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Through texts, I’ve apologized for the way I reacted, though I know for a fact, coach did not miss that message. He’s been a prick since the summer program started, but now he’s being unreasonable, riding us harder than he ever has, looking at each of us with clear accusation. Harper wasn’t exaggerating. We got a thirty-minute lecture on respect just yesterday, most of which, coach growled out. The team was understandably confused as to why we were being lectured for half of practice, rather than on the field. It took everything I had to meet coach’s eyes yesterday and not flinch. Most of the last few practices I wanted to speak up and name myself the culprit so I alone can deal with the backlash, other days I want to call him out for being such a dick. If I thought for one second this would blow over, I was dead wrong. Coming up empty on my search for her, I ignore the gnaw in my chest and shoot off a text.
Lance: Talk to me, Harper. Right now. At least tell me if you’re okay.
Bubbles pop up and disappear the way they have for the last few days. She wants to talk, but she’s afraid of the asshole that kicked her out of his room. I get it. But the situation was shit, and I was not at all prepared for the bomb she dropped. I see both sides of this, and I can’t understand why she can’t or refuses to see mine. I’ve told her enough for her to know how important this season is to me.
She’s stubborn as hell. And most days it’s an attribute I like about her, but for the last week, it’s pissed me right the hell off. Staring at my phone, I will her to text back until it lights up with an incoming call.
“Hey, Momma.”
“Hey, you. How are you?”
“Good, sore from practice yesterday and walking to class.”
“They’re working you hard, huh?”
“Every day.”
“Well, I raised a warrior. You’ll make it.”
“How are you? How’s Dad?”
“Good. Good. Dad’s good, but your brother is a nightmare. I knew I should have stopped at one child. The little shit took off with the tractor last week to impress some girl. He actually drove it down the highway and picked her up. Stole my picnic basket with the good china and everything.”
I can’t help my grin. For years, Trevor thought his name was ‘little shit.’
“He’s in the dog house. Your father nearly skinned him.”
“He’s just blowing off steam, Mom.”
“Is that what you call it? You weren’t much more intelligent sneaking over to Becky Ballenger’s house when you were only fifteen. Or was it Becky Rendon? I could never keep up. I was certain I was going to be a grandmother before you graduated.”
“Mom, can we change the subject?”
“Fine. But you know I’m right. You gettin’ around okay?”
“So far yeah, the room I rented is a little far from campus, so it’s a bit of a pain in the ass, but it’s cheap rent, so it’s working out.”
“Do you need money?”
“No, Mom, I’m okay.”
“You don’t know how sorry I am that you had to sell your truck. I promise you once we get the herd to auction and—”
“Stop beating yourself up. I swear, I’m good.”
“Okay. Be there to pick you up this Friday? Dad could use your help with a few things. And I’ll get your laundry.”
“I can do my own laundry, Mom. There’s a machine at my new place.”
“I like doing it.”
“Liar. I’ll text you the new address.”
With the season about to start, my trips home will be fewer and fewer, I’m going to have to work sunup to sundown while I’m there. Sighing heavily, I rub my forehead and clear all selfish thoughts until familiar, fair white-blonde hair distracts me from my pity party and conversation. My body jolts in awareness when I see my inkling was right and Harper comes into full view walking across campus alone, towards the parking lot.
“Momma,” I start at a dead run, “I gotta go.”
“K, son, see you Friday. Love you.”
