Playing for Kinley (Cruz Brothers Book 1) (40 page)

I nodded my head slowly, realizing that he wasn’t going to change his mind and that I needed to learn to accept it. I would later search for that acceptance for months, even years afterwards, and I would never quite find it.

“I guess best friends’ little sisters are only good for summer flings, right?”

His head snapped up at me, his eyes sharp. The words felt like acid on my tongue, but I wanted to hurt him somehow, even if it was just a small fraction of the way he was hurting me. Maybe if I acted like it never meant anything to me either—just as he was doing—it would make it easier for both of us.

He wouldn’t have to feel guilty and I could forget how much I loved him.

I waited a few seconds for a response. When I realized I wasn’t getting one, I turned away from him but not before saying, “Good luck in the majors. I’m sure you’ll do great.”

The sentiment was way too generous and sincere for what actually wanted to spew from my mouth. But I still cared for him. Regardless of how he had just crushed me, I wanted him to do well in life and to live out his dream because he deserved that. He’d worked hard his whole life to get to this point, and he deserved to experience it for all it was worth.

I was just devastated that I wouldn’t be there with him.

And I hadn’t been.

He’d moved on without me and it now felt like we were coming full circle. Sure, this time there was an entirely different reason for our separation. It just still felt a little like he’d kept me around for a few laughs and some good sex—insisted upon keeping our relationship a secret, just like all those years ago—and then when things got a little more complicated, he bailed.

Because although I may have been the one to physically walk away, he’d already shut the door in my face a week ago.

Parker

I never thought that I’d return to this place—the dilapidated structure that was my childhood home—feeling the exact same way I did when I once lived here: like a confused, scared, lost little boy.

Mason and Dawson were with me, offering each other support and forming a wall of steely resolve, preparing ourselves to face what none of us wanted to. Somewhere deep inside me, though, I knew this was something I had to do—had to confront—in order for me to be able to move forward with my life.

Especially if I ever wanted to get Kinley back.

I already had wanted her back from the moment she walked out of my house. But I knew I wasn’t yet ready to face her, ready to confess all of my secrets and own up to my mistakes. It was almost October now and it had been a horrible, terrible month without her in my life. Without hearing her voice or seeing her face or feeling her body against mine. We hadn’t talked. I didn’t know how she was doing. I was so desperate to ask Clay about her, but I knew that would give something away.

I wasn’t ready to confess all to him either.

The three of us approached the front door and one by one, slowly walked inside the tattered ruins of the home of a family that was broken beyond repair.

Or at least one of us was.

We’re doing this for Mom.

The inside of the house was just as I remembered from the last time I was here. The outdated, musty-smelling living room furniture looked well beyond its prime. Cigarettes, empty beer cans, and pill bottles littered the coffee table. The smell of stale beer and mothballs filled the air, something that hadn’t changed in two decades.

The TV was turned to some soap opera, the volume turned down low, and I could hear voices coming from one of the back bedrooms. We all three looked at each other and silently communicated our plan: talk to Mom, give her the groceries, offer our support, and then get the hell out before anybody pissed anybody else off.

“We’re going to do this quick,” Dawson murmured as I heard someone walking down the hall from the bedroom. “Try not to do anything to upset her.”

I didn’t have the emotional capacity to deal with another woman close to me crying, so I was definitely going to heed his warning.

Our mother entered the living room with a sullen, tired expression and a thick cloud of despair surrounding her. Her blonde hair had lost its rich color and voluminous bounce over the years. The skin on her frail body looked almost as if it were hanging off the bones, and the wrinkles on her face made her look twice her age.

There was no denying that the woman was still pretty, had once even been strikingly beautiful. But she had lost that spark, that light that had once made her shine brighter than anyone else.

Or that light had been snuffed out, hidden under a bushel by
someone
.

I didn’t need to think about that now—forced myself not to—as I tried to put on a brave face for the woman who’d brought the three of us into the world.

“My boys,” she breathed, sounding the most weary I’d ever heard her. She had a small smile on her face as she reached her bony arms around each of us in a pathetically weak hug. At least she seemed sober, which was a good thing if she was being forced to take care of her husband.

“Hey, Mom,” Mason greeted. “How’s it going?”

