss on my shoulder, then playfully nibbles his way up to my cheek, pulling a giggle out of me when the ticklish sensation fans out like a feather over my skin.

"Isaiah," I say, with a lilt to my words, "stop."

"Can't." He continues his feather-like kisses and playful bites until my cheeks hurt from smiling.

"Okay, okay!" I can't get away from him—not that I really want to—and he places his hands firmly on my hips to lean around and give me a sweet kiss on the lips.

With three squeezes of his hand, he pulls back. "You sure you're alright?"

I'm not, and yet…I am. I'm happy here with him. I'm sad about what the relationship with my father is becoming. My eyes feel puffy and swollen from the tears, and my heart is fragile. Grief is clawing at the surface, and anxiety is waiting in the shadows.

But I take Isaiah in. The warmth in his eyes, the love in his touches. How with him, the fragile pieces don't feel so breakable. The ground doesn't tremble. My mind doesn't whirl. With him, the world is still, and reality isn't so bad. Simplicity seems beautiful, and all the other stuff will work itself out. That's what standing here with him is like. Anything that comes our way, we'll face it hand in hand, together.

I look at him and say, "I will be."