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To the rest of the world, Corey comes off as a tough guy with no emotion. And while he is a tough guy, he has a soft side that feels things deeply. He is the first one to lend a hand to someone who needs help.
It was Corey, not Carter, who helped me fix my fifth grade science project after I tripped and fell on the solar system model I’d spent all weekend building. He’d stayed up with me for hours after dinner to help me hot glue the planets back on their orbital paths and painstakingly add the rings around the gas planets.
It’s that soft, considerate side of Corey that made me fall for him as a young girl.
And it’s that soft side that threatens to make me fall for him as a grown woman all over again…
11
COREY
Neon paint is splatteredon the walls of the popular gaming venue which includes a bar and restaurant. Carter and I sit in the back corner of the bar, attempting to stay out of sight as we sip our lagers. I don’t know why he’d insisted we come here tonight. We could have easily hung out at his place or mine and avoided the trouble of trying not to be recognized. I guess Carter needs a distraction. His team is on a bye week which is great when it’s so late in the season. He and his teammates get to rest before they’re set to start playoffs in a few short weeks.
And while I haven’t asked for details, I know Laura has been giving him trouble about the twins. I’ll be here to listen if he wants to talk about it, but I won’t pry. I know all too well how shitty it feels when someone asks you to talk about something you just want to forget… even if it’s just for a couple of hours.
So, I sit with Carter at the bar. We shoot the shit as we drink our beer. The conversation is light. At least it is until Carter asks, “Have you gone to see your dad yet?”
Years of abuse and the ensuing emotional damage it caused roll through my mind like the reel of a black-and-white horror movie. I see myself as a nine-year-old wearing a hoodie with moth holes in the peak of summer to avoid the Joneses noticingthe bruises on my arms. I recall eating saltine crackers for dinner every night for a week while my dad spent most of that time passed out on the couch. I felt worthless and unlovable so many times it would be impossible to count them all. The neglect almost destroyed me, but the Jones family and baseball saved me when the man who helped give me life didn’t give two shits about my well-being.
Carter knows this. So the fact he’s asking if I’ve gone to see that piece of shit puts me on edge.
“No,” I grunt then take a swig of my beer, hoping the subject ends there.
It doesn’t.
“Don’t you think you should?”
“No.” I grit my teeth. “Why?”
Carter pauses, looking uncertain. Then, with a cautious tone, he asks, “Do you know he’s sick?”
No, I didn’t.
And I don’t know if I should feel ashamed for the utter indifference I feel about the news. Am I an unfeeling monster? Or is this reaction justified by how I was raised?
“How sick?” is my monotone response.
“Shit,” Carter groans. “You didn’t know. I’m sorry man. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“It’s fine,” I lie, then ask again, “How sick is he?”
“One of Mom’s former coworkers volunteers at the dialysis center in Rose Hill, and she mentioned that your dad stopped showing up for treatment.”
I didn’t even know he was doing dialysis.
“His kidney is failing?”
“I guess so. I’m no doctor,” Carter says with a shrug. “But Mom sounded concerned about it.”
Of course, she did. Mrs. Jones, like her daughter, has a heart of gold. She cares about someone even as shitty as Luke Johnson.
“I always thought it would’ve been his liver,” I deadpan.
Carter huffs a humorless laugh. “Yeah, me too.”
Silence settles between us. We let it. We’re content to drink our beer and watch the hockey game playing on the flat screen hanging closest to us. I spend all of one minute debating whether or not the news warrants a visit to the trailer where I grew up, but just thinking about it makes me break out into a cold sweat.
No, I won’t be going back there.