She swiped her palm over her forehead, and shrugged her shoulders. “He’s having a bad day. Taking his medicine but the only thing that will get him to shut up is his drink. Says he’s dying anyway so what’s the difference.”

My thoughts exactly.

The sooner it frees all of us from the bastard the better.

Holy shit. Had I really just thought that? Had I wished for my own father to die? It wasn’t like the thought hadn’t come over me before, but that time it had a heavy dose of hatred fueling it. The reaction scared me.

I didn’t want to have those kinds of dark thoughts.

Not like our father did.

Dawson extended his hands which were full of plastic bags. “We brought over some groceries. We figured you might not have had a lot of time to get out.”

That was Dawson. Always trying to protect her feelings and her pride. Apparently, she’d had both once. Not that I would have known any better, or Mason. Only Dawson had known that side of her.

“Thank you. You boys didn’t have to do that. All three of you are still so sweet.” Then, she lowered her voice and muttered, almost talking to herself, “Maybe I did one thing right.”

At the sound of her devastated words, the sudden overwhelming feeling to let all of my emotions loose, allow them to flow freely down my cheeks in the form of thirty-two years of painful longing, hit me with a force that I didn’t often feel.

Two minutes inside this God-forsaken house and one comment from my mother had me wanting to break down.

She led us back into the kitchen where a pungent aroma immediately attacked my nostrils, which I assumed was coming from the sky-high stack of dirty dishes in the sink. A barrage of memories hit me with full-force at seeing that image, but I pushed them aside.

Dawson set the bags on the counter, and Mason and I started to put everything away in its spot while our older brother spoke quietly with her in the corner. They’d always had their own bond, so it didn’t really bother me that they were momentarily excluding us from the conversation.

I probably wouldn’t know what to say to her anyway, so it was all for the best.

Mason and I worked quietly and the other two eventually joined us again. “So, Mason,” Mom began as she lit up a cigarette. “How’s the shop going?”

“Going well,” he replied, trying to act as if this were any other normal day and our mother was June Cleaver. “Bringing in a lot of business, so I can’t complain.”

“Well, as soon as you find yourself a ’65 Shelby GT350 with the original body, your momma has first dibs,” she said, blowing out a cloud of smoke.

Mason was actually able to genuinely chuckle at that. “Good luck finding one. And even if you did, you know how many other buyers you’d have to fight off?”

She smiled, another genuine expression. “That’s why I called dibs.” Mason shook his head and she turned her attention to me.

Since I was the youngest, I knew she had always felt an extra sense of protection with me against our father, especially when he started turning his anger on us. But she just never got to know me very well, so our relationship had always been tense and awkward.

“I’ve been watching all your games on TV, hon,” she said to me, dabbing her cigarette into her ashtray. “You’re looking really good. Best season I’ve seen you play.”

I felt an irrational feeling of pleasure snake through me with her praise. I was no longer a nine-year-old kid. I didn’t need her compliments, didn’t need her to watch my games and be proud of me.

But the truth was, I appreciated that she’d been watching and paying attention. That deep down, she really did care enough about her kids to follow their lives.

“Thanks.”

“Got the ALDS next week, right?” she asked.

Again, she had managed to surprise me by asking about the American League Division Series. I nodded. “Yeah. Got a long month ahead of us.” Then, I added, “Hopefully.” Because there were never any guarantees in October. Not with this sport.

“I’d love to come see you play,” she said quietly, thoughtfully.

My head snapped up in her direction, her comment throwing me off-guard. I wasn’t quite sure what to say, so I responded with the first thought that came to mind. “Well, you know you’ve always got a seat saved in the stands for you, Mom. Anytime you want to come to a game, I can make it happen.”

I wasn’t positive why I’d said it. But the idea of her coming to one of my games was appealing to me, tempting me to even smile at the thought.

She met my eyes and smiled, allowing me to see a glimpse of what I assumed she used to look like, back when she was a healthy, loving mother. “I’d like—”

“Sandra!” came an ugly, raspy voice from one of the back bedrooms, cutting her off. “Help me change into a different shirt! You didn’t clean this one well enough!” Her eyes flickered away from me and her entire face fell. The kitchen went still, everything quieting as his voice lingered in the air.

