Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,107
his son until I could throw a football. I mean, Wes is all right now—he’s cool enough. But what if Coach Blanchard is the same? I mean, what if I get injured? What if I don’t get into UT on a football scholarship? Will they . . . will they still care?”
“Honey, grown-ups can be just as screwed up as kids,” I say.
“Oh, I know,” Cal says, laughing.
“And your daddy loves you, it was just complicated in the beginning,” I say.
“Complicated,” Cal repeats.
“I know that sounds like a cop-out and I’m certainly not going to make excuses for Wes McKay, but—”
“But what?”
“This is going to work out, Cal. Things work out sometimes. And you’re one of the good guys,” I say.
“You know how you just—I don’t know.” Cal fidgets with his watch again.
“What?”
“I don’t want to get my hopes up is all.” Cal looks right at me. As pointedly as a fifteen-year-old boy can. Those clear blue eyes could cut through bone. I take a deep breath as I hear my exact words propelled back at me.
“It’s okay to hope,” I say. Cal’s face softens. He looks down at the ground. Blond bangs falling into his eyes, chin resting on his chest, Cal allows himself the smallest, most private smile. From ear to ear. He looks up at me, his eyes damp and his jaw tensing and nods. I watch him as he lets the idea of hope wash over him. He sniffles, swipes at his eyes. He takes a deep breath, seeming to shake off the previous conversation.
“You ready?” Cal asks, beeping his watch. He sniffles again.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling.
Right on the outskirts of town, West is waiting for us. He’s pulling one of his legs back in a stretch and when he sees us he begins hopping in place, wriggling his arms around. As if he’s going to launch himself into outer space. I’m screwwwwwwed.
“You’re going to need to lower your expectations of today’s run, sweetheart,” I say as we approach this jumping bean of a boy. West just laughs and the two boys grunt an early morning hello to each other. West falls in with us as we leave the residential area and head into the hills just beyond North Star.
The early morning haze covers the ground as we climb the hill leading up to Paragon. My stomach is tied in knots at the thought of seeing Everett and Arrow meandering along on their morning walk. As our syncopated footfalls carry us up up up, I think about the numbness I felt when I was gone. Shutting down is easier than this. Long looks and proclamations of love only to say, “Okay, catch you later . . .” Who does that? Now it seems so endlessly masochistic with a nice twist of stupidity.
We break the rise of the hill and Paragon Ranch comes into sight. I can see Everett and Arrow walking toward the road. I actually do need a bit of time to rest. West’s pace is almost double what Cal and I usually do. Yeah. That’s why I’m stopping.
“Can we take a second?” I ask, lurching over to put my hands on my knees and catch my breath. West and Cal slow to a stop. Cal is used to it and walks over to the low fence and he and West start doing push-ups. Everett and Arrow amble over to the fence. Everett’s cowboy hat is shielding his eyes from the morning sun, but even with that his right eye is crinkling up with that crooked smile.
“I’m dying,” I wheeze.
“The key is to walk with an aging dog and not try to run with two of North Star’s top athletes,” Everett says, hitching his leg up onto the lower plank of the fence.
“I’m seriously going to have a heart attack,” I say. Arrow flops onto the ground. Bored with standing, clearly.
“Is that the Ackerman boy?”
“You mean the ‘Ackerman’ boy,” I say, putting giant air quotes around Ackerman.
“Wow, they just look embarrassingly alike, don’t they,” Everett says, shaking his head.
“He’s a sweet kid, though, astonishingly,” I say.
“Yeah, how’d that happen?” Everett says.
“That’s what I said,” I say, finally starting to catch my breath.
Cal and West walk over to where Everett and I are.
“Mr. Coburn,” Cal says, extending his hand.
“How’re you doing, son?” Everett says, taking his hand and shaking it.
“We’re just waiting around for Aunt Queenie here,” Cal says.
“I’m dying,” I say.
“Everett Coburn,” Everett says, extending his hand to West.
“West Ackerman,” West says, shaking Everett’s hand.