“What?” Then I think about Dean’s question from the other night, and ask it. “How did you get this number?”
Troy exhales what is likely cigarette smoke. He started smoking when I was pregnant with Archie. “You’re not in witness protection, Clara June. I called a few places, asked about you.”
I put him on speakerphone, allowing Jackie to hear our conversation. “Who gave you my number, specifically?”
“I’m back in Bluebell, you know.”
My stomach twists into frenzied, sickening knots. The back of my neck grows clammy in an instant. I don’t know how to reply, so I don’t. I just keep listening, Jackie, too.
“I’ve been back for a few months, Clara June. Making sure that coach steers our little prodigy in the right direction. When Tanner got hurt, I wondered if his coach was the right man for the job… but after last Friday’s performance, I decided he can keep working with my son.”
My mind is like a magic bean that has finally been watered, thoughts and ideas all sprouting at once in different directions. I take a deep breath and focus on what he’s saying, not on the fear, rage and hurt that throttles my existence from this singular phone call. “He’s a great coach. Tanner loves him. He’s the one helping Tanner sort out his future. So wherever you’ve been for the last five years, go back. Bluebell doesn’t need you. Tanner’s football career doesn’t need you. No one here needs you.”
My hands tremble and my body shakes, and when Jackie drops her arm along the ridge of my shoulders, tears leak from my eyes. It feels so good to finally say those things to him, that we don’t need or want him. When he left, I wanted him back so bad, only because I was so overwhelmed, so lost with three boys on my own. But as one day bled into the next, I grew stronger, and more resolute in the idea that I didn’t need Troy. Not ever. He gave me my babies, but he’s just a season that’s passed now. Nothing more.
“I don’t think we see eye to eye on that fact,” he says to me, having the bold audacity to sound indignant. “And furthermore, I don’t need your permission to seemyson.”
“Your son?” I balk. “Your son? You have three sons, Troy, or did you forget? Does it take newspaper articles and the whiff of a football scholarship to make you recognize your children?”
He ignores me, and it’s clear that not only has he not gotten better, he’s gotten worse. Troy has not evolved in the slightest. “I’ll be Tanner’s agent, after he’s done at the high school. I’ll negotiate his contracts for him.” He takes a pull from his cigarette, I can hear the embers pop quietly, and then he exhales more hate, more stress. “A boy can’t trust anyone in this world like he can trust his father.”
“You’re not managing anything. Tanner wants nothing to do with you, Troy. You left. You lefthim, remember that?”
“I leftyou,” he says, laughter curling his voice, and I imagine red horns rising up in his greasy dark hair, shiny and glowing. Fucking asshole.
“Great,” I deadpan. “You left me. But you left them, too. And you’re not welcome back. Not in my home, their lives, mine, nowhere.” I swallow around the lump of nausea in my throat as Jackie’s fingers attempt soothing strokes along my back. “Don’t call me again.”
I hang up and block his number.
“That was… aggressive and completely out of pocket,” Jackie says finally after we both sit in silence for a moment. I drink the rest of my cocktail—or rather, mocktail, since I’m on my lunch hour.
I get to my feet and so does she, and we share a hug. It’s a little longer than our goodbye hugs usually are, but I can feel Jackie trying to infuse me with strength and hope after that phone call. I push hair off her shoulder and smile.
“Don’t worry. I’m fine.” I hand her back my empty glass, and thank her for the liquor-free afternoon delight. “I gotta get back. I have a double today, too.”
“Need me to get Archie?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Nah. Rawley and Jo Jo are gonna grab him and hang out at Hudson’s this afternoon. They’re watching Bear, Tyson and Archie.”
Jackie laughs. “Anything to avoid washing dishes?”
I shrug. “As long as he pays me back for the tutor and doesn’t sell drugs to do it, I’m okay with babysitting.”
Another hug, and then I’m headed back to Goode’s, another six and a half hours left before I’m off. I smile at the customers, draw happy faces on checks for tables with kids,twist the napkins into the shapes of flowers or dogs, and give my best.
All the while, anxiety claws up my spine and sours my tongue, burning my thoughts.
What if Troy is really back for good?
With just two hours left in my shift, my anxiety is starting to edge its way to the surface, my smiles less bold, my greetings a bit quieter.
And then Dean appears, the door banging on his cute butt, wearing jeans and boots, the reliable sexy cowboy that he is. He’s got on a navy blue pullover, the Bruisers logo embroidered on the chest, and when he spots me from across the restaurant, my chest burns with adoration and longing.
I cross the restaurant to get to him, but he does the same, and we end up toe to toe in an aisle between empty tables. He smiles. And I crash against him, looping my arms around his neck, burying my face in his chest.
Then it happens, and I don’t know why. It’s not like me to burst into tears. It’s not like me to wear my worries on my sleeve, either. For years I’ve been strong and silent, wading through seas of stress and depression that come along, always coming out on top. Or at least, coming out alive.
But with my fingers tugging soft tendrils of his hair, andhis soft hushes of comfort in my ear, I cry against him, deep and unrelenting sobs. After a minute, I’m scooped up in his arms, and he’s telling Dolores and Chrissy that we’re taking a break out back.