You could tell she was trying to put on a brave face in front of us as she stood up and started to head down the hall. “I’ll be right back.”

As soon as she was out of sight, all three of us blew out huge breaths as if we’d been holding them since the second we’d entered the house. I looked over at Mason and noticed his rigid shoulders.

“You okay, man?” I asked him. I knew that although he was five years sober, he still struggled with temptation on a daily basis. And being in this house, surrounded by booze and pills, was probably wreaking havoc on his self-control.

He nodded and dug in his pocket, pulling out a pack of his cigarettes. “Just peachy.”

Dawson sat at the table with a hard jaw, looking around the room as if he wanted to burn the whole place down so he wouldn’t have to be reminded of the years we spent here. I wouldn’t have stopped him if he wanted to either.

Hell, I’d be right there with him, lighting the damn match.

Needing something to do, I looked over at the kitchen sink and felt inclined to fall into very old habits. I walked across the yellowing linoleum floor and immediately got to work, filling one side of the sink with hot, soapy water while straightening the dirty dishes on the other.

It didn’t take long for the memories to come.

I could barely reach over the kitchen sink to wash the dishes, so Dawson brought in the stool that I had to use in the bathroom to brush my teeth since I couldn’t reach that sink very well either.

I asked him why I was smaller than most of the other boys at school, and he told me that I’d get taller and bigger in a few years. Said that I was just a late bloomer, which didn’t make a lot of sense to me. I wasn’t a flower or a plant, but I listened to him. I trusted him.

I trusted both of my big brothers, no matter what.

Mason had detention after school today, so it was just me and Dawson in charge of cleaning up and making dinner. Dawson said Momma got another job as a waitress at some diner, but it was a different place than the last time she had a job. Dad didn’t always like the places she worked, so he’d yell at her and hurt her until she quit them.

But when the fridge was empty, she’d find another job somewhere else until there was a little food and then Dad would make her quit again. I hoped the place she was at now served pie and she could bring some home. One time, she worked at a diner where they would just give the slices of pie that weren’t eaten to some of the workers to take home.

I could still remember the night Momma brought home half of a coconut crème pie. We were all so happy and smiling and we ate every single bit of it. It was probably the happiest I can remember us being, especially since Dad wasn’t there that night to share it with us. We didn’t get treats like that very often, unless I was over at Clay’s house. His momma made really good food all the time.

Dad hadn’t gotten home yet from the bar or wherever he went to when he wasn’t home, and Dawson said we had to make dinner. We usually did when Momma had a job or when she was too tired from taking those pills of hers to cook. Since I was little and they said I shouldn’t mess with the stove or oven, Dawson or Mason usually did the cooking while I cleaned the dishes.

I hadn’t liked doing it at first but had gotten used to it. Momma tried to keep our house clean, but Dad always made a mess and she was too tired to clean when she got home from work so I liked to help her. And I liked cleaning stuff, making it look nice because most of the stuff in our house didn’t. Not like at Clay’s house.

But tonight, Dawson was making one of my favorites. Macaroni and cheese. I was excited.

“Hey, Parker, you want hot dogs in your macaroni?” Dawson asked.

I turned around to see him standing at the fridge with a package of hot dogs in his hands. “Hot dogs with the macaroni? Won’t that taste funny?” I’d never eaten anything in my macaroni before and I didn’t want him to ruin it.

He smiled—not something he did very much—and set them on the counter next to the stove. “You’ll like it, I promise. Plus, we don’t have a lot of meat and you got to have something to help you grow, put some fat on those bones,” he said as he came over and poked me in my ribs, making me laugh.

“Okay. If you say so.”

I went back to washing the dishes and heard the front door open a few minutes later. I knew it was too early for Momma to come home so it had to be either Mason or Dad. I had my answer when I heard his heavy footsteps go across the living room and down the hallway to his bedroom. Those were too loud to be Mason’s feet so I knew it was Dad.

My stomach immediately started to feel funny—like I might be sick—which was usual when Dad was home. I didn’t want to be scared of him. I wanted to be brave like Dawson, but I still didn’t like it when our father yelled.

“You almost done over there?” Dawson asked.

“Yep. Just need a little more soap for the last of it.”