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Part of me thinks so, while the other part of me—the part that can never forget I’m the son of an abusive alcoholic and have a depth of unresolved issues thanks to my upbringing— thinksthat maybe Carlee didn’t tell them because she didn’t want to talk about it. Whatever her reason, it’s hers. And I feel compelled to help her out.
“That’s my fault, Mrs. Jones. I asked Carlee not to say anything.”
The matriarch lifts a brow. “And why would you do that?”
I shrug and fold the reusable shopping bag in my hands. “I guess I’m embarrassed that my image needs rebranding in the first place.” I hand the bag to Carter to put in the counter under the sink.
“Oh, Corey.” Mrs. Jones’s expression softens. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. No one who knows you would ever believe those filthy lies.”
Wrong.
Everyonebelieves them.
And I only have myself to blame.
Turns out, you can’t go through life keeping people at a distance without them viewing you as standoff-ish and making assumptions about what type of man you are. It’s no wonder my reclusive behavior in the locker room made the other players think I thought I was better than them. Or that I really didn’t care about the team. I would think the same if I were in their position.
But I keep that to myself and just say, “Thanks, Mrs. Jones.”
She wants to say more, but she presses her lips together and nods once. “Right. Well, the table is set. I just need to finish the potatoes and pop the rolls in the oven, then all the food will be ready. Carter, will you carve the turkey?”
“Sure, Mom.”
“I’ll help you with the rolls, baby.” Mr. Jones moves behind his wife and places a kiss on the top of her head before he makes his way to the oven.
She smiles at her husband’s back, then looks at her daughter. “Carlee, why don’t you take Corey to the living room? The kitchen is feeling a little crowded.”
Carlee stiffens, and her eyes meet mine. I sense her desire to deny her mom’s request, but she sucks in a breath and says, “Okay.” She turns on her booted heel and strides out of the kitchen without a word. I follow.
We walk down a hallway lined with family photos. Most are pictures of Carlee and Carter from infancy through college, but my eyes zero in on the few photos that have me in them. A team baseball photo from when Carter and I were twelve. A picture from Christmas when I was fourteen and the Joneses bought all three of us brand-new bikes. Carlee, Carter, and I are posed by our gifts with broad smiles. You can’t see it, but there were tears in my eyes when Mrs. Jones took this picture. The last time I had a bike was in Wisconsin before my mom died. I’d wanted one for years, but my dad barely had enough money to feed me, let alone buy me a gift.
Carlee stops at the end of the hall and faces me, taking a deep breath before muttering, “Thank you.”
I tear my eyes off the pictures. “For what?”
“Lying for me.” She chews her bottom lip. I’m surprised to see her cheeks are red. “For saying you were embarrassed.”
I lift my eyes off her mouth. “That wasn’t a lie.”
Sympathy fills her eyes. “Corey… what they’re saying about you isn’t your fault.”
“Now who’s lying?”
Her forehead creases. “I’m serious, Corey. You’re not what they say you are.”
I huff an unamused laugh. “Only your family thinks so.”
“Well, we’re the only ones who know you.”
“You think so?” I tilt my head to the side. “You and I haven’t spoken in years. For all you know, I could be the arrogant son-of-a-bitch they all say I am. I could be a toxic teammate. I could have thrown the World Series to punish the Loons for talking shit about me.” The words taste like ash on my tongue.
“You would never do that,” she speaks with so much conviction… so much faith in me… I don’t deserve it. Not after what I did.
I should let the subject drop. I should make it look like I accept her words even if I don’t believe them. But I can’t.
I can’t afford for Carlee to look at me likethat—like I’m someone she trusts and cares about.
It makes me want things I can’t have. It makes me hope for things I shouldn’t hope for.
